Chapter 13
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
JESS
The discharge papers feel like a verdict I’ve been waiting three weeks to hear.
Tears fill my eyes before I can stop them, and I blink hard, refusing to let them fall.
I worked so damn hard for this moment. I suffered through multiple surgeries and endured severe pain.
Cried countless tears, and all that seems like child’s play when I think about the last three weeks.
The physical therapy was grueling, and at times I wanted to strangle Marcus.
He kept ordering me to slow down while I pushed through the pain and the muscle spasms that made me see stars.
Then there were days when I couldn’t feel my left foot and had to drag it behind me like dead weight.
I did the exercises Marcus assigned, and then I did them again after he left my room.
Every single second of agony was worth it, because I’m walking out of here, and that’s something to be proud of. It’s a milestone I didn’t think I’d make.
But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t feeling completely overwhelmed.
Dr. Patel stands at the foot of my bed with his tablet tucked under one arm. Next to him, Sandy stands, holding a thick manila folder with both hands.
Jesus, that’s a lot of fucking paper.
“Everything you need to continue your outpatient therapy is in this folder,” Sandy says.
My gaze moves from the insanely thick folder to her face. She smiles at me like she’s done so many times before, and my anxious thoughts pause for a moment.
Out of everyone I’ve encountered over the last few months, she’s going to be the person I miss most.
“I know it looks like a lot,” she continues. “But I promise we went over most of this already. Think of it as an insurance policy.”
Oh, Sandy, if you only knew the irony.
Returning the smile, I take the folder from her.
“Thank you,” I say, although the words don’t seem adequate. She held my hand through some of my darkest hours and advocated for me when no one else did. Two simple words cannot convey the gratitude I feel for her.
Now, I understand why so many people are quick to call nurses angels.
Dr. Patel clears his throat, jarring my attention back to him.
“I have referred you to a physical therapist closer to your home, and I want you going five days a week.” His tone leaves no room for argument. “In a month from now, I’ll see you at my office, and we’ll assess your scars to see if reconstructive surgery is necessary.”
He swipes at the screen of his tablet, then continues, “I put in a couple of prescriptions for you as well. There are two to help you manage the pain, and an ointment I want you applying to your legs twice a day.” He looks up.
“The psychiatrist also prescribed you something to help you sleep, am I right?”
The question hangs in the air, and my mind wanders back to the last few weeks.
There were days when I pushed myself so hard in PT that my body should’ve collapsed into an unconscious state the second my head hit the pillow.
Instead, I’d lie there staring at the ceiling.
When sleep finally found me, it would be fleeting because the night terrors came roaring back.
It didn’t happen every night, but at least fifty percent of the time I fell asleep. I noticed there was a pattern. If I was more anxious during the day, then that night I was more likely to have a nightmare.
It also wasn’t lost on me that the nightmares returned the same night Lucifer stopped visiting me. I just didn’t want to acknowledge that Lucifer, with all his flaws, was my greatest source of comfort.
“Yes,” I say. “She also gave me a prescription for my anxiety.”
Dr. Patel nods, his eyes moving across the screen. “Yes, I see that noted on your chart.” He looks up again. “And you’ve scheduled a follow-up telehealth visit with her already?”
“Yes, I’ll be meeting with her once a week on Zoom.”
Seeming satisfied with my response, he lowers the tablet.
“Well, I think that wraps everything up. I gave you explicit instructions on your limitations.” He holds up one finger.
“Until I see you again, I only want you going up the stairs once a day, and I prefer someone accompany you for the first week or so. It’s very easy to lose your balance when your range of motion is limited.
” Another finger. “And no driving until you see a neurologist. We need to get that nerve damage under control before we put you behind the wheel of a car.”
I don’t understand why I have to wait another month before I can drive. The nerve damage is improving. Most days I can even feel my toes, and the tingling comes and goes. It’s definitely less frequent than it was two weeks ago.
I’m not saying he should clear me to go on a road trip anytime soon, but it just would be nice to get myself to my doctor’s appointments without having to inconvenience Tori or pay for a cab.
I open my mouth to argue but quickly stop myself. I don’t want to give him a reason to keep me here.
“Okay,” I agree, reluctantly.
Dr. Patel tucks his tablet under his arm and studies me for a moment.
“I left a message for your husband,” he says carefully, “but he hasn’t called me back.” A pause. “I would’ve really liked to go over these things with him. It can be a lot on a person, and it’s always good to have a second set of ears.
My stomach drops at the mention of Lucifer.
I’ve had some time to process what happened the last time he was here, and honestly, there have been days when I’ve stared at the door, hoping he’d walk into my room. If I’m being totally honest, I did it five minutes before Dr. Patel and Sandy entered my room.
Of course, I scolded myself afterward.
I can admit that I may have overreacted, but I did it in the name of self-preservation. I can also admit there is a small part of me that hoped he wouldn’t just give up on me just because I sent him away.
For a while he was like a lifeline to me, and just because I’m terrified of getting attached to him, doesn’t make it easier to lose him.
Sandy definitely caught on, especially when she’d hear me scream at night, and there were plenty of times when she offered to call him for me.
I declined every time.
I kind of wish I didn’t, because there is truth in what Dr. Patel is saying. It would’ve been nice to have someone here with me while they laid all this on me. Tori wanted to be here, but she had to pick up Poppy before she came to get me.
“It’s important that you have a support system during this transition period,” Dr. Patel adds.
“It’s fine,” I say, my voice cracking slightly. “I have a friend who’s going to help me. She’s actually picking me up. She just had to get her daughter from camp before she made her way over here.”
Dr. Patel looks like he wants to say more, but he doesn’t. He nods once, gathers his things, and leaves the room.
“I’ll be right back,” Sandy says before she follows him out.
The door clicks shut, and I’m alone with the folder in my lap and the silence.
I glance at the clock on the wall. Tori won’t be picking me up for at least another hour.
My gaze slides to the empty chair next to my bed, and for a second, I let myself imagine what it would’ve been like if I hadn’t pushed Lucifer away.
He probably would’ve asked more questions than I did because he’s controlling like that.
Important questions I didn’t even consider asking.
I press my palm flat against the discharge papers and feel the weight of everything they contain—the prescriptions, the PT schedule, and the follow-up appointments. Every limitation and all the terror that still awaits. The fear of starting over and the small sliver of hope I fight to cling to.
“I don’t need anyone,” I murmur. “I can do this on my own.”
The stairs are worse than I anticipated. Tori hovers behind me, close enough to catch me if I fall. If it weren’t for Poppy standing at the top of the landing, I probably would quit.
“Come on, Aunt Jess. You got this!”
My hand tightens around the railing, and I attempt to smile at her, but it feels more like a grimace.
“Take your time,” Tori says. “If you want a break, just say the word.”
I look up at the remaining stairs. There are only six more to go. I can do this.
Using every ounce of strength I can muster, I place my right foot on the next step, then drag my left one up to meet it.
Five more.
It takes me ten minutes before I finally reach the landing, and when I do, Poppy gives me a fist bump.
Tori unlocks the door and pushes it open, then steps aside to let me through.
I make it three steps inside before my left leg gives out.
I catch myself on the cane, but the buckling sends a bolt of pain up my thigh that makes me gasp.
Tori is at my side instantly, her arm sliding around my waist. “I’ve got you.”
She guides me toward the couch, and I collapse onto the cushions with a sound that’s half relief, half agony. My leg throbs in time with my heartbeat, and I press my palm against the muscle above my knee, willing it to stop spasming.
When I lift my head, I find Poppy staring at me, concern etched across her face.
“I’m okay,” I assure her. “It’s just been a while since I climbed a whole flight of stairs. Give me a week and I’ll race you.”
She purses her lips. “No offense, Aunt Jess, but I don’t think so.”
“Poppy,” Tori admonishes.
“What?” Poppy says, planting her hands on her hips. “I’m just being honest.”
Tori’s eyes narrow. “We talked about this. Remember? About using kind words?”
I wave my hand dismissively. “It’s fine, Tori. She’s right. I couldn’t beat her in a race right now if my life depended on it.”
Poppy’s lips twitch into a small smile before Tori catches her eye.
“Go get washed up,” Tori says, sighing. “I’m going to start dinner.”
Poppy disappears down the hallway to her room, and I hear her door click shut. Tori turns back to me, her expression softening.
“Do you want help getting to your room? I can pull the sheets back for you.”
I shake my head. “I’d rather hang out in here. If I go to my room, I’ll probably just pass out.”