ankles caught in the footrests of the wheelchair. Frustrated, he stumbled back into the seat and slammed the armrest with his fist, his eyes never leaving her face. ‘Hoppa. You.’
She crouched at his side, wincing at the soreness of bruises and stiffness of her bad leg. ‘I’m all right.’ She kissed him, but he put his hands firmly on her shoulders and, scowling, examined her face.
‘Cut.’ He touched the wound on her cheek, the darkening lump beside her eye. ‘Steak.’
Steak? Really? ‘Does that work?’ She smiled, pleased that she understood him. And amused that Hank would suggest slapping a hunk of meat on her eye to stop it from blackening. She pictured it. What should she use? Chuck? Sirloin? A nice fillet?
Hank didn’t smile. His eyes darkened, angry. ‘Say. Me. You. What.’
Hank wanted to know what had happened. She wasn’t going to lie to him; she never had. But she would spare him the grisly and upsetting details. Harper took a seat beside his chair and took his hand. ‘I’m OK, Hank. Really. But somebody mugged me.’
He scowled. ‘Hurt.’
‘I’m fine.’
He looked her over. ‘No.’ Again, he touched her cheek.
‘It’s nothing.’
‘Killed?’ His eyes sparkled.
Harper started to assure him that no one had been killed before she understood. Hank always teased her about being scary tough. She could lift a lot more than the 130 pounds she weighed – as much as strong, taller men. She could do push-ups and chin-ups all day long. So, his point was: how could someone mug her and live?
‘Not yet.’ She laughed. ‘I’ll get him, though.’
Hank became serious again, eyes burning, his hands tight around hers. His lips puckered, slowly forming a word. ‘Who.’
‘I don’t know. I didn’t see his face. But I’m OK. He just knocked me down and grabbed my bag.’ And threatened to drop her into the gorge.
‘Bag. Take. Your.’
‘No, it wasn’t my bag – it belonged to a student.’ She didn’t tell him which student, didn’t talk about Graham or his suicide. Didn’t want to upset him further.
Hank looked her over, gently touched the Band-Aid on her hand, eyed her arms, her shoulders. Her hair. ‘Hoppa.’
Harper tried to make light of what happened. ‘It was just some kid, Hank. He took me by surprise, but when I catch him, I’ll scramble him. We’ll have him for breakfast.’
Hank wasn’t amused. ‘Hoppa. You.’
‘Yes?’
‘O-K?’
‘I am. Yes. Truly.’
‘Both. Us. OK. Us. Two. Gr–reat.’
Wow. Hank was being sarcastic; the old Hank was resurfacing. His eyes twinkled, teasing, but the twinkle seemed muted, sad. ‘Home. Want. Go. Us.’
Home? Us? He wanted to go home with her. Harper couldn’t bear it. ‘Come on. Let’s take a walk.’
Silently, the pair walked along the corridor, Hank pushing a walker in case his right leg faltered. He had a definite limp, but then so did Harper; her left leg giving in when she was tired or, in this case, recovering from a mugging. The two of them ambled along, wobbling side to side, step by step, arm in arm. Clearly, Hank’s overall strength was returning; his intense regime of physical therapy was working. After several laps around the unit, it was she, not he, who wanted to sit and rest. So they landed on a sofa in the lounge, drinking dreadful coffee from the vending machine. Harper massaged her thigh, hoping to keep the rest of the visit light.
‘How was dinner?’ The question was uncomplicated, requiring an uncomplicated answer. Fine. Awful. Great. OK. He should be able to manage it.
But Hank didn’t respond. He looked at Harper with startling intensity, penetratingly, almost accusingly, and then, abruptly, turned away.
‘Hank? Is something wrong?’ What a stupid question, she scolded herself. Of course, something was wrong. The man couldn’t talk, for one thing. And that was only the start.
Hank blinked soberly, absorbed in thought. Silent.
‘I know this is hard for you.’ Harper moved
She crouched at his side, wincing at the soreness of bruises and stiffness of her bad leg. ‘I’m all right.’ She kissed him, but he put his hands firmly on her shoulders and, scowling, examined her face.
‘Cut.’ He touched the wound on her cheek, the darkening lump beside her eye. ‘Steak.’
Steak? Really? ‘Does that work?’ She smiled, pleased that she understood him. And amused that Hank would suggest slapping a hunk of meat on her eye to stop it from blackening. She pictured it. What should she use? Chuck? Sirloin? A nice fillet?
Hank didn’t smile. His eyes darkened, angry. ‘Say. Me. You. What.’
Hank wanted to know what had happened. She wasn’t going to lie to him; she never had. But she would spare him the grisly and upsetting details. Harper took a seat beside his chair and took his hand. ‘I’m OK, Hank. Really. But somebody mugged me.’
He scowled. ‘Hurt.’
‘I’m fine.’
He looked her over. ‘No.’ Again, he touched her cheek.
‘It’s nothing.’
‘Killed?’ His eyes sparkled.
Harper started to assure him that no one had been killed before she understood. Hank always teased her about being scary tough. She could lift a lot more than the 130 pounds she weighed – as much as strong, taller men. She could do push-ups and chin-ups all day long. So, his point was: how could someone mug her and live?
‘Not yet.’ She laughed. ‘I’ll get him, though.’
Hank became serious again, eyes burning, his hands tight around hers. His lips puckered, slowly forming a word. ‘Who.’
‘I don’t know. I didn’t see his face. But I’m OK. He just knocked me down and grabbed my bag.’ And threatened to drop her into the gorge.
‘Bag. Take. Your.’
‘No, it wasn’t my bag – it belonged to a student.’ She didn’t tell him which student, didn’t talk about Graham or his suicide. Didn’t want to upset him further.
Hank looked her over, gently touched the Band-Aid on her hand, eyed her arms, her shoulders. Her hair. ‘Hoppa.’
Harper tried to make light of what happened. ‘It was just some kid, Hank. He took me by surprise, but when I catch him, I’ll scramble him. We’ll have him for breakfast.’
Hank wasn’t amused. ‘Hoppa. You.’
‘Yes?’
‘O-K?’
‘I am. Yes. Truly.’
‘Both. Us. OK. Us. Two. Gr–reat.’
Wow. Hank was being sarcastic; the old Hank was resurfacing. His eyes twinkled, teasing, but the twinkle seemed muted, sad. ‘Home. Want. Go. Us.’
Home? Us? He wanted to go home with her. Harper couldn’t bear it. ‘Come on. Let’s take a walk.’
Silently, the pair walked along the corridor, Hank pushing a walker in case his right leg faltered. He had a definite limp, but then so did Harper; her left leg giving in when she was tired or, in this case, recovering from a mugging. The two of them ambled along, wobbling side to side, step by step, arm in arm. Clearly, Hank’s overall strength was returning; his intense regime of physical therapy was working. After several laps around the unit, it was she, not he, who wanted to sit and rest. So they landed on a sofa in the lounge, drinking dreadful coffee from the vending machine. Harper massaged her thigh, hoping to keep the rest of the visit light.
‘How was dinner?’ The question was uncomplicated, requiring an uncomplicated answer. Fine. Awful. Great. OK. He should be able to manage it.
But Hank didn’t respond. He looked at Harper with startling intensity, penetratingly, almost accusingly, and then, abruptly, turned away.
‘Hank? Is something wrong?’ What a stupid question, she scolded herself. Of course, something was wrong. The man couldn’t talk, for one thing. And that was only the start.
Hank blinked soberly, absorbed in thought. Silent.
‘I know this is hard for you.’ Harper moved
Similar Books
