Chapter 10
Ten
It had been two days since I fainted.
“Good morning.” Tibb’s voice cut through the crisp early-morning air, the chill of predawn clinging stubbornly to everything it touched.
As I rubbed my eyes and opened the door, he stood there, looking as unaffected as always.
“Jackie asked me to work with you,” Tibb said, his tone matter-of-fact but not unkind.
Under Jackson’s orders, I had been remanded to my cabin.
No work, rest only. True to his word, he brought me a fresh meal, enough to feed an army.
Starting with the mountain of spaghetti and meatballs, and the grits, eggs, and sausage—a small feast in a chipped ceramic bowl.
I ate with a hunger that surprised me, devouring it all, the flavors exploding on my tongue.
Spicy. Savory. Comforting. So different from the bland oatmeal and limp noodles I’d been surviving on.
The simple joy of real food, with each bite, seemed to fill something deeper than just my stomach, as though my body had forgotten not only what it was to be truly fed but to be cared for, full in ways I couldn’t quite explain.
“Work with me?” I asked, a tail on the end of the word.
“On your body,” Tibb said, his eyes glinting with a hint of mischief. “He said you’ve been sore.”
A sharp pang shot through my shoulders, and I grimaced before forcing the tension from my face. “What exactly will we be doing?”
“You’ll see,” he said, already turning and heading into the dimness of the early morning.
“Do I have a choice?” I called after him, the edge in my voice barely masking my apprehension.
“Nope,” he answered casually, his footsteps echoing as he walked away. “Not just because Jackie said so, but because this will be good for you. I promise.”
“Is this okay to wear?” I asked, glancing down at my tank top and shorts. The cool air nipped at my exposed skin, and the fabric seemed too thin for whatever we were about to do.
Tibb stopped, scanning me up and down. “Slip on some joggers and a T-shirt.”
“What about shoes?” I asked, grabbing and slipping on the shirt over my tank, noticing the flip-flops on his feet.
“You won’t need them,” Tibb replied without turning back.
“It’s cold out here!”
“Then slip some on. But you won’t need them for what we will be doing.”
I closed the gap between us, my breath ragged as I matched his relentless pace. Despite my best efforts, his long strides continued to stretch the distance between us, forcing me to push myself harder just to stay at his side.
“Where are we going?” I managed to ask, the words tumbling out between gasps.
“Behind the bouquet hall.”
“And what, exactly, will we be doing when we get there?” I repeated my earlier question, feeling the strain in my lungs and legs.
“Yoga,” he said, stopping to look at me. “And if you’re out of breath from this short walk, you need it.”
We stepped into a clearing behind the bouquet hall, where the landscape opened up before us, a flat area where the grass had been neatly trimmed, a rare patch of order in a sea of untamed growth. Beyond it, wild grasses swayed, untouched by a lawnmower. Jackson preferred to let it grow naturally.
“Farmwork takes some getting used to,” he said, unrolling two yoga mats he’d pulled out from a container behind the building. “Believe me, it can take a while. But this will help.”
I couldn’t help but ask: “Do you always do everything the boss tells you to do?”
“Brother. He’s more than a boss to me.” Tibb turned, his face illuminated briefly by the first light of dawn, and clapped his hands once. “So, what are we working with?” He rotated his neck with a slight crack, his gaze intent on my wrist.
“What do you mean?”
“Your body. What’s your flexibility?”
“I’m not sure.”
His eyes narrowed slightly as he continued, “What about your wrist?”
“How did you know? Let me guess: Luke and Jackson.”
He nodded. “Of course, but it’s also evident. You favor the other.”
I cast a glance at my wrist, still bruised and sore. “I bruised it pretty bad.”
“How long has it been like that?”
My mind mentally retraced my steps to the bus crash, a memory that kept resurfacing like a persistent itch. I blinked rapidly, trying to erase the images in my mind. “About a month,” I said.
“Before you came to work here? Is it broken?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Have you been to the doctor?”
I shook my head.
“Then you don’t know if it’s broken.”
“It’s better than it was,” I said, trying to sound more confident than I felt. The truth was, the pain had been consistent as time since the bus crash, reactivating anytime I put too much pressure on it.
He stepped closer, his hand extended. “Can I touch you?”
The request caught me off guard, his tone sincere and unguarded.
It was a reflexive kindness, not a calculated gesture, and it eased some of my anxiety.
I nodded, as the warmth of his large hands, far gentler than I expected, encircled my wrist. He pressed his thumb in the space between my forefinger and thumb.
A sharp, searing pain shot through me, causing my knees to buckle. Tibb caught me before I could fall.
He mumbled something in Creole under his breath. “It’s broken,” he said with certainty.
“How do you know?” I asked, rubbing my wrist, trying to soothe the lingering pain.
“I know what a broken wrist feels like. I’ve broken mine twice—once, I didn’t even know at first.”
“How could you not know your wrist is broken?”
“Just as you didn’t know,” he said softly. “Wrists are tricky.” His fingers rotated my wrist slowly, with care. “There’s nothing you can do for a broken wrist other than to let it rest. I’ll get you a brace.”
“But if there’s nothing to be done for a broken wrist, why do I need a brace?”
“It will heal on its own,” he explained, his words slow and patient. “But you need to keep it immobilized. The brace will help with that. It was probably healing already, but you kept aggravating it by using it. No cartwheels, okay?”
I smiled, relaxing further.
“Ah, look at that,” Tibb said, his eyes widening in genuine surprise. “She smiles. I was beginning to wonder if you knew how.”
“I smile.”
“Of course you do. Just haven’t seen it until now. It’s nice.”
“I haven’t always felt like smiling.”
“We all feel that way at times. But you have to remember things can be nice, and when they are, you might smile. Joy is simple, and comes back if you let it.”
His tone wrapped around me, free of any flirtation, just pure sincerity. Unsure how to respond to his kindness, I changed the subject. “So, what are we going to do, and how am I going to do it with a broken wrist?”
“We’ll start with simple stretches until you’re able to put some weight on it.” Tibb was all business now. “Have you ever stretched before?”
“No, never.”
Tibb settled on the mat, crossing his legs with an ease that spoke of practice. He extended a hand, inviting me to join him. I hesitated for a second, then sank onto the soft mat beside him, my muscles stiff and sore. Tibb caught the slight wince on my face.
“Let’s work out some of that tension,” he said.
He began with a seated forward bend. “Sit up straight, then slowly stretch your arms out and reach for your toes. If you can’t reach them, that’s okay.
Just let your hands rest where they fall.
” He stood and moved behind me. “I’m going to touch you, okay? ”
I nodded, extending my fingers toward my feet as he placed his hands lightly on my back, guiding me into a deeper, more soothing stretch.
“Breathe in deeply,” he instructed. “Inhaling to fill your lungs and exhaling to release the tightness.”
Next, Tibb led me into a lying figure-four stretch, easing me into a flat position.
“Lift your right leg and cross your ankle over your left knee. Now, pull your left thigh toward your chest.” He cupped my knee.
“This stretch targets your hips and glutes, and helps release some of that soreness,” he explained.
I grimaced again.
“It hurts, I know. But we gotta get your blood flowing. You’ll feel better when we’re done.”
Then he instructed me into child’s pose, with my forehead resting on the mat and my arms extended out in front of me. “Sink into this pose, and let your breath expand into your back and feel the gentle stretch along your spine.” His hands hovered above my shoulders.
As we moved on to upper-body exercises, through each one, Tibb spoke in a cadence that matched the slow rhythm of our stretching. “You’re doing great. Stretching is not only a way of loosening your body but a way to honor it and listen to its needs,” he said softly.
It was an essential part of me that I’d neglected the most—my body.
I had never thought to listen to it, never considered it more than what it was: Blinking.
Breathing. Being. When my stomach rumbled, I ate.
When I yawned, I slept. I didn’t think past rote body functions or what it might need beyond the basics.
Now I wondered what I would learn about myself if I listened more.
With each stretch, I surrendered to the elongation of my muscles and Tibb’s guidance. And by the end, my muscles no longer throbbed but hummed with a sense of relaxation.
“Now…” he said, returning to his mat and crossing his legs once again. “I want you to sit here and relax. Close your eyes and slow your breathing.”
I mimicked his posture, my legs stiffened as I folded them underneath me. My eyes fluttered shut, but the chirping birds, rustling insects, and whispering wind made relaxing impossible. After a moment, I cracked one eye opened. “How much longer?”
Tibb remained still, his body a statue, his eyes shut in concentration. “Shh…” he murmured, as though the very act of speaking would shatter the fragile atmosphere.