Page 8 of Daddy's Little Patient

She hated how easily he seemed able to read her mind.

“No,” she lied, but there was too long a pause in between his question and her answer.

He didn’t move. “Go potty, Kelly.”

She did, blushing hot and staring at his back the whole time. This was just too embarrassing. And sure enough, while she was eventually able to fumble enough toilet paper off the roll to wad up, there was no bend in her cast to aid in wiping all the way.

She cried, mortified and hating her helplessness in a way no amount of fit throwing could adequately express. She was too tired for fits and far too disheartened to bear asking him for help. She sobbed with her head bowed, sitting there until he came to take care of her.

He wiped her eyes and her nose, then took care of things further south. Helping her up, he undressed her, pulling off the hospital gowns and scrubs, and the only word he said had nothing at all to do with her tears.

“Oh, baby.” He gazed sympathetically at the dark bruises that bisected her everywhere the seatbelt had been.

“I-I’m f-fine.” She hiccupped, awkwardly wiping away the tears on her upper arms.

His response was to get some tissues and clean her face for her, beginning with a gentle, “Blow,” as he held tissue to her nose and ending with, “There’s my good girl.” He steadied her as she climbed into the tub, then slipped both hands under her arms and let her lower herself into the warm water.

“I’m going to get Tub Ducky,” he said once she was settled.

“I don’t want Tub Ducky,” she muttered, but Cole saw through that lie. He gently dropped her yellow rubber duck, with its faded sailor hat, into the bathwater before excusing himself from the bathroom. She sat there, sniffling, unable to do anything with Tub Ducky except bat him away with her casts whenever he bumped into her tummy.

Now she felt guilty about that, too. Tub Ducky didn’t deserve her sour attitude any more than her boyfriend did.

A few minutes later, Cole came back in with two plastic grocery bags and duct tape.

“Hands,” he said, and when she held them up, he wrapped her arms from fingers to elbows in the grocery bags and silver tape. “That’s not watertight, remember? Don’t put your hands in the water. Do you want your tub crayons?”

Like she could do anything with them. Glaring at her Popeye- arms, she laid back in the tub, stared at the ceiling, and tried to hide how useless she felt. She told herself she was dealing with this so badly because of the painkillers and because she was tired, and maybe even because her normal everyday routine had been so thoroughly destroyed these past four days. Nobody was expected to be happy when their daily routine was in the toilet—where it would stay for the next six weeks.

She just needed to give herself time. She’d eventually figure it out. Her hands weren’t going to hurt forever. Give her another week or so and she’d find a way to pick up her keyring that wouldn’t feel like she was sticking her hand into a blender. She could wear nightgowns for six weeks and eat cereal dry if she had to, right out of the box, if that’s what it took. She might be hurt, but she wasn’t useless—she refused to be. The ability to adapt to sudden changes in routine was what separated Man from the animals, right? So given enough time, shewouldfigure it out.

Eyes closed, she heard Cole return to kneel by the tub. Ripples of water lapped at her bent knees and around her stomach and ribs as he dipped a washcloth and soap to get them wet enough to lather.

“Top-down or down-up?” he asked, startling her.

Shit. Realizing she’d nodded off, Kelly sloshed water in her haste to sit up.

“Um… top down,” she mumbled, almost whacking herself in the face with her cast when she went to rub her eyes. They didn’t want to stay open, and all her trains of thought were pulling in at Sleepytime Junction. She supposed she could brute force her way back to awake, but that was where all the pain lived, so poop on that.

“Okay, quick bath,” Cole said, noting the jerk of her head as she caught herself nodding again.

“No, I’m fine, the water’s just so warm.”

“Beddy-bye will be warm, too,” Cole soothed, lifting the long light-brown strands of hair off the back of her neck so he could soap her down.

That felt far too good. She closed her eyes again, letting her head hang forward until her chin almost touched her chest while he washed her back. She startled awake again when he said, “Pitties,” but she was so out of it. He was done washing her armpits before she fully realized what he was saying or doing.

“Lie back for Daddy.” His hand was behind her head, guiding her back until she was lying against the gentle slope of the clawfoot tub. The washcloth passed across her chest, spreading lather over her skin without applying any real pressure, especially in the places she was bruised. She ought to tell him, she really wanted to wash her hair, but the effort to open her eyes, much less her mouth, was impossible.

The next time she startled awake, the gentle flow of water was trickling over her forehead and through her hair, spilling down her back into the tub. She almost bonked them both with her casts.

“Shh-shh,” he said, pulling her into his comforting embrace. He was half-kneeling on the floor, leaning well over her with his strong arm under her shoulders while he wet her hair. “Let’s get your hair washed, then you can go to bed, okay?”

“I didn’t wash my hands,” she mumbled.

“We’re not going to, baby. You can’t get your casts wet.”

She hated the feel of the bags around her fingers. “I didn’t wash my feet.”

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