Unlucky In Love (14 page)

“Yeah,” I said. “It’ll only take about a
half an hour today, and I don’t want you to hear me cry. There’s a
Target next door, so maybe you could do a little shopping.”

“O … kay, I suppose. Need anything?”

“Yes, please. A large bottle of Merlot,” I
requested, then quickly added, “I promise I won’t drink it while
I’m taking Percocets. A box of Keurig coffee packs — whatever’s on
sale — vanilla creamer, whole-grain English muffins, a couple of
frozen pizzas, and a bag of dark chocolates.”

A tiny crease between Angela’s perfectly
sculpted eyebrows screamed her disapproval. Already, her kids were
on a strict meal plan, which didn’t include any of my staples.
“Other than the wine, that’s what I got you last week. Is that all
you eat?”

“Of course! I’m an author, or haven’t you
heard?”

Using my left hand, I clumsily signed in for
my appointment. Nine-thirty on the dot. I’d never been good about
making it to appointments early, but at least I wasn’t usually
late.

As I sat in the tiny area, I stared through
the glass partition as a man paced behind the receptionist. I
watched as he flipped through papers in a manila file folder,
obviously perturbed about something. He muttered something to the
receptionist, which I couldn’t hear from my side of the barrier,
and she shrugged in response. He tossed the folder in front of the
woman, who seemed shocked by his actions, then disappeared back
into the other part of the building.

A few seconds later, the same man stuck just
his dark blond head through the doorway and muttered, “Mrs.
Embers?”

Confused by his previous actions while in
view of a patient and now his tone, I cocked my head, but answered
politely anyway, “Yes. I’m
Ms
. Embers.” I couldn’t help but
emphasize the
Ms
. It just seemed to pop out when I was
speaking to the opposite sex. Whether it was an opening that I was
single, or a full frontal assault against the male species, I
wasn’t quite sure, since I seemed to do it no matter how young or
old, or how average or good-looking the man was.

“Follow me,” he grunted, the words barely
audible, as if he had no desire to have me in his sights.

Wow! Really?
Wasn’t it normal to
introduce yourself? Use the word
please
when you demanded
something from someone you’d just met? Apparently a new patient
didn’t warrant a,
Hi! I’m so-and-so. How are you feeling
today?

Not only did the man fail to greet me in a
professional manner, he scowled at me as I struggled to stand
without jostling my arm. Clearly this guy hadn’t eaten his
Wheaties
for breakfast. Hadn’t Dr. Bellows personally called
the office so that I would get the best possible care? Well, I’d be
sure to let the new doctor know about her employee.

After walking through the doorway, I let my
eyes wander to the man’s name tag so I’d be able to give my new
therapist a name to go along with my complaint.

I grumbled inwardly. Just my luck.
Adrian
. Why had I thought Adrian would be a woman? Maybe
because my last therapist had been a woman. Maybe because the only
other person named Adrian I’d ever heard of had been the wife in
the movie
Rocky
.

And tough luck for all the doctor-seeking
women in the world. Adrian may be a grouch, but now that I had a
full view of him … I heaved a silent groan at how utterly cute he
was. Actually, he wasn’t just cute, he was extremely good-looking.
But since he was so much younger than I was — in his late twenties,
I guessed —
cute
seemed like a safer appraisal.

His blond hair was cropped and
mussed
, giving him a boyish, surfer look. And his build …
Sigh!
His physique was what I would expect of a man who’d
dedicated his life to physical therapy. His shoulders were broad,
but then tapered down to a slim waist. And apparently he was the
prince of the new squat rave because his … My mind flitted to
unsafe areas, so I quickly reeled it back in.

As attractive as he was, his personality
wasn’t the least bit cute. No doubt, Dr. Adrian Kijek would make
some unlucky woman a terrible husband someday.

I laughed internally at my thoughts as I
followed him through the antiseptic-scented room stocked
wall-to-wall with different types of torture devices. The large
room looked identical to the therapy office where I’d been going
for the last six weeks. Several patient/therapist combos occupied
different machines: a four-step stairway to nowhere, a weight
machine with multi-colored bands tied to it, and several other
pieces of exercise equipment I couldn’t identify.

The irritable doctor led me into a small
room at the rear of the medical building which held nothing but a
narrow platform covered with paper that looked like an examination
table in a doctor’s office, a desk with a computer on it, and an
electronic muscle stimulator device that had been my only friend at
the other therapy office. It was the one torture device I’d
actually enjoyed.

My new physical terrorist pointed to the
padded table, then sat down behind the desk. He moved a clunky
black mouse back and forth to rouse the old-fashioned computer with
a large square box for a screen. “You have your script?” he asked
without looking up.

Instead of throwing the computer-printed
page at him, I handed the rude man the piece of paper. Doctor or
not, no one should treat people like that. If it weren’t for the
fact that Dr. Bellows had said that Dr. Kijek was the best, I would
have already left. Maybe the great Dr. Kijek got his reputation by
being the meanest therapist. His patients were probably frightened
into getting better.

As he started to type, I considered storming
out of the office. But I didn’t storm out of places impressively
lately, so it probably wouldn’t affect him in the least if I inched
my way out of the office and then sat down in the waiting room
until Angela returned.

Still not making eye contact, Dr. Kijek
asked, “What is your current pain level?”

As in pain in the ass?
I wanted to
spout off.
Pretty High. I’d say it’s a ten.
Again, I held my
razor-sharp tongue as Angela had instructed. Maybe it was just my
imagination. Maybe he wasn’t purposely being rude.

I cleared my throat, then checked my
attitude, making sure I kept my tone friendly. “The nerve block
just started to wear off, and I’ve been on two Percocets every four
hours, around the clock, so I’m about a five. But when I get close
to the four-hour mark, it surges to about an eight.”

No response. He just jotted notes on his
pad, pushed back on his rolling chair, then stood. His hands went
to my sling, deftly unbuckling all the snaps. “Don’t go back in
this. Your chart states that the anchors for the original tear have
completely healed. You need to extend your arm so it doesn’t freeze
up again.” He inspected the bandaged areas. “I’ll have to wait
until I take out the stitches to do electronic muscle stimulation,
but I can stretch you out.”

I winced. “Already? Are you sure?”

His answer was a glare. “Can you lie down,
or do you need help?”

“I can manage.”

After raising the table with a switch, he
placed a foam leg roll beneath my knees and a pad beneath my arm,
then slowly, methodically began to apply pressure. Instead of just
using one of his hands to move my stiff arm, he distributed an
equal amount of pressure against my entire arm with his chest.

I waited for the excruciating pain, but it
didn’t come as before. It actually felt … good. How was that
possible?

“Okay?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I said through a breath of
relief.

“That stretch should feel good,” he said as
he looked down at me. His eyes were a deep and dark brown, like
melted dark chocolate. “The others won’t feel so good,” he
continued, “but I’ll go easy on you today.”

I searched his face for a smile; there
wasn’t one.

“Have you been doing pendulums?” he
asked.

Great. A chance to let him know that I’d
been doing my homework. “Up until an hour before the second
surgery, which was less than twenty-four hours ago,” I offered as a
reminder that it hadn’t even been a full day since I’d been under
the knife.

“Start pendulums again as soon as the nerve
block wears off completely, and I’ll show you a few more
exercises.” He situated my arm in a different position, then slowly
applied pressure.

Owww
… There was the familiar pain. I
cringed, attempting not to cry in front of this cold man on the
first appointment.

He released the stretch,
patting
beneath my elbow, a move I remembered the last
therapist doing on our first appointment, right after she’d brought
me to tears. I knew it was the PT’s job to push, but bringing me to
the point of tears seemed a little harsh. I’d always thought I had
a high tolerance to pain. After all, I’d had a child naturally, no
epidural.

I glanced around the room to keep my mind
off the pain as he maneuvered my arm into yet another uncomfortable
but thankfully, not excruciating stretch. His diploma hung on the
wall behind the computer, reminding me that he was a doctor, so I
decided I’d try to talk about him. Try to loosen him up a bit since
we were going to have to work together several days a week.

“Have you always wanted to be a physical
therapist?” I asked.

“No.”

That went well
. Time ticked by with
only my heavy breathing filling the air — which felt awkward — so I
tried again. “So, did you go to medical school and just fall into
physical therapy?”

“It’s the family business. My father started
the practice.”

“Ah … so you’re following in your father’s
footsteps?”

“No. This is just a good position for the
time being.” I nodded, then cringed as he held my arm for a longer
stretch as he said, “Just a few extra seconds,” then shifted my arm
into yet another position.

“But you’re a doctor, right? Don’t most
physical therapists stop with their master’s degree?” I pushed out,
doing my best not to grunt from the pain. Last time my cousin had
accompanied me to a therapy appointment, she’d teased that my cries
of pain could easily be interpreted as sounds of ecstasy. I
squeezed my eyes shut and tapped out a rhythm with my toes to keep
from crying out as he held my arm at what felt like a
ninety-degree
angle, which I knew was impossible.

“I believe in higher education,” he
answered. “Open your eyes,
Ms
. Embers.”

I obeyed, wondering why he wouldn’t let me
suffer through my pain in my own way. And why he’d felt the need to
emphasize
Ms
. Had I offended him by clarifying my title?

“See where your arm is?” Dr. Kijek
asked.

I peeked over at my arm.

“Had you gotten there before the second
surgery?”

“No … I … How did you do that?”

“It’s what I do. If you want to keep your
arm there, you need to do all your stretches.”

“Oh, I will. I’ll even do extra credit if
it’ll help get the use of my arm back.”

“Just the exercises I show you for now,” he
said. Still no friendly tone, just matter-of-fact. Man, this guy
was a tough nut to crack. I wanted to ask why the chip on his
shoulder.

He handed me back the use of my arm, which I
still didn’t have enough strength to hold up on my own. I was
thankful he knew that. I’d kept grabbing my arm from the last
therapist. She’d known, obviously, but it was as though she’d
wanted me to work to grab it.

Once I had control of my arm, he reached for
my left arm to help me get up. I eased myself off the table and sat
in the chair he’d pulled out.

Dr. Adrian Kijek sat down behind his desk
again. After clicking the mouse a few times, he reached inside a
printer next to the computer and pulled out a sheet of paper.

His eyes fixed on the paper, he scribbled as
he spoke, “Twenty pendulums each. Side to side, clockwise, counter
clockwise, and then back and forth.” He turned and faced me, rolled
up a white towel he’d grabbed from a basket by the table, then
gently stuffed the terry cloth between my elbow and my waist.
“Hands at your side, a rolled-up towel beneath your elbow, you need
to do a mock clap.” He demonstrated, waiting for me to mimic the
move, with little success. “You’ll work on it.” He removed the
towel and positioned my arm on the top of my leg. “Lay your arm on
top of your leg, then twist just the wrist.” Again, he
demonstrated. “Do you have a squeeze ball?”

Thinking it was a chance to lighten the mood
between us, I said, “I do. It was available as a custom accessory
with the sling. I went all out.”

No chuckle. Not even a quirk of his lips.
“Do the exercises six times a day, but only for a few minutes right
now. Use the ball as often as you think about it. To keep the blood
flowing,” he continued. “I’ll see you again tomorrow, and then have
my receptionist schedule you for three times a week.” He stood and
walked out of the room while uttering the words, immediately
greeting the next client by name.

As I waited for the receptionist to finish
talking on the phone, I watched Dr. Kijek direct the elderly woman
to a stationary bike. To warm up her knee, he’d said. The good
doctor glanced around the room at the other patients working with
therapists. His eyes swept past me, not making eye contact, like a
stain on the wall, something he saw every day, so he wouldn’t
notice.

Irritated again, not just at his terrible
bedside manner, but his total lack of courteous human behavior, I
contemplated walking out without making an appointment. But Dr.
Bellows had said that he was the best, so when the woman behind the
glass window hung up the phone, I did as Dr. Adrian Kijek had
instructed and made the next four appointments.