I’m already wheelchair-bound. I don’t know how much more complicated it would be for me to break out of here.
The doctor enters the room, and he’s the same old man I’ve been seeing throughout the last few weeks. He’s tall and somewhat skinny in a ghoulish kind of way, towering over me before he bends down to assess me.
“Good morning, River. How have you been feeling?” he asks, reaching his hand out to me.
I shake his hand awkwardly. “I’ve been alright, still a bit dizzy. But I can move my leg a little bit,” I say, demonstrating by kicking my leg out slightly. I’m sure it’s nearly invisible to anybody who hasn’t had to live in this body, but I know it’s happening. I know it’s real, and I’m going to get better.
“Wow, looks like you’ve been making very impressive progress with the physical therapist,” he replies, completely writing off my effort.
I hate how much credit the therapist has been getting for my recovery. Sure, he’s the one giving me the exercises to do, but I’m the one who has to actuallydo them.They’re awkward and painful at times, and I wish someone would acknowledge that.
There’s a lull in conversation for a moment, and the doctor glances at me questioningly. “Adas, would you be able to speak with me privately outside the room?”
I watch Adas’s reaction, assuming he’d want to stay in the room with me and have an open conversation about whatever the doctor had to say.
Instead, he rises from his chair and walks with the doctor.
Seeing my doctor and my husband leave the room to have a conversation about me makes me feel like a child. It twists my stomach around like a ball of worms. How bad could it really be? I’m already paralyzed from the waist down. I survived the head injury. Why the secrets?
I sit by myself in my chair, tempted to wheel it over to the door and listen in on whatever they’re talking about. I have a right to know!
Instead, I roll over to the window, gazing out over the view of the courtyard that has served as my only real escape from my reality.
Jesus, do I hear myself?
I might not be able to walk, but I have arguably one of the best lives I possibly could have despite it all. I live in a mansion with a husband who insists on caring for me even when I don’t need it. I live on this beautiful property with all of my medical equipment, whereas someone less fortunate than me would still be in the hospital, isolated from everything they know and love.
Despite reminding myself of all of the amazing things I have, I still feel strange and insecure about how secretive Adas and my doctor are being. I try to listen in, but I can’t hear anything. The walls in this house are thick slabs of unforgiving concrete.
About ten minutes later, Adas returns with the doctor as if nothing ever happened, like they were chatting about sports or beer. He returns to my side as the doctor continues to examine me, scrawling my vitals into a notebook and telling me how well I’m doing like I’m getting his first haircut.
Finally, the doctor leaves, and I turn excitedly to Adas. “Hey, can we go out tonight? Or even tomorrow night? Being stuck in the house all day is going to make me crazy.”
He glances at me with mild annoyance. “No, you know why that can’t happen,” he replies, letting go of my hand that he had been so carefully stroking before.
I narrow my eyes in equal annoyance and confusion. “What do you mean? I’m almost completely used to being in my chair. I can do everything for myself except for climbing into a car, I think.”
“No, no. You keep forgetting that there’s a war raging between twobratvafamilies, and your status as my wife makes you a prime target. If someone were to come after you, you’d be dead in the water in your condition,” he explains as if he’s had this conversation with me a hundred times before.
I sit up straighter. “I just don’t understand why that means that we can’t go somewhere far away from here. It doesn’t have to be right in town. Clearly, we can afford it,” I reply, motioning to all of the ridiculously expensive items in my bedroom – a large and intricate oil painting that’s probably centuries old, a mirror encrusted with real diamonds.
Yeah, we can afford it.
“You’re not understanding,” Adas replies with a distinctly paternal tone. “These people will stop at nothing to bring us down. There’s a chance they’ve already been casing the house, so they know you’re here, and they know your condition. The answer is no.”
I absolutely hate when he talks down to me like that.
“There has to be something else, another reason. You’re going to let those guys keep you shut inside your house?” I ask defensively.
He stands up to leave the room. “Not me, you. I can take care of myself. As much as you want to believe you can, too, you’re not capable. There are other reasons as well.”
A silence comes between us.
“What else?” I demand.
He turns away from me for a moment, sighing heavily. “You don’t fully recognize me as your husband yet. I’m not sure that you do at all, actually. You wouldn’t trust me if a situation were to arise. Ineedyou to trust me.”
“What do you mean I don’t trust you? You’re the only person in the world I feel like I can fully trust,” I reply, growing frustrated by how stubborn he’s being. “How can I not trust you?”