Chapter 23: Both Hands

I flew back to Portland on the first flight Tuesday and went straight from the airport to the clinic.

The long green hallway was empty except for the three of us.

Mom stood at one end with no cane, no walker, and no hand on the rail.

Nathan stood at the other end with his arms folded and a stopwatch he wasn't looking at.

"To the end of the hall," he said. "Then you turn, and you do it back."

"I know how a hallway works."

"Humor me."

I leaned on the wall beside the water fountain and kept my hands to myself.

Mom lifted her chin.

She walked.

Her left foot came down heavy and her right foot followed. At first she swayed, but quickly steadied.

On the twelfth she smiled, and I had not seen that smile on her face since before the fall.

She reached the end.

Nathan didn't touch her.

"Turn," he said.

She turned.

"Now back."

She came back down the hallway to me, one step at a time, with her jaw set and her eyes wet.

When she reached the fountain she put her palm flat on my cheek.

"Well," she said. "That's done."

I couldn't say anything.

"You can cry, you know," she said.

"I'm not crying."

"You're doing something with your face."

Nathan came up beside us.

"Mrs. Larkin," he said. "That's discharge."

"What?"

"The doctor signs off Friday. After that you do home exercises and see me once a month if you want to complain in person."

Mom looked at him for a long moment.

"You'll be doing the complaining," she said. "I'm just going to be right."

She turned to me.

"I'm sleeping at a friend's tonight. The woman from the church bus. She has a spare room and a very loud television."

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