Page 156 of Beyond Protection
"Perfect." The therapist eased my arm back. "We'll repeat this twice daily. By Christmas, you should have significantly improved mobility."
When he left, I was shaking. Sweat-soaked, trembling. Mac grabbed towels from the bathroom and pressed one to my forehead.
***
A few days later, Miles arrived near evening, carrying books. He set the stack on the table—Mary Oliver poetry, his own worn copy—and claimed the visitor's chair.
"Trauma recovery isn't linear," he said without preamble. "You'll have good days and shit days. Sometimes in the same hour." He met my eyes. "The nightmares will probably start in a week or two. Once your brain decides you're safe enough to process what happened."
Mac was quiet beside the bed, listening.
"Don't isolate," Miles continued. "That's the trap. Thinking you need to handle it alone because it's your trauma." He glanced at Mac. "Let him in when it gets bad. He's stronger than he looks."
"I'm right here," Mac said.
"I know. That's why I'm saying it." Miles stood. "You did well, Eamon. Both of you did."
He left the books. Claire arrived as he was going, carrying simple flowers in her quiet way. She arranged them in the water pitcher without speaking, then settled into the chair Miles had vacated.
We didn't talk. Just sat. Sitting silently with her was like resting in a temple—space to breathe.
After ten minutes, she stood. Touched my uninjured shoulder briefly. "You're good for him," she said quietly. "Thank you."
Then she was gone.
Mac stared at the door. "She doesn't say things like that."
"What things?"
"Direct things. Emotional things." He looked at the flowers. "She likes you. That's—that's huge."
Heat spread through my chest, like whiskey going down.
The doctor stopped by for evening rounds, checked the shoulder, and asked about pain levels.
"You're healing well. If this continues, we'll discharge you on Christmas Eve. We'll send you home with pain management instructions and PT instructions, and you'll have a follow-up in a week. Sound good?"
"Yeah."
"Christmas Eve," Mac said. "Ma's already planning. Christmas dinner. The whole family. She wants—we want you there."
My throat felt tight. "I don't know—"
"I know it's a lot. I know we're overwhelming. But—" He paused and then dropped into a quieter tone. "They decided. No vote allowed."
"Decided what?"
"That you're family. Ma claimed you, Marcus gave you medical advice, Michael made fun of you, Miles tried to offer therapy, and Claire brought flowers." He squeezed my hand. "You're in. Permanently."
"I've never had a family Christmas like that," I said quietly.
Mac's expression shifted—surprise. "Never?"
"My parents weren't big on holidays. And after I left home—" I shrugged with my good shoulder. "Didn't seem worth the effort for only me."
Mac moved closer. Both hands around mine now. "You're not just you anymore. You're ours. If you want to be."
"I want to be."
