Gillian helped Luka from the wheelchair into bed. "Tired?"
"A little," Luka said, then smiled faintly. "Exhausted." He couldn't help remembering his words to Abby, just five days before. "I'm looking forward to it, I need to start getting my strength back." Physical therapy, the simplest of exercises, was proving exhausting beyond belief. But he knew too that he had been right. Exercise was the only way he was going to get his strength back, and it would get easier. Every day the therapist would expect a little more from him, and every day he would be able to do a little more, get a little bit stronger. And soon he would walk again, first with a walker, then with crutches, then with a single crutch or cane, and then, on his own.
Angelique had told him, back in Kisangani (God ... it felt like a lifetime ago ...) that he would probably have better function, and almost certainly less pain in the long term, with amputation and a prosthesis. Allenson had concurred, encouraged him to consider it. But he couldn't. He had faced everything - risked everything to keep it. Fought death and won. Did they really think he could give up his leg now?
So his right leg was still there, splinted and bandaged from ankle to hip. Still no cast, the open wounds, just days past life-threatening infection had to heal a bit more before they could be safely encased in plaster and fiberglass, cut off from the air. But there were plenty of pins in the bone, Allenson wouldn't tell him how many; just laughed and told him that he'd set off the metal detectors every time he came to work. Allenson had been optimistic after surgery. It had gone well, far better than he'd expected. There was no evidence of infection in the muscle any more, and very little left in the bone. With time it would heal, and with time and lots of physical therapy, he would eventually walk with comparatively little pain and loss of function. His leg would never be pretty again, but it would work.
The room was filled with flowers and small gifts. Luka had been amazed by the outpouring of warmth that had greeted his return. All the people he'd thought hadn't cared, hadn't thought about him at all - the people whom he, he had to admit, had hardly thought about. They had sent flowers and gifts, and had come to visit in droves. The flowers he appreciated. They brightened the room - the interior decor here, while better than the bare white room in Kisangani, left much to be desired.
The visits were harder. Luka knew that everyone meant well, he knew he should be appreciative. But, along with the exhaustion of having to smile for the steady stream of visitors, it was, bluntly, awkward. Once they got past the requisite greetings and "glad to have you home's" ... there was, simply, nothing to say. Even the people with whom he'd usually been able to make easy small talk in the past; Susan and Jing Mei and Jerry ... and yes, even Abby, soon found their conversation exhausted once "You're looking great, Luka" and "Can't wait to see you back at work again, Dr. Kovač," had passed their lips. There was simply nothing else to say. He knew that they were wondering, wanting to ask about the scars, the still visible bruises, the bandages, the way his breath still caught with every intake of air. And about the look in his eyes, the look that still haunted him every time he looked in the mirror. Their cheerful words aside, he knew all too well that he was not 'looking great.' But of course they wouldn't ask, and he wasn't going to talk about it. Nobody ever had to know. He was home now ... he could leave that part of his life behind him. While he was grateful that nobody did ask, it did leave them with precious little to talk about.
It was 4 o:clock. No more PT until tomorrow. He could nap for a couple of hours. He needed a nap. Then it would be dinner time, and then the visitors would come, and a few hours of awkward conversation, until time for evening meds, and bed. And the nightmares would come again. Tomorrow it would all start again; bringing him one more day closer to going home for real, one day closer to walking, one day closer to ... maybe ... being able to escape the nightmares, and really leave it all behind. Though he was, in truth, becoming used to the nightmares. Just as he had almost become used to the pain when it was really happening; the re-experiencing of the horrors, night after night, day after day, had become simply a part of his reality. He had no real expectation of being able to escape them. Memories of agony, of terror, of hopeless prayers ... of hands and bodies ... they were just part of his life now.
Gillian glanced at her watch. "I'm going to get a cup of coffee. I'll be back in a little while. Need anything?"
"No, I'm fine. I'll try to sleep or maybe look at the paper."
"Sounds good." Gillian kissed him ... still not seeing the way it made him tense, and went out.
Luka flipped through the paper. His concentration was improving, but he still couldn't read anything very heavy. The funny pages were the only part that interested him. Certainly not the depressing headlines. Maybe he should ask Gillian to bring him the Sun-Times tomorrow, rather than the Trib. Or maybe he'd just sleep.
A tap on the door. Dr. DeRaad.
"Hi, Luka."
"Carl."
"How are you doing?"
"Been better." Luka almost sighed. The standard routine anymore. Might as well be scripted. "But I'm getting there." And a long, awkward silence, as Carl pulled the chair up to the bed and sat down. "This isn't a social visit, right?"
"Right." Another long silence. Luka smoothed the blanket nervously. He'd known this was coming. "Luka, I'm not going to tell you that this is going to be easy. It's not. But it's part of getting well, along with surgery, and physical therapy. Those aren't easy either."
"I just ... can't see how talking about it is going to make a difference. It happened. It's over. Talking won't change that." Angelique had told him that talking would help, would make him feel better. It hadn't happened. There had only been the agony of saying the words, and then even more pain.
"I've been a psychiatrist for a lot of years. I still don't really know why talking helps, but I've seen it often enough to be able to say for certain that it does. Maybe not right away, but in time."
"So ... maybe it was just the time that did it."
Carl didn't answer for minute. "Luka, if you aren't comfortable talking to me, we can arrange for someone else. Any of the other psychiatrists on staff, or someone from the outside. There are some excellent specialists around, or if you'd rather talk to your priest, I'd be happy to call him, set up a meeting schedule for you. But it does have to be someone." A pause. "I don't have a lot of details about what you experienced, but I know enough to be able to tell you, bluntly, that without therapy, without some pretty intensive counseling, you are not going to get past it."
"Maybe I'm tougher than you think."
"Maybe ... though if you're that tough, you shouldn't be so afraid to talk about it." Luka wasn't looking at Carl, but he could feel his eyes on him - feel him watching him. And Luka felt himself tense, felt his own breathing quicken - then fought back the reaction. Carl was trying to get a reaction from him. He was pushing him. No ... Luka told himself firmly. He wasn't going to play. He concentrated on slowing his breathing; forced his muscles to relax, one at a time.
It felt like a very long time had passed. Carl hadn't said anything more. Luka took a deep, steadying breath, biting back a wince at the pain it still sent through his chest. "I'm just not ready. Maybe soon ... maybe in a few weeks ... I don't know. But not yet."
"All right." Carl sighed, and looked at his watch. "Well, you're on my schedule for the next 50 minutes yet, and for 55 minutes every day for the next couple of weeks, or as long as you're here. And, unless my name is replaced on your schedule with someone else, I'm going to be here. So ... what would you like to talk about?"
Luka picked up the paper, made a show of flipping through it. "How're the Cubs doing this season?"
"You follow baseball?"
"No, not really."
"Me neither, and definitely not the Cubs. I've never been one for hopeless causes."
'Then you may as well leave now,' Luka thought bitterly. 'I'm as hopeless a cause as you're going to find.' But he managed a faint smile at Carl's feeble joke.
For the next 49 minutes Luka endured the excruciating small-talk. He knew what Carl was doing, of course. Making him believe that anything, even talking about the hell-on-earth that had been Matenda would be better than endless, numbing chitchat about sports and local politics. But Luka wasn't going to let him win. So he kept up his side of the conversation until, at last Carl looked at his watch again, for the 25th time and, thankfully, rose.
"Ok. I'll see you tomorrow, Luka. Think about what I said. If there is anyone else you'd rather talk to, I'm happy to arrange it. I just want to see you better, and I know, and you know, that you won't get better on your own."
"I'll think about it."
