Chapter 3 - THE SISTER HE COULDN'T SAVE
Massimo didn't speak about Sofia again for four days.
I didn't push him.
Instead, we worked.
Morning assessments.
Transfer practice.
Upper-body conditioning.
Supported standing trials when approved by his medical team.
Pain-management strategies.
Rest periods.
Progress was slow.
Sometimes painfully slow.
Massimo hated that.
On the fifth morning, he threw a towel across the therapy room.
"This is useless."
I looked up.
"What happened?"
He pointed toward his legs.
"Nothing happened."
I checked the notes.
"You tolerated six minutes of supported standing today."
He laughed bitterly.
"Six minutes."
"Four more than last week."
"Congratulations. Put it on a billboard."
I closed the chart.
"Massimo."
He looked away.
"Do you want the truth?"
He turned.
"That's apparently your specialty."
"Your body is recovering from a major neurological injury. Improvement isn't guaranteed, and it isn't linear."
He stared.
I continued.
"But you've made measurable progress."
He shook his head.
"Not enough."
"Enough for what?"
He went silent.
I waited.
Finally, he whispered, "To get my life back."
I sat beside him.
"What part?"
He looked confused.
"What?"
"What part of your life do you miss most?"
He stared at me.
Then laughed without humor.
"Walking."
"Of course. What else?"
He looked toward the window.
For a long time, he said nothing.
Then:
"Cooking."
I blinked.
"Cooking?"
He nodded reluctantly.
"Sofia and I used to cook together on Sundays."
I smiled.
"What did you make?"
"Whatever she demanded."
"Which was?"
He looked down.
"Usually pasta."
A faint smile appeared.
"She couldn't cook to save her life."
I laughed softly.
He continued.
"She'd burn garlic. Overcook everything. Somehow get flour on the ceiling."
His smile faded.
"After she died, I stopped going into the kitchen."
I looked at him.
"Would you like to cook again?"
He stared.
"From a wheelchair?"
"Yes."
He laughed.
"You're serious."
"Completely."
He looked away.
"That kitchen wasn't built for me."
"Then perhaps the kitchen needs changing."
Silence.
He turned toward me.
"You think everything can be fixed."
I shook my head.
"No."
His expression changed.
"I think some things can be adapted. Some can be improved. And some losses have to be grieved."
He looked down.
Then whispered, "I miss her."
I felt my throat tighten.
"I know."
His shoulders began trembling.
He tried to hide it.
I looked away, giving him privacy.
But then he said my name.
"Tessa."
I turned.
His eyes were wet.
"She was twenty-six."
I sat beside him.
He swallowed.
"She was going to open a restaurant."
I nodded.
"She'd been saving for years."
His voice broke.
"And now she's gone."
I didn't tell him everything happened for a reason.
I didn't promise the pain would disappear.
I simply stayed.
After a long silence, he whispered:
"I don't know who I am without her."
I looked at him.
"Then perhaps part of recovery is discovering that."
May you like
He closed his eyes.
And for the first time since I'd arrived, Massimo Pascale allowed himself to cry.
