Chapter 5: Feeling

"My husband told me," I said.

"Did he say it in front of a doctor?"

"He said it in the car on the way home from the hospital."

The therapist wrote something on her clipboard and did not look pleased.

"Let's find out," she said. "Can you get onto the table?"

I transferred myself over, arms shaking, and sat with my legs stretched out in front of me.

Knox stood in the doorway.

"I'll wait outside," he said.

"Stay," the therapist said. "I need a second pair of hands, and she needs someone who isn't me."

He looked at me.

I did not tell him to go.

He came in and stood at the foot of the table, with his jacket off and his sleeves pushed up.

The therapist pressed her thumb into the top of my left thigh.

"Tell me when you feel something."

"Nothing."

She moved lower, near the knee.

"Nothing."

She held my calf in both hands and pressed hard, right into the muscle.

I started to say nothing.

Then something went through my leg, deep and dull and far away.

It was pressure, and it was mine.

I stopped talking.

"There," the therapist said. "You felt that."

"I felt that."

"Again?"

She pressed again, and I felt it again.

My voice went to pieces.

"Preston rubs my legs every morning," I said. "He works down from the knee, for ten minutes, and I never feel it."

"He's rubbing the skin." She said it gently. "He isn't pressing into the muscle."

I put my hand over my mouth.

Six months of mornings, with his head bent, rubbing the surface of a leg he had already decided would never feel it.

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