NadechYaya: Eyes on You

04

My physical therapist usually comes here on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. We usually have sessions down at the basement where my uncle had a whole room set up for me. I hear it almost looks like an actual rehabilitation room at how complete and equipped it is. My therapist would often give comments about how the room was built with so much effort and how much money it could have cost my family.

I wasn't surprised though. Even without seeing it, I knew the room was built with excellent quality. And money was certainly not an issue. My family owns the largest real estate company in the country, and if there's anyone that can build something amazing from scrap, it's my family's company.

We built gold from ashes, my dad used to say as he took pride in our company's success.

I wonder how the company is doing now that my parents are dead. I'm sure Uncle Joe is doing a great job taking over the company in the meantime, but I know that there are far too many changes that are going to happen. My dad had his way with business. His skills were more innate than acquired and he ran the business with his natural gift and talents.

My parents were a great team. My mother was an engineer, a very great one at that. I had always admired her for dominating in a field that is meant for men. And while she built the buildings, my dad, an accountant who once topped the boards, did business with everyone who had a name in the industry, and built the company from the ground up.

They were always a team. Even in death.

"Your physical therapist is coming this afternoon, is there something you want to do before he arrives?"

I shrug my shoulders at Barry's question. It is useless to ask me what I want to do because I obviously can't do it anyway. I can't paint because I can't see anything. I can't go to the beach because I can't walk. There are so many things I wish to do, but at this point, given the condition that I am in, I have given up even at the thought alone.

"When will you stop asking me this question? Do you still not realize that everything I want to do is impossible?"

I release a sigh as I drive my spoon into the bowl that Barry is holding, feeling the coldness of the ice cream as it melts in my mouth as soon as I take a bite. It's been a few days since that afternoon when I had lost my hold on my feelings and blew up. I wanted to get mad at him for daring to speak to me that way and for schooling me, but at the same time he also posed as the comfort I didn't know I needed.

As much as I hate to admit it, he was right in more ways than one. He became a bridge between me and the emotions I have been refusing to feel, and he made me realize the errors in my pain-driven and crooked ways. Of course, I'm not going to admit it to him out loud.

"I'll stop when you finally realize that not everything is impossible," he says plainly. I only roll my eyes and release a frustrated breath. What does he know? He could never understand my situation, nobody ever will.

He takes the now-empty bowl of ice cream from me and slides it over the garden table. He then grabs my hand and wraps my fingers around something cold—a glass. When I bring it to my mouth to take a sip, my brows furrow at the taste of plain water.

I look up at him, my lips morphing into a pout as my brows furrow further down the middle. "I told you I wanted grape juice!" I whine, stretching my arm to hand him back the glass of water.

However, instead of taking it from me and adhering to my whims, he pushes the glass back towards me.

"You've had enough sweets. You just had ice cream, you should drink that water. Water is better for you than the sweet artificial juices that you like. You should drink more."