machines were scuffed and grimy from heavy use, and rips to the leather tops of the treatment tables had been repaired with duct tape. None of this was as off-putting to Lizzie as the people she saw working on their rehabilitation. Not one person was under the age of sixty. When he’d worked at the larger office, they’d had a wide variety of patients and Phil had always worked with the athletes. That had been his specialty.
She cast her eyes to the right and watched a small woman with thinning white hair strain to push the hip abductor machine even a quarter of an inch. Her therapist, a heavyset black man wearing blue scrubs coached her in his unusually high voice. “Come on Ms. Lorraine, come on. I know you wanna beat Ms. Priscilla. I think she’ll be giving up her walker any day now.”
“Competition works whether you’re young or old,” Phil said, sliding up behind Lizzie and clasping her shoulder. “My heavens you’ve grown up.”
“I’m not any taller, just older.” She leaned down to hug Phil, who was one of the few short men she knew who wasn’t self-conscious about his height.
He put his hand on the small of her back and walked her to a training table in the farthest corner of the room. “I know it isn’t fancy, but I wanted to do it right, you know. Without loans and cosigners and—”
“It’s fine.” Lizzie dropped her eyes to the rubber-banded folders he held tucked under his left arm. She wanted to know what the doctors and the other therapists had said about her recovery. “What do you think?”
“Go ahead and lay back,” Phil said, as he rolled the sleeves of his coat up. He ran his fingers along the side of her knee, pressing gently and then feeling it as if he were blind and reading Braille. Under his touch, she relaxed. This had been why she’d wanted to see him—his hands had a way of radiating healing just in the way they touched. He set her knee down and then took out his tape measure and goniometer and took her through the paces every other specialist had put her through to figure her range of motion.
Phil told her to sit up. “I gather you haven’t been hearing what you want to.”
“They have other agendas,” Lizzie said, thinking of the dozens of other players who fell under the umbrella of the national team. “Everyone’s risk averse these days. Besides, you know me. You know my knee.”
“Have they talked to you about scar tissue?” Phil rubbed the knuckles of his ring finger and then spun his wedding band around. “There’s a slight resistance and you’re at 120 degrees when I’d thought you’d be closer to 125—”
“It’s not. I mean I’ve never had that issue before.”
“And you’re ready to work?”
“Yes.” Lizzie sat up. “Is that a yes to all of it?”
“It’s more of a wait and see,” Phil said, taking out a sheet of paper and walking her through the second eight weeks of her rehabilitation. A morning session followed by weights and interval training on the bike and then after lunch another therapy session.
“At least I get Sundays off,” she said, folding the paper into thirds and tucking it into her pocket. “What do you get out of it?”
“You’ll be good for business,” he said, handing her a length of PVC pipe and explaining how to roll it against the back of her knee to break up any scar tissue. “I’ll have you jogging in a month and then it’s just a hop and a skip, literally, away from the pitch.”
He took her through all of the exercises she needed to do in between appointments and then walked her through the conditioning portion of her rehabilitation. By the time they were finished, the rest of the patients had cleared out. The other physical therapists had settled into their offices in the back of the space, and the assistant put on headphones and wiped down the machines, cleaning in a rhythm that only she heard.
Sitting on the bike, Lizzie looked around the room and decided it was better to be in a
She cast her eyes to the right and watched a small woman with thinning white hair strain to push the hip abductor machine even a quarter of an inch. Her therapist, a heavyset black man wearing blue scrubs coached her in his unusually high voice. “Come on Ms. Lorraine, come on. I know you wanna beat Ms. Priscilla. I think she’ll be giving up her walker any day now.”
“Competition works whether you’re young or old,” Phil said, sliding up behind Lizzie and clasping her shoulder. “My heavens you’ve grown up.”
“I’m not any taller, just older.” She leaned down to hug Phil, who was one of the few short men she knew who wasn’t self-conscious about his height.
He put his hand on the small of her back and walked her to a training table in the farthest corner of the room. “I know it isn’t fancy, but I wanted to do it right, you know. Without loans and cosigners and—”
“It’s fine.” Lizzie dropped her eyes to the rubber-banded folders he held tucked under his left arm. She wanted to know what the doctors and the other therapists had said about her recovery. “What do you think?”
“Go ahead and lay back,” Phil said, as he rolled the sleeves of his coat up. He ran his fingers along the side of her knee, pressing gently and then feeling it as if he were blind and reading Braille. Under his touch, she relaxed. This had been why she’d wanted to see him—his hands had a way of radiating healing just in the way they touched. He set her knee down and then took out his tape measure and goniometer and took her through the paces every other specialist had put her through to figure her range of motion.
Phil told her to sit up. “I gather you haven’t been hearing what you want to.”
“They have other agendas,” Lizzie said, thinking of the dozens of other players who fell under the umbrella of the national team. “Everyone’s risk averse these days. Besides, you know me. You know my knee.”
“Have they talked to you about scar tissue?” Phil rubbed the knuckles of his ring finger and then spun his wedding band around. “There’s a slight resistance and you’re at 120 degrees when I’d thought you’d be closer to 125—”
“It’s not. I mean I’ve never had that issue before.”
“And you’re ready to work?”
“Yes.” Lizzie sat up. “Is that a yes to all of it?”
“It’s more of a wait and see,” Phil said, taking out a sheet of paper and walking her through the second eight weeks of her rehabilitation. A morning session followed by weights and interval training on the bike and then after lunch another therapy session.
“At least I get Sundays off,” she said, folding the paper into thirds and tucking it into her pocket. “What do you get out of it?”
“You’ll be good for business,” he said, handing her a length of PVC pipe and explaining how to roll it against the back of her knee to break up any scar tissue. “I’ll have you jogging in a month and then it’s just a hop and a skip, literally, away from the pitch.”
He took her through all of the exercises she needed to do in between appointments and then walked her through the conditioning portion of her rehabilitation. By the time they were finished, the rest of the patients had cleared out. The other physical therapists had settled into their offices in the back of the space, and the assistant put on headphones and wiped down the machines, cleaning in a rhythm that only she heard.
Sitting on the bike, Lizzie looked around the room and decided it was better to be in a
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