Bling Addiction by Kylie Adams

regular visits from Walter “Steak” Williams, the physical therapist who pushed her through a brutal regimen of painful exercises designed to accelerate her recovery.
    Steak was big, black, loud, and unrelenting. Vanity loathed the therapy but adored him. He made her laugh with stories about his crazy romantic life, encouraged her to push harder, declared “Stickwitu” by the Pussycat Dolls as their special song, and assured her that one day soon she would be vamping around like a contestant on America’s Next Top Model.
    But that was Steak being an eternal optimist. Regular X-rays and radiographs indicated slow healing to the bone. That meant another surgery to undo one of the screws on the internal fixator. It also meant a round of low-frequency ultrasound treatments and another month of no weight-bearing movement on the leg. At this rate, walking on her own by New Year’s Eve would be a medical miracle.
    Simon St. John pretended to be a father. When he was in town, he always checked on her before leaving for the office and then again as soon as he returned home. Vanity could usually predict his appearances and feigned sleep to avoid interaction.
    Isis St. John pretended to be a mother. She called once and tried to relate to her daughter by telling a rambling story about the time she sprained her ankle at a disco in Ibiza. Then she announced her “conversion to Kaballahism” and promised to send a gift. A few weeks later, a red string bracelet arrived via airmail from Nice, France. The attached note said that wearing it would protect her from the evil eye. Vanity tossed the stupid thing into the garbage.
    If there was any light to the darkness at all, then it was Vanity’s growing affection for Mercedes and Gunnar, her younger siblings. The twins staged elaborate shows and performed them in the doorway of Vanity’s bedroom, then ran away squealing with laughter. Their antics were a welcome respite from the idiots on Laguna Beach, which Vanity watched with religious fervor.
    Another pleasant surprise had been Vanity’s sudden tolerance for Lala. The twins’ nanny brooked no argument about her extra duties as nursemaid. She nagged Vanity to keep herself properly hydrated and ferried her back and forth to the hospital for tests and checkups.
    Today she was taking her to see Dr. Parker. In the aftermath of the accident, the surgeries and strict bed rest had dimmed Vanity’s session frequency to once a month at best, so she looked forward to these hours with something close to desperation. Lala would wheel her into the waiting room, then disappear to the Lincoln Road Mall until Vanity called to say she was ready.
    Even with the awkwardness of being restricted to a wheelchair, Dr. Parker’s customary hug felt so nurturing as to be medicinal. Vanity didn’t want it to end, and when the embrace was broken, she started to cry.
    “It’s hard, isn’t it?” Dr. Parker asked softly, offering Vanity a few tissues.
    She nodded and dabbed at the tears in her eyes. God, she felt so dumb. “I’m sorry. You must think I’m pathetic.”
    “Of course not.” Dr. Parker allowed Vanity a moment to settle down. “How are you?”
    Vanity went through the last few weeks of leg trauma in great detail. This made her feel like the old woman down the street who holds neighbors hostage as she discusses every ache and pain. It was all that Vanity knew, though. Her world had become that small.
    At first, Dr. Parker listened patiently. But finally, she chose to break in. “Is this really helping, Vanity?”
    “Why? Am I boring you?”
    “No. You’re avoiding me.”
    “I’m here, aren’t I?”
    “It’s not enough to just show up. You have to be present and willing to do the emotional work.”
    Vanity inspected her nails, purposefully avoiding Dr. Parker’s stare. There were no free passes in this room, even when you arrived in a wheelchair.
    “Let’s move beyond the physical. The doctors anticipate a full recovery.