Oh, goody.
I groaned as she sat on the edge of my bed, jostling me around. A laptop got flopped into my lap, and right there on the screen was the face of my father. Stoic. Cold. Still as stone. And I saw him analyzing me even from his laptop. Even though he’d overshot the video conference by an entire day, hey. At least he was calling, right?
“How’s he feeling?” he asked.
I sighed. “He’s feeling fine, Dad.”
“Cece said you had physical therapy today. How’d that go?”
I shrugged. “My neck’s out of that brace, so that’s nice. Still hurts to move, though.”
“Guess that’s what happens when you throw yourself off a ravine.”
I fluttered my eyes over to Cecilia, and she urged me to keep going with a nod of her head. I didn’t want to do this. I didn’t want to talk with my father. But it seemed like it made her happy. And out of all the people who had been the most supportive of me through this trying time, she’d been one of them.
So, why not make her happy?
“Yeah, well. I’ll try not to do that next time.”
Dad nodded. “What did they have you do in physical therapy?”
I licked my chapped lips. “Uh, some stretches with my back. Trying to get these vertebrae to straighten out on their own. Some leg work. Not really arm work, since my collarbone has to heal first.”
“Can you see out of your eyes?”
“Yep. I can see your disapproving stare just fine.”
Cecilia sighed. “Clint.”
Dad’s face fell. “Well, if you weren’t always doing such disappointing things, there would be no need for the disapproving stare.”
“Howard!”
I shook my head. “He’s fine. It’s whatever.”
I felt myself still sweating from the physical therapy. And holy shit, that’d been rough. Walking around made me bust a sweat. But with all those exercises I felt like I was a young child again, relearning how to do everything. Moving my legs took effort. Propping myself up took time. I bent my back every which way, flexing my muscles like I hadn’t moved them in years.
My body was damaged. My soul, weak. And I had a very long road of recovery ahead of me.
Cecilia cleared her throat. “Well, they said his first try at physical therapy went really well. They even gave him a few back stretches most people coming out of something like this can’t even attempt. They think he’s going to do really well.”
Dad grunted. “How many weeks of physical therapy are we talking about?”
I mouthed to my stepmother, “He wants to know the money.”
Cecilia shook me off. “They say six to eight weeks. Then, a re-evaluation to see if he needs another course of it.”
Dad sighed. “Great. I’ll get started on finding a home nurse or something. Which’ll cost me an arm and a leg.”
“Howard.”
I shot Cecilia an ‘I told you so’ kind of look. For my father, it was all about money. How much I cost him. How much he spent on me. How much it took to apologize. What he had to dip into in order to cover the cost of something I’d done. I had no idea how to speak with my father. Well, scratch that. I knew exactly how to talk to my father. I just didn’t care to. This entire time, all I’d wanted was for my father to come home and take care of me. Come home and visit. Field the doctors since he knew the bulk of my medical history.
But, now? Even just this video conference changed my mind.
He could stay wherever the hell he was for all I cared.
Cecilia whispered. “Howard, be kinder to your son. He’s laid up in a hospital and you’re nowhere to be found. I’ll shut this laptop if you don’t.”