Chapter Three
“Oh man, it’s right here, isn’t it?” The physical therapist—whose name I didn’t catch during his introduction because my thoughts were diverted elsewhere at the time—digs his thumbs into a spot in my upper back.
Pain lances through me, nearly lifting me off the exam table.
I don’t even need Lauren to interpret for me, I’m pretty sure he’s certain he’s hit the right spot.
“Oh yeah, that’s a big ol’ knot,” he continues, driving his thumbs in deeper and swirling them around roughly.
I’d tell him to fuck right off with that shit, if I still had use of my vocal cords.
“I think I might try hitting that with a TENS unit,” Mr. Sadistic Thumbs notes, stepping away from the table to rifle around in one of the cabinets. “So, tell me again how you originally injured your back?”
Oh, right. I got distracted then too. Imagine that.
I prop myself up and begin signing to Lauren.
At least with no voice, there is no hitch in my response when I take in just how smokin’ she is today.
I mean, she is every time I see her, but for this appointment?
She came in looking extra fierce—her shoulder-length, dark-walnut colored hair loose and wavy, smokey makeup accentuating her gray-green eyes, and just a hint of mauve coloring her full lips.
Interpreter Lauren would, without a doubt, render me speechless if I weren’t already.
When she relays my response, I almost forget to make sure she recites the information properly—her sultry voice is just that intoxicating. “I was trapped under an avalanche a couple of years ago, while out snowboarding on Tucks,” she tells the PT.
Sadist Thumbs whirls around to regard me—a first since having to utilize an interpreter for my appointments, if I’ve ever seen one—a look of shock on his face. “Wait… Tuckerman Ravine? Pardon my language, but holy shit, dude… that’s insane. You’re lucky to be alive!”
My eyes fall to the floor. I wish I could say that I don’t particularly feel so lucky.
That I wish it had been me that had taken the brunt of what happened on the mountain that day, and not Aaron.
That everyday I curse my stupidity in thinking we were ready for Mount Washington when clearly we weren’t.
I’ll live with that guilt for as long as I’m topside of this earth.
When I peer back up again, a worry crease has formed between Lauren’s brows as she waits for my response. I sigh and sign, “Yup. Very lucky indeed.”
She repeats me, but her tone lacks as much conviction regarding that statement as I do in my soul.
The rest of the visit carries on with me getting a TENS treatment, then learning a few stretches.
By the time I leave, I deduce that I must have looked like a complete idiot in front of the PT because we didn’t actually do any working out on the equipment like I thought we would—which is why I came dressed in my best rendition of Richard Simmons, puffy wig on and everything.
Lauren, bless her heart, had a good laugh and explained it all to the physiotherapist though, and come to find out, according to my after-visit summary, his name is actually Burton Bruckheimer.
Nice enough guy, I guess, even though he did continue to ramble on about how impressed he is that I survived what has been, to date, the worst day of my life.
I may continue to call him Mr. Sadistic Thumbs, however, if he keeps jamming them into my vertebrae like he did.
I apparently (and begrudgingly) have eighteen more sessions to decide which way I’d like to go with what to call him.
But, on the bright side, since I obviously didn’t land that job I interviewed for a few weeks ago, I don’t need to worry about starting work having to request a bunch of time off for appointments.
And, better yet, that means I will almost definitely have eighteen more times to try to muster up the courage to formally ask Lauren out.
Let’s hope I grow some balls by the time I’m discharged.
I like her. Since she understands when I sign primarily in SEE, she’s just as comfortable to communicate with as she is easy on the eyes.
Other than my own family, she’s the first person to treat me like a human since my injury.
Not that I’m not partially to blame for that myself, since I’ve become somewhat of a recluse since the accident and everything that happened after.
Wallowing in my own guilt and shame has really weighed on me, so these little glimpses of normalcy—these little coffee dates we have after each appointment—they’re, I don’t know, invigorating.
Who even uses that word anymore? When did I become such an old guy? That sounds just like something an old guy would say…
As we step outside the office, she glances down at her watch, then up at me.
“We don’t have as much time leftover today as we normally do, but…
you were my last client of the day.” She bites her pillowy bottom lip again, a nervous expression creasing her brow.
“Would you still like to go grab a coffee?”
I shake my head, and she looks down at the ground, clearly dismayed.
I flash her my hands to get her attention again.
“If I drink anything but decaf this late in the day, I’ll be up all night.
I’m not opposed to grabbing an ice cream though, instead…
” I offer, nodding at the Dairy Joy across the street.
Ah, see? Balls are growing! Like little crocuses sprouting in the spring, maybe, but they’re there.
Her lips twitch in sudden amusement. “Even in your Richard Simmons get-up?”
I nod. Fuck, I could be dressed in a Barney costume, and I’d still agree to it if it meant I got to spend more doctor-less time with her. “Even then. Come on, my treat this time.”
I hold my hand out in invitation, and after she takes a moment to study it, she accepts, threading her fingers between mine. “Do you want to share a banana split with me?” she asks as we dart across the crosswalk.
I scrunch my nose, playfully attempting to insinuate that it's not my favorite.
When we get to the sidewalk, she studies me. “You said you were a chocolate guy at your last appointment. What about a brownie sundae?”
Holy shit… she remembered that?
I nod emphatically and she giggles. When we get up to the window, she shyly shoves me in front of her. Guess the mute is placing the order, and now that she’s off the clock, her interpreter services are no longer on the table. I dig out my phone, open up the notes app, and type out:
The teenager behind the counter looks confused for a moment, then finally asks, “So, like, I just talk to you?”
I soundlessly chuckle and nod.
“Alright, cool.” He starts scribbling on the pad in front of him. “Do you want whipped cream, nuts, and a cherry?”
I shoot him a thumbs up in response after glancing at Lauren over my shoulder to get her approval.
“You got it. Will that be all?” he asks, and I nod. “Cash or card?”
I waggle my card, and he accepts it. After he hands it back, he gives me another confused look—one I’m honestly sick to death of getting.
I’m sure he’s noticed the scar on my neck.
Everyone sort of regards you in horror when you tell them you got a ski pole lodged in your throat, so I just stopped divulging that little tidbit after a while.
Honestly, it was gory even to me at first, but after a while, I just got desensitized to it.
“Who are you supposed to be?” he asks after a bit. I blink at him, perplexed, and he flaps his hand gesturing at my outfit. “I can’t tell if you’re wearing a costume or not…” he explains.
I laugh, air puffing out of my nostrils. I type on my phone again:
“Who?” the kid asks, clearly puzzled. Maybe I’d have had better luck if I did wear a Barney costume…
Lauren snorts and finally steps out from hiding. “I think he’s insinuating that we’re old,” she notes, peering up at me. Then she turns to the kid. “He was a TV fitness instructor in the eighties and nineties. You know, Sweatin’ to the Oldies?”
The kid shakes his head. “No idea. I wasn’t born in the nineteen-hundreds.”
Ex-cuse me?! The nineteen-hundreds?!
Lauren, as if reading my mind, huffs out an incredulous laugh. “Holy shit, I suddenly feel like I need to start looking at nursing homes…”
Alright, this woman is smart, kind, absolutely stunning, and snarky? There’s no way she’s the package deal, and yet has a naked ring finger. What kind of alternate universe did I step into when I moved up here and officially made my parents' summerhouse my main residence?
It’s giving Twilight Zone vibes.
I grab our treat and we find an empty picnic table near the edge of the outdoor seating area.
This time of year, Ternbay is always overrun with summer vacationers, now that school is out.
Me, my parents, my nana, and sister always used to be a part of that crowd too, but that’s long since been the case after Natalie and I both flew the coop as soon as we were both in our early twenties.
Nat met her Prince Charming, Danny, and they’re living their white picket-fence dream-life in the same cul-de-sac as Mom and Dad—two point five kids and everything, since my niece is due to arrive any day now.
I thought Aaron and I had our own happily ever after too, before fate apparently decided that wasn’t in the cards for us in the most tragic of ways.
My decision to uproot and come back to Ternbay was all about reclaiming a time when things were more simple and the memories were happier. Mostly, anyway.
“So,” Lauren chirps, plunking down on the bench across from me. “Last time you gave me a little something about yourself. It seems only fair that I return the favor. What do you want to know about me?”