Сандра Браун: Adam's Fall

Adam fumed while she, with Pete's assistance, set up the trapeze and two pulleys behind his bed. "That'll do for now," Lilah said, stepping back to review their handiwork. "We won't need the other stuff until later, so just leave it downstairs for the time being. Thanks, Pete." She kissed his balding pate. "You can close the door on your way out."

"You've gone to a lot of trouble for nothing," Adam said after Pete had withdrawn.

"I know guys who would dearly love to have a trapeze installed over their beds." Far from smiling, he glowered more intensely. Lilah sighed. "So much for levity. By using this trapeze, you can shift your weight and relieve pressure off any one spot. Unless you've grown fond of those bedsores." She smiled teasingly, but his face remained stony. "And anytime you want, you can exercise your upper torso and arms with the pulleys. That'll accomplish two things. It'll exercise you so you'll get tired and sleep better, and it'll give you an appetite. If you get bored with the pulleys, I can bring you some dumbbells."

"Which is what you must think I am. A dumbbell. I won't bother myself with this. It's futile. I just want to — "

"Pout. Feel sorry for yourself. Sulk. Wallow in self-pity because you've finally found something that money can't buy."

"Yes!" he hissed. "And why not?" Angrily he gestured down at his motionless legs beneath the sheet. "Look at me."

"I was about to," Lilah said calmly. Before he was prepared for it, she whipped back the sheet.

Adam sucked in a startled breath. So did Lilah, though she managed to hide it. She'd seen bodies by the hundreds in every shape, size, and condition. She'd never seen one this well made. It was proportioned like Michelangelo's David . But much more virile. And tanned. And garnished with soft, dark body hair that she wanted to test for softness.

It was obvious that he'd missed several days' meals. His ribs were individually delineated. It was obvious that before his accident he had been athletically active. The muscles of his thighs and calves were well defined. It was also obvious that he could satiate even the most demanding woman.

"Very nice," Lilah said with a studied air of indifference. "I can see why you're upset that such nice muscles are no longer working for you." She draped a white gym towel over his lower abdomen. "Let's get started."

"Doing what?"

"What the other three therapists tried to do before you scared them off. I'm going to take each joint through a passive exercise, rotating each one to the extent of its range."

"You're right. They all did that. It's a waste of time."

"My time. Hardly wasted because I'm being paid so well for it. And you haven't got anything else to do. So you might as well lie back and keep your mouth shut."

He summed up in two terse gutter words what he'd like to happen to her. She frowned down at him. "You're in no shape to do that either. Sorry. You're missing a real treat. And I'm afraid that once you're capable of it, you won't want me. If you think you hate me now, wait until we get to PNF."

"What the hell is that?"

"Physioneurologic facilitation."

His eyes sparked with dark fire. "That sounds dirty."

"It's nothing to look forward to, believe me. But for right now, passive exercise will do. Tonight, we'll keep you on the bed. But tomorrow morning, we'll start standing exercises and then moving you to the mat table."

"Standing exercises?"

"On the tilt table. I know you're already familiar with it, so don't pull a dumb act on me."

"I hate that damn thing."

"It's not much fun, I'll grant you that. But you don't want your blood to pool, do you? Besides, standing aids in urinary drainage. I'd hate for you to have to go back to a catheter because while you're supine that can cause infection, stone formation, and vesicourethral reflux."

"Can we talk about something else?" he asked, his face turning pale.

"Sure. What do you want to talk about?"

"Nothing."

Standing beside the bed, Lilah took his right foot between her hands and began rotating the stiff ball joint. "How often has Pete been turning you?"

"He hasn't."

"You wouldn't let him."

"That's right. It's humiliating."

"You're supposed to be turned every two hours."

"Yeah, yeah."

"No wonder you've got bedsores on your backside. What good are you doing yourself if you won't let people help you?"

"I'm used to helping myself."

"A self-reliant, macho man."

"What's wrong with that?"

"Under the circumstances it's a stupid, counterproductive attitude to take. But," she rushed on when she saw he was about to take issue, "if you want to be self-reliant, then you can learn to turn yourself in bed." Seeing that she had his interest, she explained, "That's where the trapeze will come in handy. If you're self-conscious about using it, I suggest you practice when no one is around. Feel anything?"

"No."

She moved around the end of the bed and took his other foot between her hands. "Want to talk about it?"

"What?"

"The accident."

"No."

"I'm sorry about your friends."

"So am I," he said quietly, closing his eyes. "But maybe they're better off than I am."

"What a stupid thing to say. Do you honestly think that you'd be better off dead?"

"Yes," he said bitingly. "Better that than being a useless lump for the rest of my life."

"Who says you will be? Your spinal cord wasn't severed. I know people who've had theirs severed and they're far from useless. They're productive human beings with jobs and families. It's all in the attitude you take."

"Does this lecture cost extra?"

"No, it's thrown in for the stupid, for the ignorant, for those with bad attitudes. Your prognosis for a full recovery is very good, though it might be a long time in coming."

"But not guaranteed."

She tilted her head to one side and eyed him knowledgeably. "None of us is guaranteed tomorrow, Cavanaugh. Besides, from what Elizabeth tells me, you're a gambler. Not only do you relish taking life-threatening risks like mountain climbing, but business risks as well. Didn't you, against the advice of your board, recently buy out a floundering chain of hotels in the Northwest? And hasn't that chain turned itself around?"

"Luck."

"Don't you feel lucky anymore?"

"Would you?" he challenged.

"Yeah. Lucky I wasn't renting space in a coffin."

He cursed lavishly and turned his head away. "How much longer is this going to take?"

"Could be weeks. Months maybe."

"I mean this. This … what you're doing now."

"An hour."

"Damn."

"Does it hurt?"

"No. I wish it did."

"So do I, Adam."

His head snapped around and he shot her a hard look. "Don't you dare pity me."

"Pity?" she said, laughing shortly. "I wouldn't think of it. You've got enough self-pity. You're oozing the stuff. You sure as hell don't need mine."

Methodically she went through the regimen. His mind seemed detached from his body. He had no connection with it. What hadn't been shut off by his accident, he had shut off deliberately. Most of the time he kept his eyes closed and his head averted, taking no interest in what she was doing. When he looked at her, it was with unmitigated hostility.

"That's enough for tonight," she said at last. "There is some constriction, especially in the lower extremities, but that's because they've been neglected since you heft the hospital and is not a result of your accident."

"Thank you, Marcus Welby. Now, will you get your tush out of here and leave me in peace?"

"Sure. I'm exhausted."

"Take all that junk with you." He nodded toward the metal trolley Pete had rolled in earlier.

"What, that?" Lilah asked innocently. "That stays. We'll need it tomorrow."