Unbound - Rachel's Story
Copyright© 2025 by A Kiwi Guy
Chapter 10
The Groynes was almost deserted, save for a few dog-walkers and a lone fisherman casting a line into the still water. Matt unloaded Rachel’s chair and lifted her on to it. They looked around and settled on a spot beside the lake where willows trailed bare branches over the surface.
Matt spread the blanket and began unpacking the bag: fresh baguette, a wedge of blue cheese, slices of ham, a container of green salad, and a flask of hot chocolate that sent steam curling into the chilly air.
Easing Rachel out of her wheelchair, Matt unfolded a small legless picnic chair that held her at ground level but provided support. Looking over the water, she announced: “It’s years since I’ve been here. Forgotten how beautiful it is.”
“Yeah,” Matt agreed, settling beside her. “Peaceful. This place always reminds me of childhood picnics. Dad would bring us here after church some Sundays. I was usually more interested in skimming stones than eating lunch.”
Rachel smiled. “I never got the knack for skimming. My claim to fame was feeding the ducks without losing a finger.”
...
After a while, as they lingered over fruit and coffee, Rachel grew reflective. She ran her hand slowly through the grass beside her chair, then glanced at Matt. “You asked me the other night how I really managed after the accident,” she said quietly. “I suppose here’s as good a place as any to tell you the full story.”
Matt shifted slightly closer. “Only if you want to, Rachel. I’m not trying to pry.”
“I know. That’s why I can talk.” She smiled faintly. “I was 19 when a drunk driver knocked me off my bicycle. I suffered what’s called a spinal cord T11 injury, with the result you can see. The first two years after the crash were ... well, honestly, hellish. At the start, I was in Christchurch Hospital for months. Then Burwood Spinal Unit took me on for rehab. They taught me how to do everything again — dressing, washing, even learning how to get in and out of a chair. I hated it. I cried more than I’d ever cried in my life. Some days I thought, ‘What’s the point?’”
Matt reached out and lightly touched her hand. “That must have been overwhelming.”
“It was. And it wasn’t just the physical side. For a while, there was hope I would regain some leg functions, but eventually I had to accept that was not going to happen. The grief was enormous. I had dreams at night where I was still running ... and then I’d wake up and it hit me all over again.” She swallowed. “The anger, too. At the driver who’d hit me. At fate. At God, even.”
There was a silence, filled only by ducks quacking. Then she went on. “Mum was my rock. She held everything together when I couldn’t. My godmama, Chloe, too. She had this stubborn faith that life wasn’t over for me. They took turns sitting by my bed in those early weeks, reading, praying, sometimes just holding my hand when I refused to talk. I don’t think I’d be here without them.”
“And outside of family?” Matt asked gently.
“Well, the team at Burwood were amazing, but tough. They didn’t let me wallow forever. One physio in particular, Ruth, wouldn’t let me give up. I remember yelling at her once — actually yelling — when she insisted I practise transfers until my arms ached. She just folded her arms and said, ‘Fine, be angry, but you’re doing it again tomorrow.’” Rachel chuckled softly. “And I did. Looking back, I needed that.”
Matt grinned. “Sounds like someone I know — you’ve got the same grit now.”
Rachel tilted her head. “Maybe. Though at the time, I felt like I had none. It was only bit by bit, through small victories — pushing myself across the ward, learning how to drive again with hand controls later on, even just getting through a whole day without tears.
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