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“Emma?” Danilo called.
“Come in.” My voice was small, and tears had started streaming down my cheeks. I didn’t look up as Danilo came in. His shoes appeared in my line of vision. He gripped me and hoisted me up. I managed to pull up the sweatpants so they covered me. Danilo put me down in my wheelchair. I moved toward the wash basin and managed to turn the water on while Danilo watched me. I cleaned my hands, then leaned back in the chair.
“Progress,” the nurse said with a smile. I didn’t return the smile.
Eventually, she left. Danilo pushed me back into the bedroom, then crouched before me again. “Emma, you are strong. Soon, you’ll be able to do this alone, but as long as you can’t, I don’t mind helping you, okay?” I looked into his eyes and gave a small nod.
Four weeks after I had woken up from my coma, I returned home against the recommendation of the doctors. They thoughtI should go to a rehabilitation clinic, but Danilo and Dad weren’t confident that they could guarantee my protection there. All my therapy sessions would either take place at home or Danilo would drive me there.
When I finally came home, some feeling had returned to my legs. In the beginning, it was mainly as a tingling like the sensation of feeling returning to your limbs after falling asleep, only that my legs didn’t “wake” up, and the tingling felt more like a bothersome prickling. Despite the sleepless nights that this insistent prickling caused at first, it was better than the numbness of the first few days and weeks. Entirely numb areas remained like my toes, and my calves only signaled a sort of dull pressure when I put my weight on them or something very heavy rested on them. Apart from that, they didn’t register touch.
My home didn’t feel like a home anymore because I couldn’t even get to my bedroom on the upper floor without someone carrying me there. I couldn’t use the toilet without help because there weren’t handles yet. The sinks were too high for me to reach while sitting in the wheelchair. The list was long. Apparently, Mom didn’t want the house to be made accessible because that would equal accepting that I would have to use a wheelchair forever. Dad was already too poorly to bother getting involved in the argument. But a week after my return, Danilo lost it.
“As Underboss of this city, my word is law, Mother, for you and everyone else, and I’ve made the decision to turn this house into a place where Emma feels welcome. Tomorrow, craftsmen will arrive and start their work.”
Mom was stunned into silence, and I felt relieved. The past few days had been a string of things I couldn’t do because I couldn’t reach them with my wheelchair. It had made me feel left out and helpless, even more so than in the hospital.
Once the elevator was installed and everything else was made accessible, I could move around the house without constant help. Everything still took a long time, and the shelves remained out of my reach, but I felt like I had regained a tiny bit of my freedom. Of course, Mom or Danilo was always home, but I felt a little more like my old self.
Every day, someone came over to do physical therapy and massages with me, and eventually, even a therapist visited me to help me cope. Despite Danilo’s aversion to strangers in the house, the Outfit simply didn’t have someone who specialized in helping someone with my type of spinal injury.
They were the only people I saw except for bodyguards, my family, and the doctors. Danilo wanted me out of the public eye until I felt stronger. Sometimes I wondered if my mental state was the only reason I spent my days at home.
I didn’t know how much of my condition was public knowledge. Many of my friends had written in the first few weeks after I woke up, but it soon became obvious that their curiosity was the reason and not true concern or friendship.
Eventually, when I didn’t reveal more of my condition, most of them stopped writing. Only my closest friend Giorgia remained from my group of friends in Indianapolis. She, however, treated me as if nothing had happened.
When she visited me the first time, two weeks after my release from the hospital (Danilo hadn’t allowed her to see me sooner), she walked straight past my concerned brother and hugged me tightly as if nothing had changed. Her mane of curly red hair tickled my face. She pulled back and smiled at me, then looked at the electric wheelchair in one corner of the foyer. I almost never used it. “Can I try it? I want to know how it is for you.” She grimaced, then tilted her head, her blue eyes flickering with worry. “Was that rude? My mother said I should be carefulnot to be rude, but we’ve been friends forever. I mean, you know how I am.”
I burst out laughing for the first time since my accident. “You are you, Giorgia, and I don’t want you to act any different.”
Giorgia sat on the electric wheelchair with her tongue wedged between her lips as she tried to figure out how it worked. I preferred the agility of my manual wheelchair. Danilo stood a few steps from us. He hovered a lot during the day, which meant he had to work at night. I wasn’t sure when he ever slept. Giorgia let out a little screech when the wheelchair suddenly surged forward, and she almost collided with my brother. He cocked an eyebrow at her.
I laughed again. The sound felt foreign, and my ribs actually ached.
“Whoa, this thing is fast.” She turned the joystick, and the chair moved to the right, almost striking the staircase. She sent me a wide-eyed look. “Is this made for racing?”
I bit my lip and shook my head. “It takes practice, but I prefer this chair.” I patted my light, agile chair. She moved the wheelchair back to the corner, then she stood.
I felt a pang and had to swallow hard.
Giorgia’s expression fell, her eyes softening. I guess my face showed how much the sight of her simply getting out of the wheelchair hurt me because it would never be like that for me. My physical therapist had promised me we would work with leg braces as soon as my body allowed it, but he had also been very clear that with the damage my spinal cord had sustained, the chances of me walking without support ever again were almost nil.
“I’m sorry.”
I shook my head. She had nothing to be sorry for. “You made me laugh for the first time in weeks.”
Giorgia came over to me. “I thought we could watch a movie and eat popcorn?”
I nodded, so we moved upstairs to my room in the new elevator. Danilo finally left us alone.
We usually watched movies on my bed. Giorgia plopped down as usual, then sat up with an uncertain expression. “Or do you prefer to sit on the sofa?” She motioned to the sofa off to the side. I hadn’t used it since my accident. The TV could be turned either way.
“No,” I said, then wheeled closer to the bed. I arrested the brakes. I still had trouble getting from the wheelchair into bed, even if it was a new, lower model. Giorgia watched me as I tried to hoist myself into bed. After three tries, I finally managed to land my butt in bed. I used my arms to scoot backward until my back hit the headboard. Then I leaned back and had to take a deep breath. My body ached, and I felt tired from this brief movement.
Giorgia held the remote in her hand but hadn’t turned on the TV yet. “If you ever want to talk, I’m here.”
I nodded. I preferred talking to my therapist. It was easier to share my darkest fears with a near stranger than with the people I knew. “I want to watch a movie.”