22. Jamie #2
The afternoon has settled comfortably over Briar Cove.
Storefront windows stand open to the mild spring air, and the sidewalks are busier than they've been in months.
Winter hasn't disappeared completely, but it has loosened its grip enough for people to venture outside without hurrying from one place to another.
Annette slows as we pass the florist. Buckets of tulips and daffodils line the sidewalk, filling the air with the faint scent of fresh earth and blossoms.
"I always stop here," she says. "You do?" She nods, leaning down to admire a cluster of pale pink flowers. "My grandmother loved peonies. Every spring she'd wait for the first buds like they were old friends coming home."
She gently brushes a fingertip across one of the blossoms before we continue walking. "She used to tell me flowers rewarded patient people. You plant them, take care of them, and then one morning they decide it's finally time to bloom."
"That sounds optimistic."
"It sounds like gardening."
"It also sounds like a lot of waiting."
She laughs. "It is."
"I've never really understood flowers."
"I gathered that."
"I probably couldn't identify a peony if it introduced itself."
She laughs harder this time. "No, I don't suppose you could."
We continue down the sidewalk while she tells me about helping her grandmother weed the garden every spring and carrying armfuls of flowers into the house once they finally bloomed.
I honestly have no opinion whatsoever about peonies. I honestly have no opinion whatsoever about peonies. Or gardening. Or flowers in general. But I could listen to Annette talk about them all afternoon.
A few doors farther along, we reach the bookstore. The front windows have been decorated with colorful paper kites and hand-painted storybook characters. Inside, a woman sits in a rocking chair reading to a semicircle of children who listen with complete concentration.
I stop walking without meaning to. Annette notices immediately. "You like bookstores?"
"I do."
She follows my gaze through the window. "My dad used to take me to a children’s bookstore every Saturday." "For story hour?" She nods. "I was convinced the woman who read the books knew every fairy tale ever written."
"What did your dad think?" "That he could drink coffee in peace for forty-five minutes."
I laugh. "Smart man."
"He was."
A little boy inside the bookstore raises his hand so enthusiastically that he nearly falls over. The reader calls on him anyway, and whatever answer he gives sends the entire room into laughter. I find myself smiling with them. "I used to think I'd retire somewhere quiet," I say.
Annette looks at me. "And now?"
I glance toward the lake at the end of the street, then back at the bookstore window where children are laughing over a story neither of us can hear. "I think I've already found somewhere quiet."
She doesn't answer immediately. Two young girls race past us, each carrying a paper bag from the bakery. One of them trips on the sidewalk, catches herself, and bursts into giggles before her sister pulls her back to her feet.
Annette watches them disappear around the corner. "I don't think quiet means silence; I think it means peace."
The word settles over me more heavily than I expect. Peace. Not isolation. Not escape. Peace.
Annette starts walking again, and I fall into step beside her. She points toward a weathered white house overlooking the water. "If I ever build a home, I want a front porch just like that."
"So, you can grow peonies?"
She smiles. "Probably."
"I still won't know what they look like."
"I'll teach you."
The words are offered so casually that I don't think she realizes what she has said. I'll teach you. Not someone will. Not you should learn.
She has unconsciously included herself in a future that hasn't happened yet. The thought stays with me as we continue toward the lake.
I don't say anything. Neither does she. The silence between us has become one of my favorite conversations.
***
By the time we return to the rehab center, the afternoon appointments are already arriving. The waiting room is fuller than when we left, and the easy quiet of our walk disappears beneath ringing phones, rolling equipment carts, and therapists greeting their next patients.
Annette pauses near the entrance to the therapy wing. “I need to finish your progress notes before my next appointment.”
“I should let you work.”
“That would be unusually considerate.”
“I’m capable of personal growth.”
“So, your chart keeps claiming.” She smiles as she heads toward the desk at the edge of the gym.
I retrieve my jacket and therapy folder from the locker, then stop when I notice my water bottle still sitting beside the treatment table.
Annette has already opened my chart. Her attention moves between the measurements from this morning and the notes on her screen, but the pleased expression she wore earlier has faded.
Not completely. Just enough for me to notice. I collect the bottle and walk toward her. “Everything okay?”
Her head lifts quickly. “Of course.”
It is the same automatic answer I gave her during the first weeks of recovery, back when fine meant almost anything except fine. I glance at the chart. “Did the numbers change while we were gone?”
“No. They’re excellent.”
“That sounded dangerously close to praise.”
“You’ve earned it.” She closes the folder, though not before I glimpse a line near the bottom of the page. Projected discharge schedule.
The words register, but Annette’s expression holds my attention more than the chart does. “You went quiet.”
“It’s been a long day.”
There is more behind the answer. I know it as surely as she always knows when I am holding something back.
A month ago, I might have pressed. Captains ask questions. They notice problems and keep asking until someone finally admits what is wrong.
Annette has taught me another way. Sometimes caring means leaving room for the truth to arrive on its own. I nod and tuck the folder beneath my arm. “Okay.”
Something in her face softens, almost as if she recognizes the grace she has offered me so many times.
I start toward the hallway, then stop before reaching it.
The words come without planning, probably because I have been thinking about the entire day—the easy laughter, the coffee, the bookstore window, and a future that suddenly contains peonies.
“I’m glad you were here.” Annette looks up. “Today?”
“No.” I meet her eyes. “For all of it.”
The clinic continues around us, but the noise seems to recede. She understands exactly what I mean.
The hospital. The first miserable mornings. The shirt I could not pull over my head. The coffee scoop on the kitchen floor. Every painful repetition, every small victory, and every moment she refused to let me reduce myself to an injury.
Her smile is gentle. “So am I.”
There is more I could say. I can feel the words waiting somewhere close, but this is neither the time nor the place to force them. I return her smile and leave before I convince myself otherwise.
***
My cabin still holds the warmth of the afternoon sun when I arrive home. I hang my jacket beside the door and set the therapy folder on the kitchen table. A white reminder card slips free and lands face down on the floor.
I bend to retrieve it, expecting another appointment time or a list of exercises. Instead, I find a typed update from the rehabilitation office.
Remaining Therapy Sessions: 9
I read the number again. Nine. A few months ago, I would have celebrated. Nine appointments meant the finish line was close. It meant strength work, medical clearance, and the first careful steps toward skating again.
Nine should feel like victory. Instead, it feels small.
I sit at the table with the card still in my hand. Nine more mornings of seeing Annette waiting in the therapy gym. Nine more coffees neither of us has to ask for. Nine more chances to make her laugh, hear about her family, or walk through town while she talks about flowers I still cannot identify.
After that, she will no longer be responsible for my recovery.
This thought should make me proud. She has given me exactly what she promised from the beginning—my independence, my strength, and pieces of my life I feared I might never reclaim.
But healing has carried me toward something I never considered when we started.
An ending.
I place the card on the table and look through the window toward the lake. Spring sunlight stretches across the water, turning the surface silver between the last drifting pieces of ice.
For months, I have counted how much longer recovery would take.
Today, for the first time, I am counting how many times I still get to see Annette.
Nine suddenly does not feel like near enough.