Chapter 2 - “Why?”
“I want to know.”
“That’s not the same as having a right to know.”
Again.
Nobody in my world spoke in boundaries.
They spoke in leverage.
I almost admired it.
Almost.
“Fine.”
I turned away.
Fay stood there another second.
Then:
“His name was Eli.”
Was.
I looked back.
She stared at the floor.
“He fell from scaffolding when he was twenty-three.”
“How old were you?”
“Seventeen.”
“He survived.”
“Yes.”
“But you said was.”
Fay swallowed.
“He died four years later.”
Something inside me softened before I could stop it.
“From the injury?”
“No.”
“Then?”
She looked at me.
“Pneumonia.”
I waited.
“He had been walking with braces by then.”
My chest tightened.
“He walked?”
“Short distances.”
“With what kind of injury?”
“Incomplete thoracic cord injury.”
I knew enough medicine now to understand the broad category.
Similar.
Not identical.
“How long before movement returned?”
“Months.”
“How many?”
“Seven before his foot moved reliably.”
I went still.
I was six months out.
Fay saw the calculation happen.
“Don’t.”
“What?”
“Turn Eli into your prognosis.”
I frowned.
“Bodies are different.”
“You just told me—”
“I told you because you asked.”
She stepped closer.
“My brother’s recovery does not promise yours.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
She studied me.
Then nodded.
“Good.”
I hated that she could make one syllable sound like a medical clearance.
“Why did he die if he was recovering?”
“Because recovering from one thing doesn’t make you immortal.”
Her voice tightened.
“He caught pneumonia during flu season. His lungs had been weak after months in rehab.”
“I’m sorry.”
She looked surprised.
Apparently nobody expected apologies or sympathy from me anymore.
Neither did I.
“Thank you.”
Then she turned.
“Fay.”
“Yes?”
“You weren’t a maid before this.”
Her hand stopped on the door.
“How do you know?”
“You know too much.”
She smiled faintly.
“I know enough.”
“What did you do?”
“Not relevant.”
“It is to me.”
“Why?”
I thought.
Because I wanted to know her.
Dangerous answer.
So I chose another.
“If you’re assisting with spasms, I need to know whether you actually understand them.”
“I’m not your therapist.”
“No.”
“I helped my brother.”
“That’s all?”
She looked at me.
“That was enough.”
Then she left.
For some reason, I believed her.
Not completely.
But enough.
My rehabilitation schedule doubled.
I hated everyone.
Dr. Bennett.
Physical therapist Leah Morgan.
Occupational therapist Ben Park.
Fay.
Especially Fay, because she had the audacity to look unimpressed when I complained.
Leah came five mornings a week.
She worked on trunk control, transfers, range of motion, stimulation, anything that might preserve muscle and exploit whatever pathways still existed.
The first week, nothing dramatic happened.
One toe.
Occasional contraction.
Pain.
Fatigue.
Rage.
I expected improvement because I had decided to cooperate.
The body did not care.
That was a lesson I had somehow avoided learning in business.
Effort did not guarantee outcome.
One morning I tried activating my right quadriceps for twenty minutes.
Nothing.
Leah said:
“That’s okay.”
“No.”
“It is.”
“No.”
I slammed my fist against the armrest.
Fay appeared in the doorway.
“Out,” I told her.
She ignored me.
Leah gathered equipment.
“We’re done for today.”
“No.”
“Dominic.”
“Again.”
“Fatigue will reduce response.”
“I said again.”
Leah stood.
“No.”
My voice hardened automatically.
“Do you know who you’re talking to?”
Silence.
The old sentence.
The one that used to change rooms.
Leah’s face went flat.
Fay’s became something worse.
Disappointed.
Leah said:
“Yes.”
Then left.
I sat breathing hard.
Fay crossed the room.
“What?”
She closed the door.
“Do not do that.”
My anger sharpened.
“Do what?”
“Use your name because she told you no.”
I laughed without humor.
“Careful.”
“No.”
“Fay.”
“She is trying to help you.”
“She works for me.”
“No.”
She stepped closer.
“She works with you.”
I stared.
“Difference.”
“You’re lecturing me?”
“Yes.”
I almost smiled because the situation was absurd.
“You’re homeless without this job.”
“Potentially.”
“And still you speak to me like that.”
“Especially because of that.”
I frowned.
“What?”
“If I start pretending you’re right because I need rent money, then I’m selling something more expensive than time.”
The sentence landed.
“What?”
“My judgment.”
She looked at me.
“You can fire me.”
I went still.
“Can I?”
“Yes.”
“And then?”
“I sleep in my car.”
No fear.
No bluff.
Just fact.
“Why risk it?”
Fay exhaled.
“Because I already spent years learning what happens when sick people are surrounded by people too frightened to tell them the truth.”
Her brother.
Of course.
“Eli?”
“Yes.”
“He became difficult?”
She laughed sadly.
“Impossible.”
“Like me.”
“Worse.”
I almost felt challenged.
“He hated needing us.”
There it was.
“He insulted nurses. Fired therapists. Refused medication. Accused my mother of pitying him.”
I looked down.
“Then one therapist told him she would not return unless he treated her like a professional.”
“What happened?”
“He told her to go to hell.”
“That sounds reasonable.”
Fay glared.
I almost smiled.
“She left.”
“And?”
“He regretted it.”
“Did she return?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“He called and apologized.”
The word felt foreign.
Fay continued.
“She became the person who got him walking with braces.”
Not because she was magical.
Not because she saved him.
Because he finally cooperated with someone he could not control.
I knew what Fay was doing.
I did not appreciate it.
“Get Leah.”
Fay blinked.
“What?”
“Call her.”
“Now?”
“Yes.”
“She’s gone.”
“Then tomorrow.”
I swallowed something that felt worse than pain.
“Tell her I apologize.”
Fay stared.
“You tell her.”
Of course.
I glared.
She smiled.
“I’ll remind you.”
Then left.
I hated her.
Increasingly.
I apologized the next morning.
Leah accepted.
No dramatic forgiveness.
Just:
“Thank you.”
Then:
“Ready to work?”
That was better.
We worked.
Weeks passed.
The toe became reliable.
Then slight ankle movement.
My right leg responded more than the left.
Spasms became more frequent before medication adjustments reduced them.
Pain shifted.
Dr. Bennett called it neuropathic.
I called it punishment.
Fay called it Tuesday.
She was still technically a maid.
That arrangement became ridiculous quickly.
Mrs. Gable noticed first.
“Mr. Corso.”
“What?”
“Miss Willis is spending half her shift in your rehabilitation room.”
“So?”
“The east wing has not been dusted.”
I stared.
“Hire someone.”
Mrs. Gable smiled.
“I already did.”
Of course.
“What do you want?”
“Her job description changed without a job description.”
Fair.
I looked at Fay, who was arranging books.
“What are you?”
She stared.
“Excuse me?”
“Professionally.”
“Unemployed with unusual stability.”
Mrs. Gable coughed to hide a laugh.
“What did you do before?”
Fay’s face closed.
Again.
There.
Secret.
“I worked at a rehabilitation center.”
I knew it.
“As what?”
“Patient services.”
“That means nothing.”
“It means I coordinated schedules, helped families, handled transport, equipment, insurance calls.”
Mrs. Gable’s eyebrows rose.
“Why are you working as domestic staff?”
Fay looked toward the window.
“I lost the job.”
“Why?”
“Budget cuts.”
I studied her.
“Which center?”
“Westbridge Rehabilitation.”
I knew Westbridge.
One of the best facilities in the state.
I had refused admission there after the accident because I did not want strangers seeing me in therapy.
Stupid.
“Why didn’t you apply elsewhere?”
“I did.”
“And?”
“Nothing.”
Mrs. Gable asked:
“References?”
Fay became still.
There.
Not budget cuts.
Something else.
I leaned back.
“You lied.”
“No.”
“You omitted.”
“Yes.”
“What happened?”
She looked at Mrs. Gable.
Then at me.
“I was dismissed after a complaint.”
“What kind?”
“Confidential.”
“Yours?”
“No.”
“Then tell me.”
“I can’t.”
My irritation sharpened.
“Why should I trust you?”
Fay’s expression changed.
“You shouldn’t because I’m poor.”
I froze.
“I didn’t say that.”
“No.”
“But you were about to ask why someone with a good résumé is cleaning your room for cash.”
She was right.
I hated that.
Fay continued.
“Ask me for a background check.”
“We did.”
“What?”
Mrs. Gable looked innocent.
“Household policy.”
Fay stared.
“When?”
“Before your second shift.”
Of course.
Carmine had probably investigated her before she finished mopping the foyer.
I should have known.
“Anything?” I asked.
Mrs. Gable shook her head.
“No criminal record. Employment verified. Termination categorized as internal dispute.”
Fay looked furious.
Not frightened.
“That was private.”
I said:
“You entered my house.”
She looked at me.
“That does not make my life yours.”
There.
Again.
Power.
Access.
I had not even ordered the check personally.
Still benefited.
“I’m sorry.”
The words came more easily now.
Disturbing.
Mrs. Gable looked ready to frame them.
Fay stared.
Then:
“Thank you.”
I asked:
“Would you prefer to leave?”
The question hurt before she answered.
She considered.
“No.”
Relief.
Unacceptable amount.
“Why?”
“I need the job.”
“That’s all?”
Her eyes met mine.
“No.”
My pulse changed.
“What else?”
“You’re improving.”
I looked away.
“That’s your reason?”
“It’s part.”
“What’s the other part?”
She smiled faintly.
“You’ve become slightly less unbearable.”
I almost laughed.
“Promotion.”
Mrs. Gable blinked.
“What?”
“Make her rehabilitation coordinator.”
Fay stared.
May you like
“No.”
I turned.
