Part 3
“I was trying to throw it,” Walter said. He looked down at his hand. “He kept asking.”
Claire asked him to rest before trying again. The second attempt produced less movement, and the third almost none; she stopped before his excitement turned into another test he could fail. Ruth stood so close that her apron brushed Claire’s arm.
“What does it mean?” she asked.
“It means we saw movement. I’d like his team to see it, too.” Claire looked at Walter. “I can help you practice what they recommend. I can’t tell you how much you’ll get back.”
He kept his eyes on the ball. When she reached to move it, he shook his head.
The following Saturday, Claire was sweeping their bedroom while Ruth made lunch. Toby came in carrying the red ball, dropped it, and watched it roll under the bed. He flattened himself and followed, hind feet scrabbling against the floor.
Something knocked against the bed frame. Claire knelt to reach for him and found him backing out with a leather strap between his teeth. It was looped around a wooden chest too heavy for him to pull free; she took hold and slid it the rest of the way while he tugged importantly beside her.
Dust rose from the lid. Toby sneezed, abandoned his discovery, and crawled back for the ball.
The lid had shifted open a little. Claire lifted it, expecting blankets, and found fitted compartments lined with green cloth. Gouges and narrow carving knives lay in rows, their handles rubbed smooth; beneath a folded rag sat a wooden bear with one paw raised.
She picked it up. The animal’s weight seemed to settle through its shoulders into the paw that was still on the ground. Beside it was a bird in flight, the thin edges of its wings catching the window light.
“You found that,” Ruth said from the doorway.
Claire turned. Walter had followed Ruth down the hall in his chair, pushing awkwardly with his left hand and foot. He saw the bear before he saw the open chest.
“Put it away.”
“I’m sorry. Toby caught the strap.” Claire started lowering the figure, but Ruth reached for it first.
“He made this after work,” she said, turning it in her hands. “Back when he was at the plant. People would come on Saturdays for their orders, and I’d have to find places for them to sit. Boxes, picture frames, animals for children.”
“Ruth.”
She looked at him, then continued more quietly. “There was always somebody waiting on something. He’s right-handed. He thought losing that hand meant he was finished.”
Walter stared past them into the bedroom. Claire could see where a workbench might once have stood, beneath the window, though the space held a drying rack now. She put the bird back into its compartment.
“He asked me to hide the tools when he came home,” Ruth said. “I thought maybe after a while—”
“I said put them away.”
His right hand lay against the chair, the fingers drawn inward. Claire had been thinking about the movements he might regain: holding a spoon, fastening something, helping Ruth with a sleeve. The tools in their fitted places explained why each exercise might have felt to him like an inventory of what he could no longer do.
She selected a small carving tool, checked that its blade was covered, and carried it into the hall. Then she crouched where he could see her without lifting his head.
“Can I try something?”
“It won’t work.”
“Let me support your hand.”
After a moment, he allowed her to position it. She settled the familiar wooden handle against his palm and supported it with her own fingers. His shoulder tightened immediately.
“Let go.”
She did. The tool rested across his lap, still covered, and his breathing sounded loud in the narrow hall.
“I used to work without looking down,” he said. “I could feel where the edge was.”
“I believe you.”
“You don’t know what this is like.”
“No.” Claire stayed where she was. “But I watched you try for that ball. I think there are things worth trying for here, even if they don’t turn out the way they used to.”
Toby emerged from the bedroom and dropped his ball beside the wheel. Walter looked from it to the handle on his knees, and Claire waited without reaching for either one.
“Once,” he said at last.
She supported his hand again. This time he let the handle stay against his fingers, feeling the familiar shape while she bore its weight. Ruth remained in the doorway until Claire stood, then moved the chest onto a shelf Walter could reach.
The home program that followed was small enough to fit on one sheet of paper. Claire helped arrange a reassessment and learned the safest ways to assist with the movements his rehabilitation team recommended. She brought simple equipment and worked beside him on weekends; Ruth helped between visits, with Walter deciding when to begin.
He wanted results faster than his hand would give them. There were days when the same small movement came repeatedly, followed by a morning when it seemed to have vanished. If something hurt, they stopped and checked the plan instead of forcing it, but frustration could leave him sweating as hard as effort.
Toby usually lay against the chair. Walter would lower his left hand into the dog’s fur during a break, and Claire learned to leave those pauses alone. Ruth sometimes went into the kitchen, where she could hear without having to watch every attempt.
Late in April, the ball slipped from Walter’s right hand again. He had been tired before they started; now he watched it roll beneath the cabinet, just beyond his reach.
“Enough.”
Claire began moving the equipment aside. Before she could gather it, he swept his left arm across the table, sending the soft grips and exercise balls onto the floor.
“Just leave me alone. All of you.”
Ruth stopped in the kitchen doorway. Claire kept her hands in her lap until the last object had stopped rolling.
“I don’t want to do this anymore,” Walter said. His voice had gone rough. “I sit here while you both watch me fail.”
“We’ll stop for now.” Claire looked toward Ruth, then back to him. “You can tell us to stop. You don’t have to send everything across the room.”
He turned his face away. Before anyone moved, Toby nosed the red ball out from under the cabinet and brought it to the chair. He rose against Walter’s knees and dropped it into the open left hand.
Walter stared at it. Toby pushed his nose against his wet cheek, then waited, mouth slightly open, for the throw he expected.
“I’m sorry,” Walter said, so quietly Claire almost missed it. He looked at Ruth, and then at Claire, before rubbing the dog’s ear.
Claire bent to pick up the equipment. As she reached for the ball, Walter shifted it away from her.
“Leave that one,” he said. “I want to try again.”
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