Melanie looked at Juanita’s overloaded Chevy Trail-blazer. She’d filled the SUV with all the items a new couple would need to start a home. Jusef’s brother had brought his big truck and had carted away the bed this morning after Jusef and Juanita had awakened. They’d been kind enough to stay overnight with her.
Melanie stood by Juanita’s side, then hugged her fiercely. Jusef came down the driveway and handed her the keys. The house was locked up and she couldn’t look back.
“I’ve paid the utilities and taxes. You’re going to come by every two weeks to check on the place and make sure nobody bothers it,” Melanie said to Juanita, looking at the ground.
“That’s right, Mrs. Bishop, I mean, Melanie.”
“Here’s my number if you need me. The alarm company has your number. If you want to quit, move, or whatever, please call me.”
“I won’t quit. You paid me a year’s salary in advance. If he comes back, shall I call you?”
“No. Just tell him all the bills have been paid, and he’s officially divorced.”
Melanie climbed into her car, which had been backed down the driveway by Jusef moments ago. He’d turned the Volvo around and positioned it on the cul-de-sac so she wouldn’t have to look at the house as she drove away.
“You are sure?” Juanita asked.
“Stop, Nita,” Jusef cajoled. “She is ready.”
Melanie took a deep breath, then stuck her left hand out the window, and they grasped it and blessed her. She let go first and drove away, tears blurring her eyes, listening to the recording as she drove, “I’m sorry the number you have reached is not in service or has been temporarily disconnected.”
Chapter One
“Rolland, you’re doing great.”
Rolland Jones didn’t doubt for a minute that he was doing better than great. When he’d first arrived at Ryder Rehabilitation and Spinal Center, he couldn’t even sit up without help. Now he was in a mad race to the finish on his stationary bike against Horace, his physical therapist.
Horace perspired like crazy as if they’d been riding for hours, when they’d been on for only twenty-five minutes. Rolland couldn’t help but laugh at the enthusiastic man who never seemed to have a bad day.
“Okay, big Ro,” Horace challenged. “What is a biathalon? Forty-five seconds.”
Rolland’s legs were longer but he stayed at a moderate pace as he’d been taught. “A biathalon is a cross-country skiing and shooting event.”
“Correct.” Horace pumped his arms in the air cheering. He picked up his water bottle and used it as a pretend microphone. “And now for the final two thousand points, and to be crowned the unofficial, unolympic winner of the miniature-size trophy of a chocolate candy bar with peanuts, you must answer this question correctly.”
Rolland was already laughing. “Give me the question.”
“Sir, don’t rush the announcer. Who is the all-time highest scoring male basketball team of the U.S. Olympic Games? Sixty seconds.” He started an offbeat drumroll that spun crazily throughout the workout room to the other patients and therapists.
Shelby, a physical therapist who occasionally worked with Horace, stopped by. “You’re looking good, Rolland,” she said, mischievously.
Rolland had no problem identifying Shelby because of her green eyes and red hair. One of the first things he’d learned with his injury was how to associate people with their eye and hair color.
“Shelby, don’t cheat and help him, or when you need chocolate, I’m not going to help you.”
Shelby’s mouth dropped open in mock hurt. “Are you accusing me of impropriety? I thought Horace and I were friends, right, Rolland?”
“That’s right, Shelby. I’m hurt for you.”
“Shake your head, Rolland,” she told him, and he did.
Horace didn’t buy it for one second. “You two are full of hot rocks. Shelby,” Horace stood pedaling fast, “if you tell him, you’re going to suffer. You know how you get. You’re gonna need some chocolate.”
Rolland laughed. “Give me a hint, Shelby. Come on, my friend. I know where he keeps the candy stashed.”
She pretended to fall asleep, with her hands by her cheek. “I’m so tired. I can’t wait to go home and have sweet—”
“The Dream Team!” Rolland shouted just as Horace hopped off the bike and ran after Shelby who sought refuge behind two large male nurses.
They grinned at Horace who was the most senior therapist because of his candidacy for his Ph.D. But he maintained a sense of humor about himself and made everyone laugh by jumping around, never quite reaching Shelby.
Horace went around the room, harassing other patients by doing a couple squats with Harold, and some legs lifts with Lavenia, and some arm curls with Maven, until their therapists shooed him away.
Rolland mopped his brow while Horace guzzled water. “Four miles, man. I swear, I think you’re trying to kill me.”
“Me?” Horace shook his head. “I’ve lost fifteen pounds since you got here. My wife thinks I’ve got another woman. I keep telling her it’s you.” He chuckled. “She can’t believe I’m losing weight because of a dude.” Horace tried to look disgusted, but lost his frown to a smile. “You’re not even my type.”
“And people think I have the brain injury,” Rolland said, playfully shoving Horace as they headed for the weight room. Everyone applauded as they walked by.
Horace bowed on his way out. “Second show, three o’clock,” he called.
“Do you think I was in shape before the accident?” Rolland asked him when Horace caught up in the state-of-the-art weight room. They passed the therapy tables where Rolland remembered spending many a day getting his knee back to working order.
“Yes. You had good muscle tone when you got here two months ago. You spent a month in that hospital in Las Vegas and that was to heal the fractures and for reconstructive surgery of your knee. You had good muscle memory. That told me you’d been athletic.”
They passed a mirror and Rolland didn’t stop and look at himself as he used to. He’d had work done on his face, too, but he was healed for all intent and purposes.
Most of the people here were in some form or another of reconstruction. Be it physical or mental. Fortunately, he was, physically whole. It was his brain that didn’t know who he was.
“Come on and show me what you got,” Horace said, adjusting the weights to forty pounds for the chest press.
Rolland sat down, planted his feet and breathed through the first ten reps.
“Good. You got ten more in you?”
Rolland nodded. “With this brain injury, do you ever remember your favorite color?”
“Possibly. Good,” Horace praised. “Even if you don’t, you develop new taste. It’s like, do you like green now? Is that important? Is your wife green? Does that matter?”
Rolland laughed. “You’re sick, you know that?”
Horace shrugged. “Yes, sir, I do, and I appreciate my gift. You’re meeting someone new today. Melanie Wysh. W-y-s-h. Wysh. It’s not the conventional way you’d spell wish.”
“No?”
“No. That’s w-i-s-h. A good sentence would be I wish I was taller than you. You’re an average-looking bloke at six-feet tall, and I’m smashing looking at five-foot eight. Want to try ten more reps?”