The Chair

The servants had opened the twin glass doors which led to the balcony so that the cool morning air could freshen the staleness of the room and had placed the table just inside. They had covered the surface with a starched white linen cloth and put matching napkins, folded in the shapes of flowers by the brightly glazed china that marked the place settings. A carefully polished tea service was at the lady's position and a rack held slices of breakfast bread toasted a golden brown. She lifted the pot and with a graceful bend of the wrist poured the steaming brew into his cup and placed it in front of him before pouring her own.

They had sat down for breakfast together in the common room, he dressed for the day and she still in the informality of her morning gown – its color reflecting that of her eyes, and were just taking the first sips of their tea when he made a sudden jolting move and uttered a truncated cry. She looked up questioningly.

"What's ...?" She broke off her query at the sight of his face. He was as white as the napkin that lay crumpled under his black-gloved left hand. His eyes focused past her, staring deeply into some unknowable distance. From his tightened lips to the right hand pressed flat against the table surface, he was tensed as though to resist some approaching attack or to brace for an unavoidable blow. Before she could reach to touch him, he shoved away from the table and, gripping the cane which had been propped against his left leg, stood shakily.

"Please excuse me." He turned and made his way toward the door of his bedroom, moving like an imperfect automaton.

She watched the door close behind him and heard the snick of the lock before she could gather herself to move. There was another entrance through the dressing room and she, without hesitation, took that path, softly turning the knob as she entered.

He was sitting in the chair between the bed and the window, bent forward, his hands clutching the armrests with whitened knuckles, the cane on the floor at his feet. He was looking at nothing, his pupils dilated until his eyes were as dark as his hair, his attention focused fiercely inward and his body as still as he could hold it as though he was being very careful not to jar anything or upset a most precarious balance. The curtains were closed and, squinting in the dim light, she could see his face was smooth ivory with no sign of the inner battle he must be waging to maintain that mask of serenity.

He saw her out of the edge of his eye and without moving even his lips more than was necessary hissed softly, "Get out!"

"No. I won't go. I'm going to take care of you." She knelt by the chair, placing a hand on his right thigh.

He did not seem to notice, his full attention riveted on maintaining his self-discipline in the midst of the tsunami of pain which inundated his senses and on resisting the impulse to fall to the floor, howling in agony. She could feel the constant small tremor in the muscles as he fought to hold himself quiet .

"My love, let it go. You don't have to hold so tight. You don't have to prove anything. Scream if you need to." She gripped his clenched fist with her other hand. "You don't have to keep it in."

"Yes. I do," his voice was harsh and broken. "I will." He dropped his head lower and tried to even his ragged breathing. The intensity of his concentration was palpable. He seemed to have somehow grown smaller, shrunken, with tension drawing his body into distorted shapes and lines.

The two remained locked in their positions until finally, she perceived a minute thawing in the hand and thigh frozen beneath her hands. He started to to pull himself up, letting his head fall against the high back of the chair, his eyes closing and his breath coming less roughly.

She rose to her feet, hurrying to dampen a cloth with which to wipe his face and hand. She did not speak but let her touch do the comforting as she caressed him with light strokes, wary of abrading his already lacerated nerves. Twice more she returned to the basin to refresh the cloth, continuing to pat his forehead and throat as he slumped unmoving in the chair, numbly accepting her attentions.

"It's easing," he murmured almost too softly to be heard. He slowly began to shift the fingers that had gripped the armrest of the chair, flinching as he forced the cramped muscles to move. "It's better now; I have control again. Don't be disturbed. This is what I was telling you about last night. It comes without warning and I haven't yet learned how to defend against it. But I will."

She continued her ministrations, wiping each finger separately and tenderly with the moist cloth. He did not resist, but lay loosely in the chair, exhausted from the struggle. His legs sprawled out before him like the extremities of an abandoned puppet. He had released his rigid control of his body and was now centered on the barriers he was repairing in his mind.

"I'm losing my skills; I used to be able to hold onto the physical and the mental at the same time. Maybe I'm getting too old for this sort of exercise." It was a somewhat feeble attempt at a joke.

"Nonsense, love. Have you spoken to the Healers about this? It can't be the normal thing to have happening." She rocked back on her heels, still holding his hand. When he tugged it away, she stood and held out her arm to serve as his support.

"When has anything having to do with me been normal? No, I haven't told them anything about this; it's just lately become a serious problem." He pushed himself up from the chair and took his cane in hand. "I'm all right now and I'm going on down to the second floor. I must get this leg functioning better if I'm ever to get even close to what I was. I'm extremely sorry you had to be a witness to this. I'll try not to subject you to this sort of thing in the future."

Sinking down in the chair which continued to hold his warmth, she pressed the still moist cloth to her own mouth as she watched him make his way to the lift, the awkwardly dragging prosthetic leg making a scraping sound on the floor.

10/22/04 3