Embarrassed.
Laughing.
Afraid.
She knew which mornings he could not button his shirt because his hands spasmed.
She knew he cried once after dreaming he could run.
She never mentioned it.
Nicholas knew Hannah worried about money even when bills were paid.
Knew she checked Ethan’s schoolwork during lunch.
Knew she hated olives.
Knew she secretly watched terrible reality television.
Knew she sang quietly when organizing medication.
They irritated each other.
Constantly.
One night, nearly a year after Claire’s arrest, Nicholas found Hannah in the kitchen eating cereal at midnight.
He wheeled in.
She looked up.
“You can't sleep?”
“No.”
“Pain?”
“No.”
“Then?”
He looked at the cereal.
“Is that dinner?”
“Second dinner.”
“You eat like a teenager.”
“I raised one.”
He moved beside the table.
Silence.
Hannah ate.
Then Nicholas asked:
“Why did you grab her?”
She stopped.
“Claire?”
“Yes.”
“She was going to hit you.”
“You could have called security.”
“Yes.”
“You could have stepped back.”
“Yes.”
“Why grab her?”
Hannah thought.
Then shrugged.
“I didn't think.”
Nicholas looked at her.
“That isn't like you.”
“No.”
“What did you feel?”
She stared at the cereal.
“Angry.”
He smiled.
“At her?”
“Yes.”
“For hitting your patient?”
Hannah looked up.
“For hitting you.”
The distinction landed.
Nicholas said nothing.
Neither did Hannah.
Then she stood.
“Goodnight.”
He watched her leave.
Something had changed.
Neither named it.
Weeks later, Nicholas’s physical therapist convinced him to attend a charity gala.
He refused.
Hannah said:
“You should go.”
“No.”
“You used to like them.”
“I tolerated them.”
“You own half the foundation.”
“Exactly why I don't need to attend.”
Hannah folded her arms.
“You’re afraid.”
Nicholas stared.
“Excuse me?”
“Public.”
“Wheelchair.”
“People staring.”
Nicholas’s jaw tightened.
Hannah immediately regretted the bluntness.
Then he surprised her.
“Yes.”
She softened.
He continued:
“They remember me standing.”
Hannah said nothing.
“They'll look at the chair first.”
“Probably.”
“That is not helpful.”
“You don't pay me to lie.”
Nicholas looked toward the window.
Hannah said:
“Then they'll get bored.”
He looked back.
“Bored?”
“People normalize almost anything faster than we expect.”
Nicholas smiled faintly.
“You think so?”
“I work in healthcare.”
“People adapt.”
He attended.
The first thirty minutes were miserable.
People overcompensated.
Some crouched unnecessarily when speaking to him.
One man placed a hand on Nicholas’s shoulder without permission.
Nicholas nearly broke his wrist.
Hannah intervened with a look.
Then something happened.
Business began.
Arguments.
Contracts.
Donations.
Politics.
Nicholas became Nicholas.
The chair became part of the room.
Not invisible.
Irrelevant.
On the drive home, he asked Hannah:
“Bored?”