fingers, he palpated them with care. It would take time and a variety of treatments to reverse the damage. Luckily, he had confidence in Doctor Parrish’s powers of persuasion. If anyone could convince that old bat to spend her money on a noble cause, it would be his former mentor.
By the time he’d finished his work on Seward’s lower legs, he noticed the other man was trembling visibly in an effort to hold his torso upright. Standing, he said, “Prone position now, please.” He helped Seward roll onto his stomach, then began working on the backs of his thighs, encouraging the circulation of blood with wide, circular motions of his palms.
He debated about asking Seward for permission to work on the gluteal muscles; all of the muscle groups involved in locomotion required attention, but Michael finally decided against it, at least until his patient was more comfortable with him. Seward was humiliated enough already by this degree of exposure. There was no sense in pushing him past his low tolerance level and risking sabotaging their program—and Michael’s promise. He would fight only the battles he had a chance of winning.
Instead, he began long, sweeping strokes up Seward’s back, pausing now and then to rub and gently knead the muscles. When he came across a scar, he stretched the skin carefully and circled the puckered flesh with his fingertips, finishing off with soft strokings. As he proceeded, he was relieved to find himself falling into a familiar rhythm, one that he knew well from nearly a decade of work as a rubber. He began to believe he could do this. He could maintain his distance and do the job.
Seward had been silent since Michael had started on his back. Curious, Michael leaned over him and found that his eyes were closed.
“Hey. Time to turn over,” Michael said softly.
Seward started, then pushed weakly at the mattress in an attempt to roll himself over. With help from Michael, he was soon on his back staring up at the ceiling.
“How are you feeling?”
“Fine,” Seward gritted, his face an unreadable mask. “Get on with it.”
Biting back a retort, Michael wrapped one hand around Seward’s wrist and raised his arm carefully, then began stroking his forearm with the other hand.
Well, there was one benefit to treating a man like Seward, he thought wryly: at least he wouldn’t be required to polish his rusty bedside manner.
T HEY continued on in that fashion for nearly a week, and soon Michael’s days began to assume a regular pattern. He’d rise early and work with Sarah in the garden for the morning. After lunch came Seward’s massage, with a bath every other day to further encourage the restoration of his circulation. When Michael was done torturing them both, he’d check in on Abbott and help him with the exercises that his doctor had prescribed to assist in his recovery. The old man was on his feet now, but he was still weeks away from resuming even a portion of his former duties.
Throughout it all, Seward remained completely aloof. He surrendered his body to Michael’s ministrations readily enough, but every time Michael placed his hands on Seward's skin, he could feel the tension that Seward stored in every joint and muscle and tendon. Worse, as the days wore on, Michael began to understand that Seward’s acquiescence was nothing but a sham. He was no more active a participant in his own recovery than he had ever been, and perhaps less so. Michael didn’t have the first idea of how to deal with this passive resistance. He only knew that every day, his frustration at seeing Seward’s pliant body laid out before him was swiftly increasing.
Saturday morning dawned clear and warm, and Michael decided it was time to risk introducing another facet of Seward’s treatment. After breakfast, he intercepted Mary before she could take Seward his meal. She looked on him with pathetic gratitude as he plucked the tray from her hands.
When he arrived at the bedroom door, he
By the time he’d finished his work on Seward’s lower legs, he noticed the other man was trembling visibly in an effort to hold his torso upright. Standing, he said, “Prone position now, please.” He helped Seward roll onto his stomach, then began working on the backs of his thighs, encouraging the circulation of blood with wide, circular motions of his palms.
He debated about asking Seward for permission to work on the gluteal muscles; all of the muscle groups involved in locomotion required attention, but Michael finally decided against it, at least until his patient was more comfortable with him. Seward was humiliated enough already by this degree of exposure. There was no sense in pushing him past his low tolerance level and risking sabotaging their program—and Michael’s promise. He would fight only the battles he had a chance of winning.
Instead, he began long, sweeping strokes up Seward’s back, pausing now and then to rub and gently knead the muscles. When he came across a scar, he stretched the skin carefully and circled the puckered flesh with his fingertips, finishing off with soft strokings. As he proceeded, he was relieved to find himself falling into a familiar rhythm, one that he knew well from nearly a decade of work as a rubber. He began to believe he could do this. He could maintain his distance and do the job.
Seward had been silent since Michael had started on his back. Curious, Michael leaned over him and found that his eyes were closed.
“Hey. Time to turn over,” Michael said softly.
Seward started, then pushed weakly at the mattress in an attempt to roll himself over. With help from Michael, he was soon on his back staring up at the ceiling.
“How are you feeling?”
“Fine,” Seward gritted, his face an unreadable mask. “Get on with it.”
Biting back a retort, Michael wrapped one hand around Seward’s wrist and raised his arm carefully, then began stroking his forearm with the other hand.
Well, there was one benefit to treating a man like Seward, he thought wryly: at least he wouldn’t be required to polish his rusty bedside manner.
T HEY continued on in that fashion for nearly a week, and soon Michael’s days began to assume a regular pattern. He’d rise early and work with Sarah in the garden for the morning. After lunch came Seward’s massage, with a bath every other day to further encourage the restoration of his circulation. When Michael was done torturing them both, he’d check in on Abbott and help him with the exercises that his doctor had prescribed to assist in his recovery. The old man was on his feet now, but he was still weeks away from resuming even a portion of his former duties.
Throughout it all, Seward remained completely aloof. He surrendered his body to Michael’s ministrations readily enough, but every time Michael placed his hands on Seward's skin, he could feel the tension that Seward stored in every joint and muscle and tendon. Worse, as the days wore on, Michael began to understand that Seward’s acquiescence was nothing but a sham. He was no more active a participant in his own recovery than he had ever been, and perhaps less so. Michael didn’t have the first idea of how to deal with this passive resistance. He only knew that every day, his frustration at seeing Seward’s pliant body laid out before him was swiftly increasing.
Saturday morning dawned clear and warm, and Michael decided it was time to risk introducing another facet of Seward’s treatment. After breakfast, he intercepted Mary before she could take Seward his meal. She looked on him with pathetic gratitude as he plucked the tray from her hands.
When he arrived at the bedroom door, he
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