Chapter 88
Dr. Quill smiled graciously. “No trouble at all. I was nearby for a free clinic.”
Both men paused, waiting for Lucille.
Grandma had finished the vegetables and set the table, overjoyed to hear about the acupuncture session.
It was dinner time. Though Dr. Quill politely declined, Lucille, Grandma, and Cedrick insisted he eat first.
Dr. Quill smiled and obliged, quickly ate, rested briefly, then began Lucille’s Acupuncture Therapy.
Everyone held their breath throughout, careful not to disturb Dr. Quill.
After the session, Lucille rested while Cedrick joined Dr. Quill outside for some hypocrisy.
Lucille heard muted voices but couldn’t discern their words.
Eventually, Cedrick escorted Dr. Quill out.
By Cedrick’s return, night had fallen. They stayed at Grandma’s house.
This marked Cedrick’s first overnight stay there in five years. He occupied Lucille’s childhood room with its single bed.
Grandma’s house had other rooms–those once belonging to Lucille’s parents and brother.
Eyeing the narrow bed, Lucille suggested, “My room’s too small. You could-”
“What do you think?”
He cut her off mid–sentence.
Lucille fell silent.
He was fastidious–perhaps selectively so–and disliked her parents and brother.
She gave up. Let him sleep wherever. She settled into bed first.
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He perched on her bedside.
“Mrs. Maynard, how many secrets are you keeping?”
He always used “Mrs. Maynard” in that sarcastic tone when picking fights.
Lucille mentally tallied her secrets. Many existed–but which one did he mean?
“How did you meet this doctor?
Daily needles here, yet you told me nothing?”
Lucille stayed quiet.
“The doctor just informed me your leg requires daily massages. You told neither me nor Grandma. Who’d do it?”
His accusations piled up.
Relief washed over her. So he didn’t mean her studying abroad.
Even if he discovered that plan, it changed little–he’d learn eventually. Still, she feared his potential sabotage.
“Now you refuse to answer anything?”
Rustling sounded behind her. Then her pajama leg was rolled up.
Lucille’s defense mechanism activated. She curled up, clutching her legs.
Cedrick’s hands gleamed with massage oil, the air faintly herbal.
“I’ll massage you.
He extended his hands. “Dr. Quill gave me another bottle.”
“No need.”
Lucille pulled her pant leg down.
“Lucille.”
He said each syllable deliberately. “I tolerate your willfulness in many things. But medical treatment? Really?”
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This wasn’t willfulness.
She simply refused to expose her ugliness before him again.
During her initial recovery, he’d personally massaged her legs daily. Yet his eyes never lingered on her scarred skin–always looking away as his fingers worked.
She knew. He loathed her disfigured legs.
He had no idea that his disgust only hurt her more, felt like being run over by a car again, crushing her heart and lungs.
Five years had passed. Her wounds had scarred over. She didn’t want to reopen them, didn’t want to revisit the pain she’d worked so hard to bury.
“Dr. Mary said there’s still a sliver of hope. Let’s try again, okay?”
He grabbed her ankle.
She tried to pull back, but he held tight.
“Even if just for Dr. Mary’s sake–she came all the way here to give you acupuncture–let’s give it one more shot, alright?”
He pushed her pant leg up again, fingers slick with ointment pressing into her skin.
She turned her face away.
This time, she didn’t want to look.
Didn’t want to see his revulsion, didn’t want to watch his
eyes
dart away.
If she didn’t see it, maybe it wouldn’t hurt?
He massaged the acupoints with practiced ease.
However much he loathed it, guilt had forced him to do this daily during her early recovery. Now “back at it,” his technique remained sharp–precise pressure, firm fingers.