Chapter 3 - THE THERAPIST THEY TRIED TO FIRE
The next morning, Dr. Nathan Cole arrived twenty minutes early.
Nathan had been my physical therapist since month two.
Forty-three years old.
Former college wrestler.
Absolutely unimpressed by money.
That was probably why I liked him.
He closed the therapy-room door.
“Tessa says we have a problem.”
“We have several.”
I handed him the document.
He read it once.
Then again.
His jaw hardened.
“I never recommended maintenance-only care.”
“I assumed.”
“Your rehabilitation physician didn’t either.”
“Voss signed it.”
“Voss isn’t your rehabilitation physician.”
Exactly.
Dr. Leonard Voss specialized in internal medicine.
He had no business overriding my spinal injury team.
Nathan put the paper down.
“Vincent, listen carefully. Nobody can promise you’ll walk again.”
“I know.”
“But stopping therapy now could cost you strength, circulation, flexibility, independence, and every functional gain we haven’t reached yet.”
I looked toward my useless legs.
“I’m tired of people speaking about recovery like it only counts if I walk.”
Nathan smiled.
“Good.”
“That surprises you?”
“It took you six months to say it.”
He was right.
I had measured every day against the question I was most afraid to ask.
Will I walk?
Meanwhile, Tessa celebrated when I transferred two inches more independently.
Nathan celebrated when my trunk balance improved.
They were building a life.
I had been waiting for my old one.
“Work me.”
For two hours, he did.
By the end, my arms shook.
Sweat ran down my neck.
Tessa handed me water.
“You look terrible.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
Nathan packed his equipment.
Then someone knocked.
Arya walked in with Dr. Voss.
Neither looked pleased.
“What is he doing here?” Arya asked.
Nathan didn’t even look at her.
“Working.”
“I canceled these sessions.”
“You don’t employ me.”
“I manage Vincent’s care.”
I spoke.
“No, you don’t.”
Silence.
Arya turned.
“What?”
I kept my face neutral.
“I said Nathan manages therapy. You manage wedding invitations.”
Her cheeks reddened.
Voss stepped forward.
“Vincent, perhaps we should discuss your expectations.”
“My expectation is that doctors I hire remember who the patient is.”
He smiled carefully.
“No one is suggesting otherwise.”
“You signed an order ending restorative therapy.”
The room froze.
Arya looked at Tessa.
Not me.
Tessa’s face gave her nothing.
Voss cleared his throat.
“That document reflected anticipated long-term planning.”
“Based on whose assessment?”
“Mine.”
“You’ve never performed a neurological examination on me.”
Arya interrupted.
“You’re getting upset.”
I laughed.
There was the script.
Upset.
Confused.
Overwhelmed.
“Get out.”
Her face changed.
“Vincent.”
“I said get out.”
Voss left first.
Arya stayed.
“You’re humiliating me in front of staff.”
“No. I’m disagreeing with you in front of witnesses.”
Her eyes flashed.
Then she leaned close enough that only I could hear.
“You have no idea how vulnerable you are right now.”
I held her gaze.
“Neither do you.”
She walked out.
Nathan exhaled.
“That went well.”
Tessa stared at me.
“You weren’t supposed to show them you knew.”
“I showed them one thing.”
“You think they’ll panic.”
“I hope they do.”
I had spent my life watching men hide evidence when they believed themselves safe.
But scared people moved things.
Called people.
Made mistakes.
At noon, my attorney arrived.
Samuel DeLuca had handled my affairs for eighteen years.
I showed him the proxy.
He went silent.
Then he removed his glasses.
“This notarization is false.”
“How do you know?”
“Because the notary listed here died eight months before you were shot.”
Tessa covered her mouth.
Sam continued.
“And there’s something else.”
He opened his leather folder.
“Arya filed a petition yesterday.”
“For what?”
His eyes met mine.
“To have you declared temporarily incompetent to manage your business holdings.”
I almost admired the speed.
Almost.
“On what grounds?”
Sam slid the petition across my lap.
Medical impairment.
Emotional instability.
Cognitive decline following trauma.
Attached was a sworn statement from Dr. Voss.
And another from Dominic.
But the third affidavit made my blood turn cold.
It came from someone who had known me since childhood.
May you like
My younger brother, Michael.
Michael had sworn that I was no longer capable of making rational decisions.
