Chapter 2 - The Woman Who Knew About My Legs
By sunrise, Marco had a file on Rosa Delgado.
Sixty-three years old.
Licensed physical therapist.
Thirty-seven years of clinical experience.
Worked in neurological rehabilitation for most of her career.
Nothing suspicious.
Until I saw where she had worked eight years ago.
Saint Catherine Rehabilitation Center.
My rehabilitation center.
I stared at the page.
“Was she on my case?”
Marco shook his head.
“Officially, no.”
“Unofficially?”
“We found three building-entry records matching days you had intensive therapy.”
I looked at him.
“Why would she be there?”
“Her daughter Maria worked cafeteria shifts there at the time.”
That could explain it.
Except something else bothered me.
“Find Rosa.”
“She lives with Maria?”
“No. Assisted apartment in Cicero.”
“Bring her here.”
Marco hesitated.
“Nicely.”
“I know.”
Apparently my personal growth required constant reminders.
By afternoon, Lily arrived carrying three speakers.
“Why three?”
“Options.”
She placed them on the floor.
“Pop, old people music, and dinosaurs.”
“I am forty-three.”
“Old people.”
I looked at Noah.
“Does she insult everyone?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
We began what Dr. Morgan carefully refused to call therapy.
Lily danced.
I attempted movement.
At first, nothing happened.
My frustration rose.
“Move.”
Nothing.
Again.
“Move.”
Lily stopped the music.
“You’re doing angry eyebrows.”
“I am concentrating.”
“You’re yelling inside.”
“How can you tell?”
“Your face.”
Morgan hid amusement.
“Perhaps she has a point.”
“You’re fired.”
“You say that weekly.”
Lily sat on the marble floor.
“Do something fun.”
“I’m trying to move my leg.”
“That’s boring.”
I stared.
“What do you suggest?”
“Kick me.”
Maria, standing near the door, almost fainted.
“No!”
Lily giggled.
“Not hard.”
“I cannot kick.”
“That’s the point.”
She stood in front of my right foot.
Morgan looked concerned.
“This is medically unconventional.”
“Everything about this is medically unconventional.”
I tried to lift my foot.
Nothing.
Lily made a ridiculous face.
My mouth twitched.
Then she said, “You look like a constipated Batman.”
I laughed.
My foot jerked.
Everyone saw it.
Morgan stepped forward.
“Again.”
Lily repeated the insult.
“Not the joke. The movement.”
“I liked my method.”
Thirty minutes later, I moved my ankle three times.
Weakly.
But deliberately.
Hope became harder to hate.
Then Rosa Delgado arrived.
She entered the winter garden using a cane.
Gray hair pulled into a bun.
Sharp brown eyes.
She looked at me for perhaps two seconds.
Then said:
“So you finally stopped sulking.”
The room went silent.
I looked at Marco.
“You said nicely?”
“I was nice.”
Rosa approached.
“You don’t remember me.”
“No.”
“You were heavily medicated most days.”
“You were at my rehab center.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because your wife asked me to be.”
Every thought stopped.
“Audrey?”
Rosa nodded.
Lily sat quietly now.
Even she understood the weight of that name.
“When?”
“Before the accident.”
That made no sense.
“My wife contacted a physical therapist before I was injured?”
“Not for you.”
“Then for who?”
Rosa looked at Maria.
Maria immediately stared at the floor.
Something moved beneath the surface.
“Tell me.”
Rosa sat opposite me.
“Audrey volunteered at a rehabilitation program I supervised.”
I remembered.
She volunteered constantly.
Hospitals.
Shelters.
Youth programs.
“She wanted to train in adaptive movement for children.”
“Why?”
“She had plans.”
“What plans?”
Rosa hesitated.
I hated hesitation.
“Mrs. Marino wanted children.”
My chest tightened.
“We were trying.”
“I know.”
“What does that have to do with rehab?”
“She wanted to foster children with disabilities if you could not have biological children.”
I stared.
Audrey never told me.
“She thought you would say no.”
“She was probably right.”
“Eight-years-ago Caleb?”
“Yes.”
“Current Caleb?”
I looked at Lily.
“I don’t know.”
Rosa nodded.
“Exactly.”
Then she explained something about my injury.
She had reviewed my case indirectly after Audrey died because Maria still worked at the center.
Rosa believed my neurological damage was severe—but not necessarily as complete as early doctors concluded.
“Why didn’t you contact me?”
“I tried.”
I froze.
“When?”
“Twice.”
“Who stopped you?”
“Your medical administrator.”
“Name.”
“Dr. Victor Hale.”
I knew him.
Hale had coordinated my treatment during the first three years.
He was the man who recommended half the specialists.
He was also dead.
Heart attack five years ago.
“What did he say?”
“That you were psychologically unstable and additional hope would be harmful.”
My hands tightened.
Morgan frowned.
“That isn’t standard justification.”
Rosa continued.
“I submitted notes about reflexive response I observed during hydrotherapy.”
“What response?”
“Your right foot moved.”
The room went silent.
Eight years.
Everyone had told me nothing moved.
“I was unconscious?”
“Sedated after severe pain episodes.”
“And Hale knew?”
“Yes.”
“Why wasn’t it in my file?”
“I don't know.”
My jaw tightened.
“Someone removed it?”
“Possibly.”
Marco stepped toward the doors immediately.
I stopped him.
“Records first.”
He nodded.
Lily climbed onto a bench.
“Grandma, is he gonna walk?”
Rosa looked at me, not Lily.
“Maybe.”
That word.
Again.
Dangerous.
But this time I didn’t reject it.
“What would it take?”
“Therapy.”
“How much?”
“A lot.”
“Time?”
“Months. Years. Maybe never fully.”
“I asked what it takes.”
Rosa smiled slightly.
“Stubbornness.”
“I have that.”
“Humility.”
I frowned.
“Problem.”
“Patience.”
“Bigger problem.”
“Trust.”
I looked away.
Rosa smiled.
“Largest problem.”
She was not wrong.
That evening, we searched archived medical records.
Files were missing.
Several scans had been duplicated with altered notes.
One document claimed there had been no motor response during a session Rosa remembered clearly.
Signed by Victor Hale.
Then Marco found a payment trail.
Three months after my accident, Hale received $250,000 through a consulting company.
From whom?
My younger brother.
Julian Marino.
The only family I had left.
The man who had sat beside my hospital bed for months.
The man currently running several of my businesses because I could not physically oversee everything.
I stared at the transfer.
“No.”
Marco said nothing.
“Maybe consulting.”
“Maybe.”
I called Julian.
He answered cheerfully.
“Brother.”
“Come home.”
“Problem?”
I looked at the altered medical file.
“Yes.”
“How bad?”
“I don’t know yet.”
He arrived forty minutes later.
Perfect suit.
Perfect smile.
Then he saw Rosa.
Everything changed.
Small.
Almost invisible.
But I saw it.
Recognition.
Rosa saw it too.
“Mr. Marino,” she said.
Julian swallowed.
“Do I know you?”
She smiled without warmth.
“You should.”
I placed the payment record on the table.
Julian looked down.
His face went pale.
“What is this?”
“You tell me.”
“It’s eight years old.”
“Yes.”
“Victor Hale consulted for our family.”
“About what?”
Julian sat.
“Caleb—”
“What did you pay him for?”
His eyes lifted slowly.
And for the first time in eight years, I saw fear in my brother’s face.
Not fear of what I would do.
Fear that I would remember something.
He whispered:
“You weren’t supposed to feel your legs again.”
The winter garden became perfectly silent.
I stared at him.
“What did you just say?”
May you like
Julian closed his eyes.
And I realized my paralysis might not have been the only thing someone had lied to me about.
