I kind of liked the guy, though.
Dad came by later that night and started reading over my progress charts and crap. He bitched about the physical therapist, the insistence of the shrink, the price he was paying for the meals, and the doctors who continued to say my chances of walking again were about fifty-fifty.
“Fucking idiots,” he seethed. “I need to get you home so you can start some real training again. They’re just letting you slack here.”
“My arms are a lot stronger,” I told him. I tried to remember the exact words Danielle had used, but they weren’t coming to me.
“And this bullshit about your left arm mobility—we have to work on that, too.”
“I thought Doctor Winchest—”
“Winchester is a fucking moron!” Dad yelled. I cringed against the pillow a bit. He’d been like this more and more lately—going off in places where someone could just walk in on us and hear him. He used to be really careful to keep his voice down in those kinds of situations, but he wasn’t anymore.
“I talked to Wayne today and told him how well you were doing,” Dad suddenly said. I looked up at him with disbelief.
“What did he say?”
“He said the offer would still be open,” Dad told me, “providing you got off your ass and got yourself completely recovered in the next year.”
I had the feeling those weren’t Wayne’s exact words.
“What if…what if I can’t?” I asked quietly.
“Don’t give me that kind of shit!” Dad responded. “You see? That right there is why I need to get you out of here before that stupid PT and her nay-saying can bring you down anymore!”
“Danielle said—”
“Don’t fucking repeat a word that came from her mouth!” he yelled. “Stupid bitch. She’s as bad as the one who put you here.”
I tensed, trying to keep myself from uttering the words that wanted to come from my mouth. No good would come of it.
“You should be training in Europe right now,” he continued. “If it wasn’t for that two-bit cock-sucker, you would be.”
I looked down at my hands in my lap and tried to breathe normally. It wasn’t really working, but I knew if I said anything, it would just be worse. It was better to let him belt it all out.
“I’m taking you home this weekend,” Dad said as he threw my chart back onto the table. “I’ll get you a PT who knows what the fuck he’s doing and get you away from that faggot shrink and his ‘Thomas needs to learn to cope with his disabilities’ bullshit.”
I really didn’t think Justin’s bread was buttered on that side, but I hated talking to him about everything. I usually didn’t say much unless he was trying to get me to talk about Nicole. I didn’t mind that topic.
“This weekend,” Dad repeated, and then he walked out of the room.
My breath whistled between my lips in a deep sigh as I exhaled, and I closed my eyes. As my head dropped back to the pillow, I was enveloped in Rumple-smell, and my muscles relaxed.
I didn't know what time in the morning it was, only that my head was still full of sleep when voices roused me.
“…I understand your concerns, Doctor Malone, but physical therapy is not always that cut and dried. There are a lot of considerations—”
“I am fully aware of how PT works,” Dad said, cutting Danielle off. “That's why I've hired my own therapist to work with my son in our home.”
I heard Danielle take a long breath.
“Mr. Chase is known to me,” Danielle said softly. “Though I can't deny he's had some results, some of his methods are considered…questionable.”
“You know what?” Dad's voice grew a little louder. “What I don't need from some barely-educated therapist is advice on my son's care. I actually went to medical school, you know, and I don't need you offering me advice on whom to hire. Consider yourself out of the picture.”
I opened my eyes as Dad closed the door in Danielle's face. Dad turned and looked over to me.
“Get out of that damn bed,” he told me, “and get whatever you want to take with you. We're leaving today.”