Chapter 2

2: 2

2

In the video, Rita Henson held Elmer, newborn, so careful she hardly dared move her arms.

When they wheeled me out of the operating room, the only thing beside me was an empty chair for family.

After the anesthesia wore off, the pain kept me awake all night.

The family of the patient in the next bed couldn't stand to watch, and poured me a cup of hot water.

She asked me, "When is your wife coming?"

I kept my eyes on the door and lied to myself, over and over.

"Soon."

But morning came, and no one did.

The screen kept playing.

Rita Henson was in every clip.

Changing the baby's diaper, holding him while he nursed.

When Elmer ran a fever, she sat by his bed all night without sleeping.

For four years, every time the child needed her, she was there.

Then came the clip of Elmer learning to walk for the first time.

Rita Henson crouched on the soft carpet and opened her arms to him.

"Elmer, don't be scared."

"Mommy's got you."

The boy tottered toward her.

He'd taken barely two steps before he pitched forward.

Rita Henson caught him at once and swept him up high.

Laughter went around the private room.

My mother pointed at the screen, wistful.

"Elmer was such a timid little thing back then. He wouldn't take a step unless he could see his mom."

But I was staring at the date in the bottom corner of the screen.

That same day was the first time I did rehab without my crutches.

The doctor told me to walk the whole length of the hallway on my own.

I took one step and went down hard.

My knee split open, and my palms scraped raw.

I braced against the wall and pushed myself up, again and again, and fell again and again.

Halfway down, I couldn't hold on any longer, and with a shaking voice I called Rita Henson.

"Can you come and be with me? It hurts so much. I really can't walk anymore."

Rita Henson was silent for a few seconds, but her voice was full of impatience.

"Max, the whole point of rehab is to teach you to be independent."

"I can't be at your side forever to catch you."

"Stop leaning on other people all the time."

The line went dead.

In the end, I gripped the wall and walked out of the hospital alone.

Every step was like stepping on knives.

And at that very same time.

Rita Henson was crouched in front of another child, telling him gently,

"Don't be scared. Mommy will always catch you."

The pain in my left leg grew sharper and sharper.

I couldn't stay on my feet, and slowly sank down against the wall.

The ribbon of the gift box cut into my palm and left a thin line of blood.

The light from the private room spilled through the crack in the door and stopped right at my feet.

So close.

And still it never reached me.