Double Wedding Ring by Peg Sutherland Page A

her as he grew up, had seen signs of them occasionally at church. But his interview with her last week, before Susan arrived, had been his only firsthand encounter with Betsy Foster.
    He had explained the techniques he would use in Susan’s therapy, how he would initially focus on everyday tasks like dressing or feeding her young son or learning to bend over and retrieve things off the floor without falling. He had shown her some of the special adaptive equipment Susan could use to do little everyday tasks for herself, such as cutting her own food despite her weak grip. They would spend hour-long sessions each day on such simple tasks as learning to balance on one leg or to squat while holding on to the kitchen counter. He explained that Susan’s love of dance could even be used to encourage her recovery.
    A sharp furrow had appeared on Betsy Foster’s high, wide forehead. “Dance? What a lot of nonsense! She can’t even walk straight.”
    â€œWith practice, she can learn to,” Sam had said pointedly. “Look how far she’s come already.”
    No matter how encouraging Sam had tried to be, Betsy’s negativity pervaded everything she said. And apparently none of what Sam had said sank in. He’d noticed right away when he arrived this afternoon that, despite his instructions to leave the house just as it was, she had cleared the dining room of furniture and informed him to limit his work with Susan to that one room.
    Her mother’s outlook had apparently already begun to do its work on Susan. Sam hated having to fight his way through that, as well as through Susan’s physical limitations.
    â€œHow about it, Susan. Are you with me?”
    Finally, she looked up and nodded. He shook his head and shrugged, turning the tables on her. A frown flickered across her forehead. She pulled her hand out of his. Good. A sign of her willingness to fight. She was put out with him and not afraid to let him know it.
    â€œOkay!” Her impatient exclamation was barely slurred. Apparently Susan Hovis’s pride was intact. Also good. Pride could be a strong motivator.
    â€œOkay what?” he persisted.
    She grunted out a sound that he thought might have been a laugh, but before he could decide, a youthful voice sounded behind him.
    â€œMother, you won’t believe what— Oh!”
    Sam registered the relief and the welcome on Susan’s face. Without standing, Sam pivoted, staying on Susan’s level.
    The woman who had entered was a softer, rounder, perkier incarnation of Sam’s new patient. The daughter, he assumed. She brought a glow with her into the room, and suddenly Sam discovered he had few reservations about the prognosis for Susan Hovis. Once, he was certain, she had been just like this delightful package of energy and excitement. And she could be again. Would be again. He knew it, with the instincts that had come from working intensely with impaired patients.
    â€œSam Roberts,” he said, extending his hand but staying at Susan’s eye level. “You must be the sister.”
    Well, he wasn’t above using a little of the old Hutchins charm to win a new patient’s confidence.
    The young woman laughed, shyness settling around her smile. “I’m Malorie. The daughter. I’m sorry to interrupt.”
    â€œThat’s okay. Susan and I were just getting to know each other. But I’ll bet she’d like to hear your news. Wouldn’t you, Susan?”
    He looked at her, challenging her with his eyes.
    She nodded, almost smiled.
    â€œWhat was that you said, Susan?” he goaded.
    Now his new patient’s smile was more pronounced. “Yes. We’d like.”
    He felt triumph.
    Malorie squatted, too. Her skirt settled softly over her knees and Sam tried to pretend he hadn’t noticed the sprinkling of ginger-colored freckles on those knees. But when he raised his gaze, he found himself swept up in the girlish glitter