“Okay.”
“Physical therapy will begin tomorrow.”
I nodded.
Then I asked the question I had been avoiding.
“Will I walk again?”
Dr. Patel paused.
“I think there is a strong possibility.”
My eyes filled.
“But?”
“But I cannot tell you when.”
“Weeks?”
“Possibly.”
“Months?”
“Possibly.”
“Longer?”
“Possible.”
I looked at Hazel.
Then back at her.
“I’ll do whatever it takes.”
“I know.”
The doctor left.
I cried again.
Different tears this time.
Hope hurt too.
PART 6
Three days later, I was transferred to a private rehabilitation suite connected to the hospital.
Hazel remained with me.
That mattered more than anything.
A postpartum nurse helped during therapy sessions.
My sister, Caroline, flew in from Seattle.
She arrived with two suitcases and enough anger to power a city.
She hugged me carefully.
Then she looked at my bruise.
“I’m going to kill Eleanor.”
“No.”
“I’m serious.”
“I know.”
“Maybe just a little.”
“Caroline.”
She sat down.
“Fine.”
Then she looked at Hazel.
Her entire face changed.
“Oh.”
She picked her up.
Hazel yawned.
Caroline started crying.
“She’s perfect.”
“I know.”
Then she looked at me again.
“You should have called me before Sarah.”
“I was busy being blackmailed.”
“That is not funny.”
“It’s a little funny.”
“No.”
