Chapter Three
Tasha
Because I knew it was important to my parents that I honor my commitments, I showed up at their house on Sunday around one o’clock. But because it was important to me that I didn’t feel manipulated, I evaded my mother’s question about whether or not I’d made it to Mass, either that morning or the night before.
How and when and whether I worshipped God was between Him and me, no matter what my mom believed.
The Crandalls had been family friends since long before I’d been born. Len Crandall was a general, too, and although he and my dad were as different as night and day, they’d always gotten along. Len was the easiest-going, most relaxed Army officer I knew, though I’d heard that he had a more intense side when it came to battle. My dad, though dedicated and disciplined, had a reputation for being compassionate and just, the general most likely to give second and even third chances. His men all loved and respected him.
Growing up, whenever our assignments had put us on the same post as the Crandalls, I’d loved visiting their home. They had five children, and although the two closest in age to me were either too old or too young to be close friends, the crazy and chaotic vibe of the larger family appealed to me. It was such a contrast to my own quiet and orderly home.
Catching up with the couple, then, was a true pleasure. We didn’t have a large extended family; the Army and the people we’d gotten close to over the years were more like my aunts, uncles and cousins. We’d been through the same experiences and spoke the same language. I found myself laughing at the stories General Crandall and his wife shared, empathizing as only an Army brat could do.
I stayed later than I’d planned. It was already twilight by the time my dad walked me outside to where my car was parked in the long driveway. No matter how many times I insisted that I was perfectly capable of getting myself safely to the driver’s seat, my father insisted that he wouldn’t sleep unless he’d watched me drive away.
“Everything going all right with you, pumpkin spice?” It was his special nickname for me from the time I’d been a baby.
“It really is, Daddy. I love what I’m doing, and the clinic is perfect. I’m learning so much.” I paused, thinking of Captain McTavis as I had often over the weekend. “Actually, I have an interesting case right now. He’s a soldier, and he was badly injured during Air Assault school at Campbell.”
“Ah.” My dad nodded. “I heard about that. One of the company commanders with the 94th, wasn’t it?”
“Yeah.” I bit the side of my lip. “I probably shouldn’t say anything about him if you know the guy. Patient confidentiality and all that.”
“Oh, I don’t know him. I just remember when it happened. These kinds of accidents are so rare, word gets around.” He braced one hand on the roof of my car. “How’s he doing? Going to recover?”
“He’s mostly there already.” I shrugged. “The biggest issues are pain management and mobility, and maybe . . .” I wasn’t sure how much to say and how to phrase it. I’d spoken to Colonel Debbings, the battalion commander, this week, updating her on Captain McTavis’s compliance and progress. I knew she was pleased and more than a little relieved. But even with her, I hadn’t told the whole truth. “I’m not sure, but I think he might be afraid to get better. Or maybe afraid that he can’t be who he was before.”
“I can understand that.” My father sighed. “It seems to be more an aspect of a certain personality than it is situational. There are soldiers who lose limbs in battle and yet take up life right where they left off. On the other hand, there are those with less traumatic injuries who never quite bounce back, because they’re not willing to accept the change in themselves and in their future.”
“What happens?” Despite his grumblings to the contrary, I had a sense that deep down, Captain McTavis wanted to continue his military career. I hoped that together, we could make that happen.
“Depends on the person. Some come around and embrace life, even with the differences. Others end up separating from the Army. I’m always sad to see that happen.”
“Hmmm.” I hugged my arms around my middle. “Is there anything I can do to help this man accept the change? I’d hate to see him leave the service.”
“Honey, you know better than me. I’m sure what you’re doing to help him heal will make a difference. In the end, it’s his decision, though.” He patted my arm. “Not to change the subject, but I heard you took away your mom’s key to your house.”
I wrinkled my nose. “Uh oh. Am I in trouble?”
He laughed. “Not at all. She told me that as much as she hated to admit it, you were right. I was actually going to compliment you on handling the situation so well.” Leaning down, he kissed the top of my head. “Your mother and I are proud of you, Tasha. Your road was bumpy for a while, but you made it through. I have a feeling that at some point, you might even be grateful for those hard times. They might give you some insight you wouldn’t otherwise have.”
“Maybe.” I opened the car door. “I haven’t quite gotten to the gratitude place yet, Daddy. Right now, I’m still in the I can’t believe I made it through all that phase.”
“And that’s as it should be.” He stood back as I closed the door and rolled down my window. “Drive safe now, honey. Text your mom when you get home. You know how she—”
“Worries,” I finished for him. “Will do. Love you, Daddy. Thanks for dinner.”
I made my way through the post, quiet during this time on a Sunday. Idly, I wondered if Captain McTavis was here somewhere. I knew from his file that he lived off-post, but maybe he was around visiting friends. He hadn’t shared much about his life with me in the days I’d worked with him this week. Still, I had a sense that he had opened up more to me than he usually did to people.
For a reason I didn’t understand, helping this man heal and return to his old life had become a mission for me. And I didn’t plan to fail.
* * *
“What do you do for fun?”
Captain McTavis paused in the middle of his leg lift. His face was tight as he focused, and sweat had beaded on his forehead. I noticed that his hair was shorter this week than it had been when he’d first appeared at the clinic, and I wondered if this was a good sign, heading back to a regulation military cut. It was still on the long side, but it could be a step in the right direction.
He was working on leg lifts, lying on his side with a neutral spine. I knew it was a greater challenge than he’d anticipated; after we’d spent six weeks of daily appointments with me easing him into the movements and exercises, this week it was time to up the ante.
Lowering his leg back to the resting position, he looked up at me as though I’d babbled in tongues. “What did you say?”
I flipped over one hand, crossing my legs and leaning back a little in my rolling chair. “Fun. You know . . . that thing you do when you’re not working. The thing that makes you smile, because you enjoy doing it.”
“I don’t need you to define the word. I just don’t understand why you’re asking that.” He blew out a quick breath and wiped his head with the back of one hand. “If that’s really what fun is, then my whole life is one fucking funhouse right now. I don’t work at all, ergo, all is fun.”
“You know what I mean. When you’re not here with me, or doing your required exercises at home . . .” I fastened him with the look my other patients referred to as the laser eye. I’d threatened to require witnesses for his home training, if I didn’t see steady results that let me know he was making the effort, but he seemed to be complying so far. “When you’re not doing any of that, what do you do?”
He smirked, the dimple in his chin deepening. Something deep in my belly tightened, and as I did with alarming regularity lately, I studiously ignored it. “Aw, honey, is this your way of asking me out on a date? If that’s what you wanted, all you had to do was let me know.”
“Nice try on the distract, Captain, but no dice. Answer the question.”
Slowly, he used his free hand to push himself into a sitting position. I noted the slight wince, but I also realized his movement was easier than it had been two weeks before—and much better than it had been when he’d first come to the clinic. Whether or not he wanted to acknowledge it, he was progressing.
“When I’m not here, or doing the crap you’re making me do at home, I’m sleeping or I’m sitting on my couch, flipping the television stations. When one of my friends comes over, sometimes we watch a ballgame and have beers.”
I carefully schooled my face to avoid looking critical. “Okay. Now tell me what you did for fun before you were injured.”
This time the pain was impossible to miss, although I knew it wasn’t physical. “I had a life back then. Now I just have an existence.”
“Bullshit.” I’d learned fast that Captain McTavis responded better to hard truths than to sympathy. “You have what you’re choosing now. It’s time to change this idea that wallowing in your own self-pity is necessary. It isn’t.”
He stared at me, his blue eyes boring into mine. I held his gaze, refusing to back down, and in the end, he was the one who glanced away. “Fine. Back . . . before, I worked hard. My job means long hours. And when I wasn’t working, on the weekends, I went out with my friends. We hit the bars or the clubs up in Richmond, and we—we had fun. We drank, and we hooked up. With women.”
Why this information irked me was something I didn’t want to examine too closely. “Hmmm. All right . . . anything else? When you weren’t polluting your body with alcohol and indulging in meaningless sexual encounters, what did you do?”
One of his eyebrows rose, and the side of his mouth twisted. “I didn’t say they were meaningless. They meant a lot to me. At least, during the time I was having them, they did.”
“I’m sure.” My tone was dry. “I don’t need to hear about that, though. Unless sexual function is something that’s a concern to you right now?”
It was a low blow, but I wasn’t going to let this guy goad me without volleying something back. His face went deep red, and his mouth tightened.
“No, there’s nothing wrong in that area of my life. Jesus.” He shifted so that he faced a little more away from me, and I recognized it as the escape tactic it was.
“You’re the one who brought it up.” I shrugged. “I just figured maybe this was something you needed to address. There are medicines, you know, if—”
“I said I’m fine. Believe me, lady, I can get it up any day of the week.” The crude words were snarled out bitterly. “Not that it matters.”
We were skirting territory that made me more than a little uncomfortable. I decided it was time to get us back on track. “Outside of your evening extracurricular activities, did you play team sports? Or run? Woodworking? Golf?”
“No.” He wrapped his arms around his knees. “I liked to work around the house after work and on weekends. I did my own landscaping, and I enjoyed keeping my lawn nice.”
Aha. Now we were getting somewhere. “But you’re not working on your yard now? Why not?”
He lifted one shoulder. “At first, I couldn’t get out there. And then . . . it just didn’t seem to be worth the effort.”
“Huh.” I nodded. “Well, then, you’ve got your assignment for this weekend. I expect you out there, mowing the lawn, pulling weeds, trimming bushes . . . whatever needs doing, you do it. Time for you to take responsibility for that part of your life again.”
His brows drew together. “Are you crazy? Mow the lawn? When I can barely walk across the floor?”
“Again, I call bullshit. You might not realize it, Captain McTavis, but you’ve been walking across the room much faster and smoother lately. You can do this.”
For a few seconds, he didn’t respond. I figured he was trying to come up with a better argument. But when he did speak, it was a single word.
“Derek.”
I cocked my head, although I was pretty sure I knew what he was saying. “I’m sorry?”
“I said, Derek. That’s my name. Only my soldiers and sometimes my commander call me Captain McTavis. It creeps me out when you do it.”
I hesitated. The truth was that I was on a first-name basis with the rest of my patients. Most of the time, calling them by their name put them at ease and built trust, and they felt more comfortable with Tasha than they did with Ms. O’Hare. But I’d intentionally kept Captain McTavis at a little distance, never venturing into that particular territory or inviting him to use my given name.
Of course, now that he’d called me on it, I had a decision to make. I might have made a snarky retort, but before I could answer, I made the mistake of looking into his eyes. For just a half-second, I saw something there, a vulnerability and a need that he’d never shared with me. I knew that if I didn’t tread carefully, I might miss the chance to form a connection that could make all the difference.
Taking a deep breath, I inclined my head a little. “Okay, then. Tasha.”
“Tasha.” He tried it out, as though he was tasting it on his tongue. “It fits you. Although it doesn’t sound Irish, and you clearly are.”
I laughed. “Guilty on both counts. My dad is a true son of Ireland, but my mom’s grandmother was Russian, and that’s where my name comes from.”
“Very international.” He stretched out one leg, flexing his foot experimentally. “I’m named for a great-great grandfather, many times over. Derek is actually short for Dederick. It’s a family tradition that one boy in every generation has to be called Derek.”
“‘In every generation, there is a chosen one.’” I quoted Joss Whedon. “And now, it’s you.”
“Yeah, exactly. That’s me. The slayer.” He snorted. “Maybe I thought I was, at one point. Now . . .” He shrugged. “I’m feeling more like the slain.”
Without thinking, I slid from my chair to the floor next to him and laid a hand on his arm. “You’re not. And this is me speaking as your physical therapist, not some well-meaning person who wants to pump you up.”
I knew I’d made an error in my choice of words even before I saw the glint in his eye, and I held up one finger. “Don’t. Don’t even go there, mister.” I poked his chest. “Time for you to get back to work. We’ve only got another . . .” I checked the clock on the wall. “Fifteen minutes.”
“Fifteen minutes wouldn’t be enough time for how I do things, true . . .” He cocked his head. “But I’m thinking it would be plenty of time for you to pump me up.”
“I asked you nicely not to go there, but you did it anyway. Now you pay the price.” I gave his shoulder a little shove. “On your back. Lift your bent knees to your abdomen and rock to release the vertebrae.”
Derek groaned, but he did as I directed. I made a point of not looking at the way his nylon shorts stretched over his ass and his—
“So, are you from around here? You don’t have an accent.” Derek’s voice roused me from my preoccupation with not noticing his physical attributes.
“Ummm . . . no. No accent. I’m an Army brat. I didn’t live any one place long enough to pick up speech patterns.” I never assumed that most people knew who my father was, but I never assumed they didn’t, either. I had a feeling that Derek had been too focused on himself recently to wonder about other people, particularly when it came to me.
“Really?” He lowered his feet to the floor and peered at me between his parted knees. “Are your parents stationed here now?”
“Yep. Brace your feet hip-width apart, please. We’re going to try something new.”
He sighed, but he did as I asked, frowning up at me. “Your dad—or mom—would have to be pretty close to retirement, right? I mean, unless . . .” I saw the moment realization hit him. “O’Hare. Are you General O’Hare’s daughter?”
“The one and only. Now, slide your hands beneath your lower back and then raise your hips.”
“Seriously, what is this? A pelvic thrust?” He scowled. “The things you make me do.”
“Yeah, you know, it’s all really for my own amusement. I stay up late at night, devising new ways to torture you, Derek.”
“Huh.” He grunted as he raised and lowered his hips. “So . . . a general’s daughter. That must’ve been fun, growing up.”
“It wasn’t bad. I never knew anything different. Moving wasn’t always easy, but I adjusted.” I watched him with a critical eye. “Keep your shoulders pressed into the mat, please. Two more. One and . . . two. Okay, take a break.”
Derek blew out one long breath. “Aren’t you kind of old to still be living with your folks?”
I raised one eyebrow. “I don’t think that’s any of your business . . . but I don’t live with my parents. I have my own apartment. I just happen to live near their current post, because this was the clinical residency I wanted.” I stood up and circled around to my desk. “All right, get up and have a seat here for a moment, please.”
“Thank God.” Derek rolled to his side, pushed up to his knees and rose to his feet. I noted that he did it with considerably more speed and less visible distress than he had a week before. He paused by the edge of the mat and used the hem of his T-shirt to wipe off his face. I couldn’t help staring at the expanse of skin exposed. Despite the way he carried on about being out of shape and weak, there was no pudge or flab on him. I’d touched him there, as I’d guided him through exercises. But seeing him . . .
I gave my head a little shake. Gah, I had to pull myself together. Getting emotionally involved with a patient was a serious no-no—and then there was the fact that I had no desire to get involved with anyone. I didn’t trust my own ability to judge—not yet. That part of my self-confidence hadn’t recovered from Wes.
“Are you okay?” Derek was in front of my desk, watching me curiously. “You looked like you were thinking of something that pissed you off.”
“Really?” I’d been afraid that he was going to say I’d looked sad. This was progress. “Uh, no, sorry. I just had an idea about your homework. Do you have a stability ball?”
“No, I’m pretty sure I’ve just got regular balls.” When I cast him a reproving glare, he lifted his hands in feigned innocence. “Footballs. Baseballs. Volleyballs. Geez, Tasha, what were you thinking?”
Ignoring the innuendo, I went on. “You’re doing much better. At this point, our goal is to strengthen your core to take any strain from your back. Using the stability ball will help that, and the nice part is that it doesn’t have to add to your regular exercise regimen. You can sit on it when you’re working at your desk, watching television or even eating.”
“Okay.” Derek slid his hands into his front pockets. “I can do that.”
“You should be able to buy one at any sports goods store, or anywhere they carry basic exercise equipment.” I tapped a few buttons on my tablet, noting the additional instructions I’d given him today, and then clicking it off. “Other than that, I’d like you to at least try some of the yard work we discussed earlier. If the lawn is too much, start with weeding or trimming bushes. Don’t overdo, but do push yourself a little.”
“I’ll give it a shot.” He paused. “You could come by to check up on me, make sure I’m following through. It’s supposed to be a nice weekend to be outside.”
I gripped the edge of the desk. This was harder than it should have been. It wasn’t unusual for a patient to make overtures to his therapist. We often became close, and frequently, our clients looked at us as the only ones who truly understood what they were going through. In Derek’s case, he was slowly recovering both physically and emotionally, and he was finally beginning to accept the possibility that he could have his life back. As he considered making connections again, it was only natural that he’d turned to the person who was the most convenient—me.
“Hey. Tasha.” He leaned forward, until I had no choice but to look at him. “I see you over there struggling with the moral and ethical implications of this decision. Don’t. I don’t have a crush on you, and I don’t have ulterior motives here. I just . . .” He trailed off. “I need the accountability. If I know there’s a chance you might stop by, I’ll be more likely to actually do this. If not, I know I’ll come up with ten different reasons I shouldn’t do it.”
Embarrassment washed over me. What had I been thinking? Of course, Captain Derek McTavis wasn’t making overtures to me, the scrawny little redhead physical therapist. I wasn’t his type at all, and I’d just made a fool of myself by even thinking anything else. He was trying. He was making a real attempt to move forward, and I needed to encourage that.
“I can’t make any promises, but I’ll try.” I put one hand on my hip. “And if I show up, and you’re not working in your yard, I’ll come up with something worse. Got it?”
“Yes, ma’am.” He grinned, and I realized this was the first time he’d really smiled, with no sardonic undertones to the expression. He looked years younger. “Should I give you my address?”
“I can pull it from your file.” I eased my hip onto the edge of my desk. “Now get out of here. I do have other patients, you know.”
“Yeah.” He began to leave, stopping in the doorway to turn back for a moment. “Thanks, Tasha. I know I’m not easy, but when I’m here, somehow you make me believe I can get back to who I was. I haven’t had that hope for a long time.”
A lump rose in my throat, but I forced a smile. “That’s my job. And it’s your hard work that’s making the difference.”
“Still.” He rapped his knuckles against the door jamb. “Okay, then . . . see you this weekend. Maybe.”
“Maybe,” I echoed as he disappeared down the hallway. I sank into my desk chair and covered my face with my hands.
Who the hell was I kidding? There was no maybe about it. Whether or not it was a good idea or crossing any professional lines, I was definitely going to be paying a visit to the home of Derek McTavis.