Page 16 of Ripping the Odds

Always yours,

Zak

Just thinking about his letter made me smile. It got me through a grueling round of PT, and it held me up when I began to falter. Other than my two-a-day therapy sessions, there wasn’t much else to do. By lunchtime, I was exhausted, bored, and a tad lonely.

There were about a dozen people—both patients and staff—in the communal cafeteria when I wheeled myself through the open doorway. I’d never been much of a social butterfly—that was Daria’s area of expertise. I was more of a wallflower, sticking to the shadows. Just thinking about having to explain what happened to my leg sent a crippling wave of anxiety through me––distasteful pun intended. Which was how I found myself sitting at an empty table in the corner of the room, quietly savoring the most incredible egg salad sandwich I’d ever eaten.

I had no idea how long I’d been staring at my empty plate when a pink frosted cupcake was placed on the table in front of me.

“Sweets make everything better, in my opinion.”

The woman standing beside my table was a show-stopper. Long silvery hair with lavender accents was masterfully woven into two stylish french-braids on either side of her head, highlighting her midnight blue eyes. She wore tan cargo trousers, a navy blue polo with the facility’s logo embroidered on her left breast, and a plain yellow apron tied loosely around her trim waist.

“It looks delicious.” I picked up the treat, gently peeling away the paper before taking a small bite. A moan slipped past my lips as the perfect combination of sugar and chocolate exploded on my tongue. “Holy shit. That’s a mouthful of sin.”

“Thank you.” She smiled. “I’m Lennon Michelson, head chef here at Atlantic Care and Rehab.”

“Prudence Turner, but you can call me Pru.”

“Well, Pru, have you been out to the garden?”

“Garden?”

“Most of the vegetables are grown right here on the property. It’s not much to look at, but it’s peaceful. On a clear day, you can even catch a glimpse of the ocean.”

“Is it wheelchair accessible?”

“Sure is. I can show you if you want?”

“Yes, please.”

“Wait here. I’ll be right back.”

True to her word, Lennon returned, sans apron. Without asking, she wheeled me out of the cafeteria, past the reception area, and out the front doors of the rehab. With the sun blazing in the sky, she pushed my wheelchair steadily down a paved path until we reached a three-foot stone wall.

“Back in the day, this property was part of a large estate. It was sold off bit by bit to pay off debts. The wall is the only part that survived the deed transfers,” she said with a hint of sadness in her voice.

The wheelchair began to move again, a little slower that time. We didn’t speak again for several minutes, not until we reached our destination.

Along the north edge of the garden, a wooden trellis was staked in the ground, allowing peas to rise above alternating rows of lettuce, spinach, and kale. Nearby, a separate bed housed several crowns of asparagus. It was still too early in the season for some of the other root vegetables, but I had no doubt they would be just as abundant.

“How do you know so much about this place?”

“It belonged to my grandparents.”

“Shit. I’m so sorry, Lennon.”

“I’m not. I’m a firm believer in the old adage ‘you reap what you sow.’ Well”––she moved to the center of the garden, arms spread wide––“this is my harvest.”

“Is that why you work here?”

“Partly. It makes me happy to finally see all the bad replaced by good. Mostly, though, it’s because I’m not ready to let go.”

“Your heart holds your greatest memories, Lennon. Not a building.”

She jolted, like she’d been struck, before she looked away to hide her reaction, but I saw it.

“Who said anything about them being great?”