LITMIR.BIZ

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territory.” Val put down the file and motioned Marc through the wide doorway into the workout room. “Come into my parlor. I’ll give you something to complain about.”

      Val was also the only person he allowed to help him move around. With her assistance he transferred to a narrow, padded massage table and lay on his back, hands gripping the sides against the inevitable pain.

      “Are you experiencing much cramping?” she asked, raising his straight leg and stretching out the hamstring.

      “Occasionally at night I get muscle spasms right down my legs.” He grunted as she bent his leg at the knee and pushed it into his chest. “How come the nerves work enough to make me feel pain but not to walk?”

      “There are a lot of theories but no definitive answers,” she told him. “When the spinal cord is injured, nerve messages get mixed up. Soft muscle tissue is bombarded by stray electrical impulses which can be experienced as pain. Or, you could be feeling referred pain from an injury or sickness somewhere else in your body. You need to do something about those hands, by the way. Leather gloves are essential if you’re going to be active.” She manipulated his ankle and then his knee to keep the joints mobile. “Any burning or tingling sensations in your legs? Pins and needles?”

      Marc thought for a moment. “Yeah, once in a while. It’s a pain. No pun intended.”

      Val let his leg down and picked up the other one. “That could be good. Pins and needles are often an indication of nerve function returning. Not always, though.”

      “When can I expect to recover nerve function?” Marc asked, ignoring her caution.

      Val shrugged. “Spinal-cord injuries are individual and unpredictable. It could be weeks, or months, but Marc, you’ve got to be realistic—you may never get function back in your legs.”

      Marc didn’t reply. He simply couldn’t accept what she was saying. Only at night, when his defenses were low did he fully acknowledge the reality of his situation.

      Val finished stretching and manipulating his other leg and came around the table to position his chair where he could get into it. “Time for the race.”

      “Talk about a misnomer,” Marc grumbled as he shed his tracksuit jacket.

      Attempting to move his legs while supporting himself inside the “race” or parallel bars was the most frustrating exercise of all, highlighting as it did his inability to control his body in ways he’d always taken for granted.

      “Put some weight on those legs,” Val barked as she walked slowly along beside him, monitoring his progress. “The nerves in your lower limbs need feedback about what’s happening. Don’t let your arms do all the work.”

      Marc clamped his jaw down hard to bite off a sarcastic retort. If he could get his legs to help out, didn’t she think he would? No matter how hard he concentrated all his will on making his legs move he ended up dragging them along. He felt like a marionette who’d had the strings controlling his feet cut for the amusement of a cruel puppet master. If this was a cosmic practical joke, he didn’t find it very funny.

      Despite the pain and frustration he forced himself to think about his goal. Normal life. Work and travel. No one feeling sorry for him. Ever. By the time Val suggested he quit for the day, sweat was pouring off his forehead and trickling down his back, soaking his T-shirt. Marc insisted on doing another four lengths before he collapsed, arms sagging against the bars while he waited for her to bring his chair over.

      He got back on the massage table, stomach down. Marc gazed through the face hole in the padded table at the stain on the gray indoor-outdoor carpet immediately below. Sweat? Blood? Tears? Maybe all three.

      Val squirted peppermint-scented oil onto her hands and began kneading his calf muscles. At least he assumed that’s what she was doing; he couldn’t feel a thing.

      “Do you know a woman here in town called Fiona?” he asked, thinking to do a bit of journalistic probing into her background.

      “Fiona Gordon? Not personally. I moved here only a few months ago. Her friend Liz, who owns the yarn shop, has a daughter in the same kindergarten class as my boy, Andy. Why do you ask—because of her brother, Jason?”

      “I didn’t know she had a brother.” Nor did he particularly care. “What’s she like?”

      “She’s nice. Had a tough go of it when her parents died and she was left to care for Jason who was still in primary school. From what Liz tells me she’s a sucker for animals and kids.” Val moved to the other side of the table and her voice became teasing. “Why, are you interested in her?”

      Marc maintained a neutral tone. “I hang out at the pub where she works as a barmaid. She tried to get me to adopt an abandoned puppy. I told her no, of course.”

      Val paused to apply more massage lotion. Marc heard it squirt from the bottle and imagined he could feel the cool liquid splash onto the back of his thigh.

      “A puppy would be just the thing for you,” Val said. “Why don’t you go for it?”

      “I haven’t got time for a dog. Once you whip me into shape my producer wants me back on the beat.”

      “Marc,” Val said, a warning in her voice.

      “Val,” Marc warned her right back. The last thing he wanted was another lecture.

      “Okay, okay. Just don’t go buying season tickets for the ski lift.”

      “Does she have a boyfriend?”

      “Fiona? Not that I know of.”

      Val finished the massage, gave him a shot of cortisone next to his spinal cord and sent him back to the front desk to get Cindy to make him an appointment for hydrotherapy at the Meadow Park Sports Centre.

      It was only later, after Jim had taken time out of his lunch break to pick Marc up and drive him back to the house that Marc remembered he hadn’t asked Val to put Fiona’s notice in the window. He pulled the folded sheet from his breast pocket and started to toss it into the recycling bin. He hesitated a moment and for no reason he could think of, tucked it back into his pocket.

      Then, ignoring the golden autumn sunshine pouring onto the backyard patio, he wheeled into his room, drew the curtains and shut the door. His energy had drained away and he was left feeling exhausted and depressed. Immobility was easier to handle without the beckoning mountains in sight.

      Perversely, he shut his eyes and relived in minute-by-minute detail the last rock climb he’d done on Stawamus Chief with Nate and Aidan two months ago, before he’d left for the Middle East and his date with destiny. With his near-photographic memory he could visualize every detail. He’d just handjammed an exposed corner crack and was heading up a small chimney when Fiona’s trite phrase popped into his mind.

      Everything happens for a reason.

      Logically, that would include hanging on to her notice about the dog. Had he done that because he was actually considering adopting the pet? Taking on the scrawny mutt seemed somehow like admitting he was as pitiful and needy as the dog.

      Or had he kept the notice because he wanted Fiona’s phone number? That, he dismissed immediately. There was no point in even thinking about Fiona; as long as he was in this wheelchair he had nothing to offer a woman.

      So why did he have this maddening urge to prove he did? He couldn’t make love. His future was uncertain. He was a miserable son of a bitch to be around. Even he didn’t like himself these days.

      He’d mulled this over for a full five minutes before a crow cawing loudly in the pine tree outside his window snapped him out of his melancholic brooding. Fiona was right; he did have too much time to think.

      But what else did he have to do? At first he’d watched CNN compulsively until he couldn’t stand it anymore because it reminded him too much of the life he’d lost. The radio was full of sappy love songs. He got bored surfing the Internet. Books weren’t the answer; he’d

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