A Wish for Christmas by Thomas Kinkade Page B

about it, reconsider.”
    “Okay, I will,” he said just to close the subject. “What do you think about my condition? About my physical therapy? Any ideas about that?”
    She took a moment before answering. “If all you want to talk about is your body, I’d say you ought to consider yourself lucky. You didn’t come out of it badly at all.”
    David knew that was true. All he had to do was look around at his fellow patients. Take the guy on the next table, who was missing an arm, for instance. What would it be like coming home in that condition?
    He took another swallow of water, feeling like a self-absorbed slug. “Listen,” he said, “I know everybody’s got a story. I know I’m damn lucky to have come back in one piece. You don’t have to tell me that. But it still stinks to be trapped inside this walker, dragging a half-dead foot.”
    She nodded, the same, serious expression that didn’t reveal one hint of emotion or what was really going on in her head.
    She thought he was a spoiled, whining baby, David decided. Well, so what if she did?
    “You want to get rid of the walker. Is that your priority?”
    “My priority? Actually, no. My priority would be to have my legs working again. To be able to apply for a job as a cop or a firefighter, which was my plan once my enlistment was up. Until I got hit.”
    David quickly realized that somewhere during his explanation his voice had grown progressively louder. He was practically shouting at her. As if this physical therapist had anything to do with his condition, any say in what would be.
    Well, she had asked him the question hadn’t she?
    He stared at her, feeling awkward. He should apologize, he knew. But Gena seemed unfazed, unmoved by the angry, crazy, disabled soldier yelling at her. She probably got that all the time.
    “I read the medical report,” she answered evenly. “There’s still some chance you could regain feeling in your foot. But we have to assume that you won’t and build up other muscles so that you can manage with a cane and the brace.” She waited a moment for him to reply. When he didn’t she continued. “It appears, at this time anyway, that any job with demanding physical requirements is off the table. I’m sorry.”
    David was not shocked by this assessment. He had heard this prognosis before from his doctors. But it was still discouraging to be reminded of his losses.
    Maybe he had come here today expecting this new therapist to know something that the doctors didn’t. To look him over, broken parts and all, and say, “Hey, no problem. I can fix that. You’re going to be one hundred percent in no time, pal.”
    Maybe that’s what he had secretly been hoping for. Not this flat-out, in your face, no icing on the cake honesty.
    He took a long breath and shook his head. “Great. Just what I wanted to hear. I’m going to have a limp and need a cane the rest of my life? Is that what you’re saying?”
    She stared back at him, meeting his angry glare with a cool gaze. “That might be the final outcome. A lot depends on you, David, on your attitude and goals. What you’re willing to put into your therapy.” She paused, and closed his folder, neatly lining up the pages inside. “Think about it. Get back to me.”
    “What do you mean, get back to you? I thought I was assigned to you. I don’t know much about VA hospitals, but I know they’re part of the army. Which is not big on choices, last I heard.”
    “There are assignments and rules I have to follow,” Gena conceded. “But if I meet a patient whom I think isn’t going to be a good fit, there are ways to pass that case to another therapist.”
    So, he was reduced now to just a “case”? What was going on here? He had expected some gentle handling and sympathy—lots of sympathy, actually.
    “So you don’t want to work with me, is that it?” he asked.
    “I didn’t say that. I’m being honest with you, giving you the complete picture. I give my all, David. I