Free The Children's Ward by Patricia Wallace Page A

indeed.”
     
     
     

Thirty-one
     
    Anne worked quickly, positioning the lift behind the boy’s wheelchair and setting the brake. She released the harness and brought it down until it was in position to the boy’s left.
    “This won’t hurt,” she said, unstrapping the buckles and maneuvering the belts under his thighs and across his back. He was painfully thin and the harness was loose when she finished. The bathing trunks he wore were large as well and her heart ached at the sight of him as he waited, shivering, for her to lift him into the therapy pool.
    She moved behind the lift and pressed the lever which raised him until she was able to move the wheelchair out from under him. Then, carefully, she guided the lift until the boy was suspended over the water and began to lower him.
    “It’s warm,” she promised.
    She thought he looked paler than he had when he’d arrived and opened her mouth to ask him how he felt when he smiled at her. Reassured, she continued lowering him into the bubbling water.
    When he was at the correct level, she locked the lift into position. The water came up to his shoulders and he lifted his chin, looking at her with wide eyes.
    “It’s okay,” she said, wishing desperately that she could remember his name. “The water won’t get any higher.” She knew from experience that, strapped in place, some of the patients felt they were in danger of drowning. “Just relax.”
    The boy nodded and allowed his eyes to close as the water foamed around him.
    Anne checked the brake on the lift for a second time and then went to the desk to finish the boy’s paperwork.
    Russell Delano. Russell. She would try to remember. A spinal cord injury. She looked across the room at his pale face.
    When she had decided to train to work in physical therapy, she had somehow never considered the hopeless cases. She’d always imagined herself helping rehabilitate patients who were, inevitably, curable. And there was a great deal of personal satisfaction in helping people regain their strength and mobility.
    But the cases like Russell…where nothing she did had any effect…
    Negative thoughts.
    She had to stop thinking that way.
    There were such things as miracles.
    That was her dream; a miracle. She sat back in the chair, drawn, as always, into the familiar scenario.
    The patient was a young man, impossibly handsome, sensitive, intelligent, rich…
    Unable to walk since a fall (from a thoroughbred stallion?), he was brought to her for therapy.
    At first, he was silent, almost brooding. But as the weeks passed he opened up, sharing with her an intimacy he had never known with anyone else.
    She became his strength, encouraging him, supporting him, always there when he needed her. And he very much needed her.
    Then, one day, having worked beyond exhaustion, she would faint.
    And he would get to his feet, overcome with love, and rush to her side. And, music swelling in the background, he would carry her off to be his wife.
    It was a wonderful dream.
    It was a far cry from the reality of a twelve-year-old boy with wasted legs and hopeful eyes.
    Ashamed, she looked toward Russell.
    He looked even paler than before.
    “Russell,” she said, getting to her feet. The steam rising from the heated water made it hard to see him clearly. “Are you all right?”
    As she came closer she saw that his eyes were closed and his head tilted back.
    “Russell?” Alarmed, she ran the remaining distance to the pool, noticing that his mouth was slightly open, his lips tinged with blue.
    “Oh God.” For half a second she stared at him, not willing to believe her eyes. “Oh God.” She lunged for the lift, pushing the lever to raise him out of the water; it moved impossibly slowly.
    As soon as he was out she swung the lift around, reversing the gears to lower him to the floor.
    His body was completely limp.
    She hesitated. It would take a few seconds to call for help and she could not estimate how long he’d been