Eight Seconds

Maya Reed arrived carrying a canvas bag and half a sandwich.

"Nathan said you kept the appointment," she told Ethan. "I assumed he had called the wrong number."

"I'm delighted my commitment inspires such confidence."

She finished her bite, put the sandwich away, and looked toward the two people waiting near the window.

"You must be Lily."

"Did he tell you about the million dollars?"

"He left that out. I would have brought a better sandwich."

Ethan introduced Claire, then explained what had happened in the garden. Maya listened without smiling at the parts he wished she might find funny.

"You invited them to observe?" she asked.

"Subject to your approval."

"And yours," Maya told Claire. "You can leave whenever you like. He can stop whenever he needs to. Nobody is here to make anything happen."

Claire nodded. Lily set her blue backpack on a chair.

Maya pulled the blinds halfway down. The terrace guests had gone home, but Ethan appreciated the gesture.

He had designed this room before returning from the hospital. At the time, he had expected to outgrow it in a few months. The equipment still looked new because he had spent too many appointments arguing about what he should already be able to do.

Today Maya began exactly as she always did.

She asked about pain and fatigue. He transferred to the therapy bench, and she checked the brace they had been using for supported standing. Lily watched without interrupting.

"Did you eat?" Maya asked.

"There was a reception."

"That isn't an answer."

"He drank water," Lily offered.

Maya looked at her. "Thank you. An eyewitness is useful."

Ten minutes later, having eaten a banana he had not wanted, Ethan positioned himself between the parallel bars.

His palms grew damp.

Nobody spoke.

He looked down at his shoes, lined up where Maya had helped place them. The left one never looked quite right to him. Before the accident, he had never once considered how much work went into keeping a foot beneath a knee.

"Tell me when you're ready," she said.

Ethan tightened his grip. For a moment he was aware of Claire by the wall, Lily on the chair, and the possibility of disappointing them both.

"Can you look at the window?" he asked the girl.

Lily turned immediately.

No offended question. No assurance that he needn't be embarrassed.

Just the back of her head, giving him what he had asked for.

He leaned forward and pushed.

His arms took much of the effort. Maya stayed close, one hand ready at the gait belt. His legs trembled as his weight shifted.

Then he was upright.

"Good," Maya said. "Keep breathing."

He tried. The room seemed brighter from this height.

Claire pressed her lips together. He could see the effort she was making to remain quiet.

"You can look now," Ethan said.

Lily turned.

Her face opened into a smile so immediate that he felt it in his throat.

"You're taller than my teacher."

"A prestigious distinction."

"She's very tall."

"Five more seconds," Maya said.

His left knee began to shake harder.

"I'm fine."

"I didn't ask. We're sitting."

He wanted to bargain. Then he remembered the child's back, turned without complaint, and let Maya guide him down.

For several seconds, all he could do was breathe.

Lily waited until he looked up.

"Was it longer than yesterday?"

Maya checked her notes. "About the same. Eight good seconds."

Ethan wiped his forehead with a towel. "You've traveled twenty minutes for eight seconds."

Claire glanced at her daughter. "I've traveled farther for worse school concerts."

"You said you liked the recorder concert."

"I liked seeing you. The recorders were a separate matter."

Lily looked betrayed. Ethan laughed into the towel.

They tried once more after a rest. This time he shifted his weight, following Maya's instructions, but she stopped him before he attempted to move a foot.

He sat with disappointment lodged beneath his ribs.

"I thought we could do more."

"You missed two appointments last week," Maya said. "We work with the body that came in today."

He glanced at Lily. She was examining the ruler marks on a balance board.

"You understand I haven't won your million dollars yet?" he asked.

"It's my million dollars. You're the one who has to walk."

"An important distinction."

Claire sat beside her. "We should make something clear about that. Lily, an afternoon in this room doesn't mean Mr. Cole will be able to walk. He might not."

"I know."

"And he doesn't owe us a performance," Claire added.

Ethan looked at the garden through the lowered blinds. Beyond the terrace, the fountain glimmered in the afternoon sun.

"But I owe you a promise I made," he said. "I shouldn't have used it to mock you. I'd rather give it a meaning worth keeping."

Maya followed his gaze.

"We can set a goal," she said. "We can't set a recovery deadline."

"The terrace to the fountain. With whatever equipment you recommend."

"How far is that?" Lily asked.

Maya measured it while he rested. Thirty-four feet along the smooth path.

Claire frowned. "Does he have to do it all at once?"

"No," Ethan said, before Maya could answer. "He can rest. He can use crutches. Nobody carries him."

Lily gave a solemn nod. "And you have to listen when she says to sit down."

"You've added a supervisory clause."

"Someone has to."

Maya wrote the distance on a card and left it by the bars.

When the equipment was put away, Claire took a large cream envelope from her bag.

Ethan knew what it was before she spoke. His name was written across it in unfamiliar, careful handwriting.

"Sam kept a notebook from work," she said. "He copied something into these papers before he died. There's a letter too."

Ethan reached for the envelope, then stopped to dry his hands again.

"Would you stay?"

Claire looked at Lily. "If you want us to."

They moved to the adjoining sitting room. Maya brought water and remained near the doorway.

Inside the envelope were a folded letter, two copied notebook pages, and a small stack of photographs in a paper sleeve.

Ethan set the photographs aside.

A date at the top of the first page caught his eye.

He knew it without reading the year.

The night of the accident.

Beneath it, Samuel had written a heading in blue ink.

Benjamin Cole. Message for his brother.

Ethan's fingers tightened against the paper.

Ben had spoken afterward.

He had been alive long enough to leave words Ethan had never heard.

Ethan looked up at Claire.

"Your husband heard him?"

"Yes."

"And he wrote it down?"

She nodded.

He lowered his eyes to the first line.