You Are Beautiful

The heat stroke Emlyn had suffered caused more damage than she originally thought. The symptoms were mild at first: confusion, headache, flushed skin. She thought it was just a mild sunburn, but her skin was feverish and she fluctuated between sweating and feeling too dry. Maybe she'd trained too hard, pushed herself too hard.

She tried to cool off by taking a cold shower, but nothing helped. When she started vomiting and couldn’t remember what day it was, she knew something was horribly wrong. She called her boyfriend in the other room for help, but he couldn’t hear her over his headphones full of loud video games.

She didn’t remember the ambulance ride, or the copious amounts of intravenous fluids the ER staff pushed into her body. The catheter they ran showed her urine to be as dark as the color of whiskey, her temperature reading a horrific 104 degrees. The on-call doctor started hollering for the nurses to cool her down while Emlyn’s body started to shut down.

That was four weeks ago. She was more stable now, coherent for the most part, but she was stuck in bed because her muscles had given up on her. Her boyfriend had ended their relationship, saying her constant need for supervision was taking a toll on his mental health. More like taking a toll on whatever video game campaign was occupying his time these days. She turned her head on the pillow and sighed.

Her father showed up a few minutes after 3, his gruff demeanor again causing her to stiffen with anxiety. She felt like a burden, a 33 year old child that couldn’t drive herself to her physical therapy appointment. Her father thought she was weak, she knew that. His idea of recovery was to just “walk it off”, and she could never make him understand that it was more than that - how close she came to dying.

Please don’t let this new physical therapist be as mean as the last one, she thought to herself. I’m trying to get better, why does nobody believe that? Another sigh, another walk down self-deprecation lane.

The drive to the therapist’s office was thankfully brief, and they were met at the curb with a wheelchair. Her father snorted with derision and rolled his eyes, but was glad that he didn't have to get out and load her into it. The sweet nurse opened the door and smiled, extending her arm for Emlyn to take so she could help her into the waiting chair.

“I’ll be back in about an hour,” her father said, after rolling the passenger side window down. As she looked back to say thank you, she realized he’d already rolled it back up and was driving off.

“Well, he’s a big bundle of joy, isn’t he?” the nurse chuckled.

Emlyn could only smile and nod, grateful for the soft, non judgmental voice.

“I sure hope you’re Miss Emlyn Watts. If not, I’m going to get in trouble for kidnapping another patient.”

“What?!” Emlyn squeaked in dismay.

“Honey, I'm just joking!” the nurse laughed at Emlyn’s shock. “You looked so down, I was trying to put a smile on your pretty face.”

“Oh thank goodness. Yes, it worked!” Emlyn said with a laugh, her first one in over a month.

“Good. Now let’s get you inside and checked in,” the nurse said as she wheeled Emlyn inside.

The building was drab on the outside, plain brown brick and a beige awning. But inside, it was bright, the walls painted like beach scenes and the aroma of the air tinged with the scent of buttered popcorn. There was one other man seated in the lobby area, his hands cradled on top of a cane and whistling to himself. He waved to the nurse as she walked by pushing Emlyn and she returned the gesture.

The check in process was quick, and before long Emlyn was seated on a long, low therapist’s table. She sat there quietly humming, her way of dealing with the stress of what she was sure would be another frustrating session with someone that doesn’t take her seriously. There was a soft tap, tap, tap on the door before it swung open.

“Hi, Emlyn is it? I’m Scott, your physical therapist.”

Oh hell no, she thought to herself. Nope, no. Hell no, no way. This man was not a therapist, he was someone that sculptors would beg for as a model, or painters would immortalize on the ceilings of chapels. He stood there, swinging his arm behind him to shut the door and Emlyn just sat there in a state of intense awe. It felt like he took up the entire space between her and the rest of the room. She took a deep breath, and could smell him.

“Are you alright, Emlyn? You look startled,” Scott asked.

She could only nod her head and hope that he thought she was a simpleton; that maybe her look of confusion just stemmed from the residual heat stroke.

“Shall we get started?” he asked. Again, she could only nod. She mentally made a note to find another therapist because there was no way in hell she was going to let this Greek god work on her.

“Lay down, please, Emlyn.”

She flopped over on the table on her back, averting her eyes and hoping that this session would be over in a matter of seconds. She was wrong.

“I read in your chart that you had a heat stroke about a month ago, training for an IronMan triathlon. Pretty impressive,” he said, trying to make small talk. She could only nod in response as she stared at the ceiling. There, taped to the surface, was a poster of a marigold with the bright sun at its back and the words “You are beautiful” scrawled in petite handwriting across the bottom.

“Yeah, I know, cheesy right? My nurse put that up. She said it helps patients relax. But that doesn’t seem to be working for you, now does it?”

Emlyn didn’t realize he was lifting her leg and pushing it towards her stomach. She was resisting the motion out of pure distress that this man was standing so close to her, let alone touching her.

“I’m...just a little tense, sir. I haven’t been able to get myself back into training and my muscles seem to be failing me,” she managed to say.

“She does speak!” he exclaimed, his face lighting up with a gorgeous smile. “And no need to call me sir, that makes me feel old. You and I are only a few months apart, according to your chart.”

Emlyn couldn’t respond, she could only half-smile and bob her head. His hands on her thigh and calf were terribly distracting. She was gripping the table with such force that her knuckles were turning white.

“If I’m hurting you, please tell me,” Scott said, noticing her death grip. “My goal is to retrain the muscles, not cause more injury.”

“No, you’re not hurting me. I’m just preparing for the pain...which doesn’t seem to be coming, thank goodness.”

“Excellent. I’m going to keep stretching you out, let me know if anything hurts, deal?” he asked.

Emlyn signaled a yes and bit the inside of her lip. He shifted his left hand to push down on her hip, elevating her leg and causing tension on her hamstring. She took a slow and steadying breath, in through her nose, out through her mouth as she closed her eyes.

The stretch was a good one. She could feel her muscles straining, but it felt so good. Her legs tingling, her muscles contracted and relaxed, pulling themselves into the stretch and giving in to the movement. Emlyn relaxed her vice grip on the table as she let out a soft moan of relief.

“That was a good sound, right?” Scott said, his voice tender and way too close. Emlyn opened her eyes and saw him staring down at her.

His eyes were the deepest green, like the fresh leaves of a woodland tree, his brow smooth and unfurrowed as he looked deeply at her. Emlyn’s first reaction was to reach up and brush the errant tendril of hair that swept across his forehead, but she resisted. Instead she just stared at his forest colored eyes and smiled.

“Yes, I do believe that was a good sound,” she said with a breathy voice, her heart slamming against the inside of her chest like a drum.

How his eyes sparkled when he smiled. She couldn’t stare at them any longer so she looked up and focused on the marigold hanging above her face. You are beautiful, she mused to the marigold. But that’s not about me, that’s about him. He is beautiful.

The rest of the session was quick, too quick. She had originally hoped for speed, but she was now despondent with Scott’s efficiency. She could have let him touch her for hours; his strong, capable hands coaxing the strength from her atrophied muscles, awakening them from their month-long slumber.

She shook her head at the poetry she was now feebly attempting in her brain. Get it together Em, she thought, he’s your therapist.

“So, it looks like we’ve got a few weeks to work together on this. With your years of endurance training, I’m sure we’ll have you back to your old self in no time,” he said with enthusiasm.

“That’s great news, sir. Err, I mean Scott. Thank you,” Emlyn replied.

“I’d like to see you again a week from today.”

And I’d like to see you sitting across from me at a candlelit table as we share a fancy dinner and tell stories about our childhoods, she thought.

“A week from today, no problem,” is how she really responded. Scott stepped towards the door, opened it and stepped into the hallway.

“See you in a week then. Ah, here’s Nurse Goode with your chariot.”

The delightful nurse saddled up to the table and loaded Emlyn into the wheelchair. “Don’t you worry dear, we’ll have you running and jumping all over the place in no time. Now let’s get you outside. Your grumpy ride is here,” she added with a chuckle.

Emlyn was quickly loaded into her father’s car, and she turned to ask him a favor. “I’d like to stop at the florist on the way home, please.”

“For what?” he scoffed.

“I want a bouquet of marigolds. They’re suddenly quite beautiful to me,” she replied.

He rolled his eyes, but didn't argue. She sounded different to him, more like the Emlyn he remembered from before.

As they drove away, Scott stood at his office window and released a deep whoosh of breath, his hand on his chest. That was the most difficult session he had ever had. He was struck by her beauty when he opened the door - her light brown eyes big and sad, her face drawn with a month’s worth of misery. He could barely speak when he saw her, let alone when he had to touch her; he felt clumsy and inept, even though he had been doing therapy for several years now. And when she moaned...he almost came apart.

Scott simultaneously dreaded the long seven day wait to see her again and actually having to see her again. What if she doesn’t come back, what if she decides he isn’t helping her…

His inner torment was suddenly shattered by the interruption of Nurse Goode, reminding him that his next patient was ready. She could tell he was startled, saw him watching Emlyn drive off and smiled a knowing smile.

“She’s very pretty, don’t you think?” she asked him as he turned to face her.

“Whatever do you mean?” he said as he casually strolled toward the door.

“Uh huh,” is all she said as she watched him grin to himself and glance quickly again at the window.