Chapter 43 Recovery
Recovery
Lily-Anne
I wait until I’m alone in the bedroom to open my guitar case. At my request, it’s sitting at the foot of Brandon’s bed on a wooden chest, every bit the faithful companion he once called it.
I open the case, wincing at the sight of the cracked wood. It’s as if someone’s punched the fragile body. I gingerly brush the strings, but the sound is dull. I mute the strings with my palm. I’d play it even like this, but I’m afraid of worsening the damage.
Then, like I’ve done every day since returning to the cottage, I carefully shut the lid. No tears. Just an ache that won’t go away, no matter how many new lyrics I write in my mind.
Unlike my guitar, I’ll eventually heal, even if recovery is boring in the worst way.
I nap. I eat whatever Mum brings. Ellenor keeps appearing with new mugs of hot beverages I didn’t ask for, always accompanied by a Hogwarts reference or two.
In the initial days, Mum has to help me with everything—going to the bathroom, showering, and carrying anything that could burn or spill.
Brandon goes to work in the mornings, but he usually returns mid-afternoon with a Cornish pasty in a brown paper bag. It’s ridiculous how much I look forward to those moments where he joins me, the paper crinkling as we share a pasty.
I hate feeling like a burden. Someone has to be nearby at all times. The physio at the hospital taught me how to use the crutches but warned me that falls were common.
I’ve been careful, but I didn’t realise how different it would feel in a house with real corners and fatigue dragging my arms.
I’m starting to get the hang of it.
I rotate between the bedroom, the kitchen, and the living room, trying to decide which room inconveniences everyone the least. Watching TV in the living room seems to suit Mum and Ellenor best. We’re bingeing Grey’s Anatomy, which—oddly enough—doesn’t bother me despite the hospital setting.
What does bother me is being monitored like this.
On the fourth day, when Mum and Ellenor go upstairs, I seize the opportunity to get some fresh air. The front door is closer, and I limp towards it—too fast.
A crutch skids across the floorboards, my good ankle twisting out from under me. I hit the ground hard, the blow to my ribs knocking the breath from my lungs. Pain flashes, and my mouth opens in a stifled cry as I try not to scream.
I lie there for a moment, every muscle clenching, a hot wave of pain rolling up my side and blanking my mind. When it finally begins to ebb, I draw a raspy breath and listen.
No footsteps rush down the stairs. Thankfully.
For a long, humiliating moment, I just lie there, breathing in shallow bursts, waiting for the sting to fade. I promised Mum I’d stay put.
I just wanted a moment to do something on my own. Now I’ve gone and hurt my other foot too, though just how badly remains to be seen.
A low groan escapes as I push up onto one elbow, dread curling through me at the thought of Mum finding me like this. She’s been worried enough as it is.
As I fumble for the crutches, now a crumpled mess on Brandon’s floor, it hits me: I haven’t heard Toby’s voice once since the slipway. Not in the hospital. Not even now.
Good. I’m done carrying him with me.
I force myself onto my knees, but standing feels impossible.
There’s nothing within reach to pull myself up on.
The crutches lie uselessly beside me, too tall to use unless I grip the handles halfway up the frame, which is easier said than done when my body feels like lead. At least I didn’t knock my cast.
I’ve barely managed to prop up the crutches, my arms trembling from the effort, when the front door opens.
Brandon stands silhouetted in the doorway, daylight pouring in around him, still in his work clothes.
He stops dead, eyes widening as he takes in my state—the awkward angle I’ve fallen into; the pain I can’t mask as I look at him.
“Lily!”
He’s beside me in an instant, his hands catching my waist, hauling me upright in one surge of motion. It’s half an embrace, half a rescue, and my chest is pressed to his as he holds me against him.
For a few seconds, I just cling, disoriented, breath shaking, the world tilting around us. His warmth is the only solid thing I can find.
Then sense returns in a slow rush. I look for my crutches, but they’re on the ground, my fingers fumbling in the air.
“Easy. Let me.” He loosens his grip but keeps hold of my elbow, steadying me as he passes the crutches to me. Once I’m steady, he steps back slightly. Softly, he asks, “Are you hurt?”
He’s not about to reprimand me, I realise.
“A little. Landed on my hip. And I might have twisted my other foot a bit.”
“Would you like me to carry you?”
“No, I think I’m okay. I’ll try walking.”
He nods and silently accompanies me down the hall—only for me to realise I have no idea where I’m going. I’m in no mood for more TV.
“I wouldn’t mind going outside,” I admit. “But maybe the patio so I can sit?”
“Good idea. There’s a bit of sun today. We could read, if you like?”
My heart gives a small flutter. “I’d like that.”
It’s chilly in the garden, but a large patch of sunlight hits the old wicker chairs.
Brandon helps me outside with the crutches before ducking back in to fetch the book.
Mum appears next, wordlessly arranging cushions and a blanket.
Ellenor follows with tea and snacks, leaning in to whisper, “Working that damsel-in-distress angle, huh?”
I feel a bit embarrassed as I sit uselessly in my chair, wrapped in my cardigan and blankets with my foot propped on a stool. My passing whim has somehow turned into an expedition everyone has to rally around.
At least Brandon doesn’t mention my fall. I’m silently grateful for that.
And I’m glad to be outside. The fresh air carries the scent of damp soil, and the autumn leaves have turned gold around us. Scattered light drifts over the grass, and I settle back as Brandon reads to me.
His voice is as smooth and rich as ever, loosening the tightness in my chest. I think he knew without asking that I wasn’t in the mood to read.
I peek over at him. He’s still wearing his work clothes—sans overalls. I kind of dig the socks and sandals.
***
The days slip by in a gentle rhythm. I’m getting more confident moving around the house, managing the crutches with fewer close calls. Mum and Ellenor coax me into board games at the kitchen table, and sometimes I even forget I’m meant to be convalescing.
Little ideas for songs drift through my mind at all hours of the day.
They’re not quite melodies yet, more the faint urge to make something again.
It’s nothing concrete, but the sheer desire sparks a little thrill.
It’s proof that music hasn’t left me; that there’ll still be something waiting for me when all of this is over.
Most of all, I look forward to my afternoons with Brandon.
The timing shifts with the tide, and sometimes the weather forces us indoors by the heater, but he never misses a session.
I never ask if there’s something else he’d rather be doing; I’m starting to realise he enjoys our reading hours just as much as I do.
On the seventh day since I came home, we’re sitting in the garden, soaking up the last rays of the sun.
“I think this chapter has bloodstains on it,” he observes, holding up the book to show me the splattered pages.
“Oh, those are from Ellenor,” I say. “She always eats Coco Pops when she reads.”
“Is that like Cocoa Krispies?”
I stare at him, scandalised. “You have Coco Pops in Britain!”
He squints. “Do we? I spent some time in the States. I think it’s the same thing.”
I shake my head in mock disappointment. “Look at how they’ve turned you.”
He inspects the book, voice dry. “Yes, it’s the…writing on the wall, I’m afraid.”
I snort, because I’ve just noticed the chapter title is called The Writing on the Wall.
He starts reading, and we fall into the story together, page after page. At some point, I edge a little closer, and—maybe it’s just foolish, wishful thinking—but his knee seems to drift towards mine.
A few minutes later, the sun disappears beneath a cloud, I draw my cardigan closer, and it seems only logical to shift just that tiniest bit closer. Enough that our knees almost touch. Enough to feel the warmth of him like a secret I won’t admit.
When the chapter ends, our knees finally touch. His or mine, I’m not sure, but the contact sends a small, startled jolt through me.
“I’ll read the next one,” I say quickly, tucking my good leg beneath me and wishing I could do the same with the one in the cast. I clear my throat, feeling my face warm. “The Rogue Bludger.”
I begin strong, but then I remember what happens next, and my voice wavers.
When Harry falls from his broom, plummeting towards the ground, I tense, the book pages creasing beneath my thumbnails as wind rushes past me.
I try to shake the feeling, but I stumble mid-sentence, and suddenly I’m no longer on a Quidditch pitch.
I’m somewhere equally dark and wet, the sky splitting open as I fall, spiralling, my bones cracking like lightning on impact.
The slipway flashes in my mind as a dull ache throbs in my foot.
I force myself to keep reading, but my chest is tight, the words strained as air becomes scarce.
Brandon’s hand touches my arm gently. “Shall we stop for the day?”
I glance at him. His expression is creased with worry, his eyes steady and kind.
I don’t want to shrink from this, and I know he doesn’t expect me to. The slipway shook me, but I don’t want to turn it into another shadow I carry around. I have to let it go.
Maybe that’s why the melody to Goodbye Shadow keeps looping in my head.
I smile and shake my head. “No. Let’s finish this chapter.”
And I do.
“A darker chapter,” Brandon remarks, before adding dryly, “Gilderoy Lockhart’s lovely.”