Fly Away, page 3
part #5 of Baxter Boys Series
“Dusty Gibson,” he called. She stopped walking toward the waiting area chairs and turned, her eyes finding him.
He gave his best professional smile. “Come on. Let’s get started.”
Normally he worked with several clients at once. But often with the first few sessions of therapy, he started clients one-on-one, especially the more challenging cases. Dusty definitely belonged in that category.
She limped over. The big brace on her leg was uncomfortable and bulky. It was enough to frustrate most people. But then she had the back brace on as well. She had to feel claustrophobic in all that.
“How’d your exercises go?”
“Fine.”
“Sore?”
“A little.”
She seemed a little depressed. He was supposed to note in the file if the client’s mental health seemed off. He’d give her a few minutes. There had been a few patients over the years who had just never warmed up to him for whatever reason. Maybe Dusty would be one of them.
“You didn’t ride your Harley in, did you?”
A little smile ghosted her lips. “Nope.”
“That’s good. I’d hate to have to note that in your chart.”
“I didn’t drive either.” She pushed her ponytail over her shoulder.
“That’s good to know.” Although a car would be preferable to the bike. Either one would be a real challenge with that brace. “Let’s get started.”
He put her through the exercises he’d given her and taught her a few that he’d looked up online. She did them with the same concentration and determination that she’d shown the previous day.
Toward the end of the session, she still wasn’t smiling.
“You seem down. Are you in pain?” He didn’t want to have to make a note and have her hauled off to a therapist if she didn’t need it.
“No, I’m fine.”
He crossed his arms and looked at her. “You would tell me if this is too much for you?”
“Probably not,” she answered. He liked that honesty.
When she didn’t say anymore, he considered taking her into the consulting room and telling her his story. It was part of his job. Usually it helped clients to know that he understood exactly what they were going through. It was an encouragement, especially to the ones that weren’t motivated or were depressed. Dusty didn’t have a problem with lack of motivation.
For some reason, he didn’t want to show his vulnerability to Dusty. Deciding she wasn’t depressed and didn’t need his life story, he finished their session without prying further. He’d wait and see how she was the next day.
A different friend came to pick her up. Bubbly and blond, she had three small children with her. Did all of Dusty’s friends have families? And where were her parents? Even middle-aged people usually had their parents around.
He chided himself. It was only her second day. But there was the red-haired friend from yesterday. The brown-haired friend on the park bench, if that was even Dusty. And now, a blond. At least she had variety in her friends’ hair color.
“Roland, this is Kelly.” Dusty introduced him when he came over with her instruction paper.
Then he realized where he’d seen her before. “You’re Tough Baxter’s wife.” Tough Baxter was his mechanic, which reminded him he needed to schedule an oil change.
She nodded with a big smile. “Sure am.” Grabbing his hand, she pumped it. “You’ve also donated some time to work with kids at the children’s centers I run.”
He studied her, thinking. “I don’t remember seeing you there.” The different therapists usually donated a month of after-work time. He always made sure his month was in the winter. Usually January. It was a very unofficial thing, but kids could always benefit from learning exercises that would straighten their posture or help prevent carpal tunnel. He’d show them stretches and explain the benefits of staying flexible. Then there were always those few children who could use more specialized care. He did his best and enjoyed working with the children, giving them tools they could use for the rest of their lives.
“No. I typically arrange things, secure funding, sometimes drop in and watch to make sure everything is going okay. I even pick kids up and drop them off. But I don’t get involved in things I don’t know anything about. Like physical therapy.”
He nodded, aware that Dusty was watching him. He turned to her, while Kelly’s children tugged at her hands. “Here’s your printout. Same drill as yesterday. Do these this afternoon or this evening, and I’ll see you again tomorrow.”
“Yes, sir.” She didn’t salute but allowed the kids tugging at her hands to drag her out the door.
~~~
By the end of her first two weeks of outpatient therapy, Dusty was ready to quit. It felt like she wasn’t getting anywhere.
She walked in after Cassidy dropped her off even more dejected than usual. She was putting her friends out, getting rides every day. Riley, Ben Baxter’s wife, was going to use her lunch break to pick her up, which made Dusty feel awful. Even though Riley had only been in the area a little over a year, Dusty loved her like a sister. Still, it was bad enough to put her lifelong friends out. Even worse was taking advantage of her good friends, too. By the time this was over, people weren’t going to be answering the phone when she called.
“Dusty Gibson, bring your smile over here.”
She rolled her eyes, and yes, her lips turned up at Roland’s cheesy call. When she got close enough to him, she said, “Do people ever ignore you because you’re so embarrassing?”
“Nope.” He stopped. “Well, not that I know of. Sometimes I just assume people aren’t here.”
She laughed, probably as he intended. More than being concerned with just her physical well-being, he seemed to keep a finger on the pulse of her emotions too. It should bother her, because it was none of his business, but her brain had decided to trust him the first time she was here, and it hadn’t changed its mind.
They went through her exercises easily and finished early. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to spend a few minutes in the consulting room.”
She shrugged. Did it really matter if she minded?
She followed him to the middle room, not even taking the bait when he smirked and opened the door for her. She breezed through.
No. In her mind, she breezed through. In reality, she limped painfully and slowly through the door, moving around the desk to sit in the comfortable chair on the other side.
He didn’t even bother to hide his grin.
She propped her leg up. “What? Were you going to make the poor crippled girl sit in the uncomfortable chair?”
He shook his head slowly, his grin fading. “They ought to get better chairs in here.”
Like every time before, he leaned on the edge of the desk. “Tell me what the trouble is. I can’t fix what I don’t know is broken.”
Straight to the point. She could respect that.
She leaned forward, clasping her hands and twitching at the pain in her back and leg. “Fine.” She shrugged. “It’s not helping. It’s been six weeks since my accident, three weeks since my surgeries. I’m still in pain, and I’m sick of bumming rides from my friends. Almost as sick as they must be of giving them. I want to see results.” She looked up and met his clear, green eyes. “I’ve been doing every single thing you said. And I’ve been doing it faithfully. I haven’t shirked or skipped. I’ve fought through the pain, and frankly, it’s depressing to not see any improvement.”
“We measured your range of motion in your knee. It’s improved fifteen percent just in this week.”
“I want to lose the brace.”
“Only the doctor can do that for you. You have an appointment Monday, right?”
She wasn’t Roland’s only patient. How did he keep these facts in his head? Maybe because he’d just studied her chart before she came in. He hadn’t looked at it since, although it was tucked under his arm as he sat on the corner of the desk with his arms crossed.
“That’s right.”
“I can make a note on your chart that you’ve been excelling with your exercises and following your instructions to the letter. I’ve already written down your improved range of motion. You still have pain, but am I wrong in calculating that it’s not as bad?”
She thought back. He was right. “Those back strengthening exercises have helped.”
“They’re designed to train the muscles that support your spine. It takes some of the pressure off and helps with the pain.”
“It has, I guess.” She looked down.
“Is that what’s really bothering you?”
For some reason, his question brought tears to her eyes. She kept her eyes down on her lap where she picked at her fingers.
She sighed, blinking back the annoying weakness of tears. “There was a race today. I should be checked in and doing my practice laps. Instead, I’m stuck here, barely able to move and dependent on my friends to haul me around.”
Roland didn’t move, and he didn’t say anything. She appreciated the time to get her features composed.
Finally she looked up. “I’m sorry my bad attitude was so awful that you noticed. I was just a little down about the race, but I’m still committed to pounding out these exercises and getting better.”
He nodded, his brows drawn together. “I really don’t think your friends mind taking you around. They love you and appreciate this opportunity to do something for you. Isn’t that how you’d feel if your positions were reversed?”
Guilt made her bow her head again. “It is. I’m the one that resents my loss of freedom.”
“I wish I could make this process easier or faster, but in order to do it right, it has to be like this.”
She put her hand up. “I know. That’s why I’ve tried not to complain. But you asked.”
He grunted a laugh. “That’s true. I did.”
She lifted her head up. “You just don’t understand what it’s like.”
Chapter 5
Roland stared at Dusty. This was his opening. He could tell her about the long process and encourage her to stick with it. He’d never hesitated before. Why was he hesitating now?
He shoved whatever feeling it was aside and straightened off the desk. “That’s where you’re wrong.” He moved around the side of the desk. “Do you have a weak stomach?”
Her brows drew down into a V. “Huh?”
He reached down for the bottom of his pant leg. “I showed this to one woman, and she threw up on me.” He turned his head and looked up at her with one eye. “I’m not making that up.”
“Showed her what?” Dusty asked, her brows still drawn.
He pulled his pant leg up. The pink and white deformed skin slowly came into view. He set his foot on the desk. “This.” He lifted a shoulder. “This is actually my good leg.”
“You’re kidding.” Dusty gasped, throwing a hand over her mouth. “I’m sorry,” she said between her fingers.
“It’s fine. You should hear the kids’ reactions.”
Her eyes snapped to his. “You tell them?”
“If I think they need to hear it.”
Her hand dropped back to her lap. “So I need to hear it?”
“You said I didn’t understand.” He nodded at his leg. Even now, he could hardly believe that it belonged to him. It didn’t look like his. “I think I do.”
Her fingers twisted in her ponytail, and she bit her lip as her eyes slid slowly back to his leg. She swallowed. “I guess you must.”
“Yeah.” He dropped his leg down. “You want to see the other one?”
Her eyes flew to his. It was the first time since they’d met that she seemed uncertain. She didn’t wear the emotion well.
“Never mind.” He put his other leg up and drew up his pant leg. The skin on this leg was even more deformed. It actually turned his stomach.
“Can’t they do...surgery, like plastic surgery, to fix that?” she asked. He hated the hesitation in her voice.
“They could. They wanted to, actually. But I’d already spent months, months, in the hospital. Skin grafts. Bandage changes. Infections. Constant pain. I was ready to walk out and never walk into another hospital again.”
“I bet.” Now compassion filled her eyes, and he didn’t like that any better. He shoved his pant leg down and dropped his foot.
“How old were you?” she asked.
“I was a second-year medical student.” Normally he stopped the questions right here. But she was faster than his normal patients.
“You were going to be a doctor.”
“Yeah.” He shifted, leaning again on the desk, his arms crossed over his chest. “A hospital’s a bad place for a doctor to hate.” He shrugged like it didn’t matter. “By the time I was done with therapy, I had found a new calling.” He met her eyes, keeping any emotional pain wiped clean from his face. “People seem to think I’m good at it.”
“I see why.” She nodded. Her posture straightened, and her chin lifted. “It worked. Anything boys can do, girls can do better.” She grinned with a challenge. “You did it. I can do it better.”
He laughed. “I never understood the competition between the sexes, but if that’s what motivates you, lap it up.”
“You don’t compete with your girlfriend?”
His face fell. Technically, he supposed, he’d won because she’d died. But, no, he’d never considered it a competition. Even if she was a med student too. One from a family of means who’d thought it a good idea to let their beautiful, gregarious daughter get her pilot’s license. Stupid parents.
“No.” He gave her honesty. “I always thought of us as a team with different strengths that complemented each other.” He closed his mouth. If he started to think about Janice, the pain he kept locked away might escape.
“Past tense?” she asked softly.
“She died.” He stood abruptly. “I bet your friend is waiting on you. Which one is it today? Harris? Or Kelly, Tough’s wife?”
Dusty took the hint, thankfully, and struggled out of the chair. “Riley is picking me up. She’ll be new.”
“You have a lot of friends.” He walked to the door and put his hand on the knob.
Dusty nodded. “I guess you could have given me a lecture on counting my blessings.”
“Would that have been effective? Because I do have that one in my repertoire.”
“Maybe. I guess you can try it out on me next week.”
“Okay. I’ll keep that in mind. If your doctor’s appointment doesn’t go well on Monday, I’ll brush it off and whip it out.”
She laughed. “Oh, it’s going to go well. If he knows what’s good for him, he’s going to tell me I can drive and I can lose at least one of these braces.”
“Good luck with that.” He bet the doctor actually would allow her to take her brace off and drive. Maybe not with a regular patient, but Dusty was anything but regular.
He opened the door, and she limped out ahead of him. A very pregnant woman with shoulder-length brown hair stood by the door. Her face brightened, and she smiled at Dusty.
“I’ll be right over,” he said as Dusty limped away.
He wrote his notes and printed off her instruction sheet.
“Roland, this is Riley Baxter.”
“Looks like Riley and a plus one.” He shook her hand and met her direct gaze.
She laughed. “It feels like I’m carrying a plus thirteen. But the doctor assures me it’s only one. Just big, like his dad.”
“And ready to show up any day,” Dusty said with a grin.
“That’s what they said at my appointment today.” She sighed with a hand on her large belly. “I’m ready. Anything over sixty-five degrees is too hot when you’re pregnant, and it’s June. It’s time.”
“Wait until you get me home first, please.” Dusty smiled, but there was a definite shadow of fear in her eyes.
“Dusty, the doctor said you weren’t allowed to drive, but there are no restrictions on your chart about delivering babies.” Roland couldn’t resist teasing her.
“I would be helpless in that situation, I promise,” she said with a shudder. “You’re not feeling any contractions, are you?”
Riley shook her head. “Unfortunately, no.”
“You need to tell him to wait until after tomorrow. It would be awkward to have to cancel your baby shower because he decided to show up.”
“Sorry, but if I have to choose between seeing my little guy and having the baby shower, I’m going for my kid.”
“I get it. He can come any time after three.”
They linked arms, and Dusty turned to wave.
“See you Monday,” Roland said, trying not to wonder why he felt this odd sense of sadness at not seeing her for two days.
Chapter 6
Saturday afternoon, Roland pulled his car into the garage. He liked coming to Tough Baxter’s garage. Not only because it wasn’t too far from where he lived—just a few minutes across town—but also because Tough was an easygoing guy who was just as likely to hand him a wrench and show him how to do something as he was to do it for him.
To someone like him, who had more book knowledge than actual hands-on knowledge, it was a nice change. No one in his family worked a blue-collar job. His dad was a lawyer, his mother an obstetrician, both practicing in Philadelphia. His brother was on the board of some company in Texas. Roland wasn’t sure exactly what he did, but he was sure it didn’t involve getting his hands any dirtier than a round of golf required.
At Tough’s, there were also the old men who were always arguing in the corner. It gave the place character. All around, Tough’s garage was a great place to spend a Saturday.
Roland wore old clothes and showed up at twelve on the dot. Although when he’d called, Tough had said “around lunch.” Tough was pretty relaxed.
“That’s good,” Tough said as Roland inched his car forward. “We’ll have it on the lift.”
“Okay.” Roland slid his window up before getting out. When he first started coming, Tough didn’t talk as much. Since he’d gotten married, he definitely smiled more. Sentences seemed to come a little easier for him, too. A good woman could have that effect on a man.
