clock, the funereal cadence, five ticks, five seconds.
Then a searing pain blazed through him, the mother of all pain, not
from an assault by the traveler but arising from within, accompanied by
white light as bright as the eye of a nuclear explosion might be, an
all-obliterating whiteness that erased the traveler from his view and
all the cares of the world from his consideration. Peace.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN.
Because he had suffered some nerve damage in addition to the spinal
fracture, Jack required a longer course of therapy at Phoenix
Rehabilitation Hospital than he had anticipated. As promised, Moshe
Bloom taught him to make a friend of pain, to see it as evidence of
rebuilding and recovery. By early July, four months from the day he
had been shot down, gradually diminishing pain had been a constant
companion for so long that it was not just a friend but a brother. On
July seventeenth, when he was discharged from Phoenix, he was able to
walk again, although he still required the assurance of not one but two
canes. He seldom actually used both, sometimes neither, but was
fearful of falling without them, especially on a staircase. Although
slow, he was for the most part steady on his feet, however, influenced
by an occasional vagrant nerve impulse, either leg could go entirely
limp without warning, causing his knee to buckle. Those unpleasant
surprises became less frequent by the week. He hoped to be rid of one
cane by August and the other by September. Moshe Bloom, as solid as
sculpted rock but still pearing to drift along as if propelled on a
thin cushion of air, accompanied Jack to the front entrance, while
Heather brought the car from the parking lot. The therapist was
dressed all in white, as usual, but his skullcap was crocheted and
colorful. “Listen, you be sure to keep up those daily exercises.”
“All right.”
“Even after you’re able to give up the canes.”
“I will.”
“The tendency is to slack off. Sometimes when the patient gets most of
the function back, regains his confidence, he decides he doesn’t have
to work at it any more. But the healing is still going on even if he
doesn’t realize it.”
“I hear you.” Holding open the front door for Jack, Moshe said, “Next
thing you know, he has problems, has to come back here on an outpatient
basis to gain back the ground he’s lost.”
“Not me,” Jack assured him, glancing outside into the gloriously hot
summer day. “Take your medication when you need it.”
“I will.”
“Don’t try to tough it out.”
“I won’t.”
“Hot baths with Epsom salts when you’re sore.” Jack nodded solemnly.
“And I swear to God, every day I’ll eat my chicken soup.” Laughing,
Moshe said, “I don’t mean to mother you.”
“Yes you do.”
“No, not really.”
“You’ve been mothering me for weeks.”
“Have I? Yes, all right, I do mean to do it.” Jack hooked one cane
over his wrist so he could shake hands.
“Thank you, Moshe.” The therapist shook hands, then hugged him.
“You’ve made a hell of a comeback. I’m proud of you.”
“You’re damned good at this job, my friend.” As Heather and Toby
pulled up in the car, Moshe grinned. “Of course I’m good at it. We
Jews know all about suffering.” For a few days, just being in his own
home and sleeping in his own bed was such a delight that Jack needed to
make no effort to sustain optimism. Sitting in his favorite armchair,
eating meals whenever he wanted rather than when a rigid institutional
schedule said he must, helping Heather to cook dinner, reading to Toby
before bedtime, watching television after ten o’clock in the evening
without having to wear headphones–these things were more satisfying to
him than all the luxuries and pleasures to which a Saudi Arabian prince
might be entitled. He remained concerned about family finances, but he
had hope on that front too. He expected to be back at work in some
capacity by August, at last earning a paycheck again.
Before he could return to duty on the street, however, he would be
required to pass a rigorous department physical and a psychological