Unbound - Rachel's Story
Copyright© 2025 by A Kiwi Guy
Chapter 2
Monday nights were always a rush. By the time Rachel pulled into the Linwood Community Arts Centre’s car park, where she tutored an all-comers art class. Rachel discovered painting while recovering from the accident which rendered her a paraplegic, and it helped greatly to rehabilitate her. She had received a great deal of help and encouragement from the leaders at the centre, and in turn she wanted to give something back.
The centre’s fluorescent lights glowed warmly through the tall front windows, promising colour and chatter and creative chaos.
Rachel navigated the ramp easily, the familiar scuffed threshold welcoming her in. A flurry of voices greeted her from the main studio. Brushes clattered, someone laughed, and someone else called out, “Miss Rachel’s here!”
“Miss Rachel” grinned. She didn’t encourage the title, but it had stuck among a few of the class regulars. She wheeled into the room and was immediately swept up in greetings, updates, and half-dried canvases thrust forward for inspection.
There were ten students tonight — a mixture of adults with intellectual and physical disabilities, along with a few neurotypical hobbyists who just liked the informal, supportive atmosphere. Rachel moved between the tables, offering encouragement, asking questions, sometimes taking a brush herself to demonstrate a technique.
“Elena, that’s a great use of shadow,” she said, peering at a charcoal landscape sketched by a woman with Down syndrome. “See how the tree trunk comes forward now?”
Elena beamed. “You say I do good light-dark!”
“You do excellent light-dark,” Rachel affirmed.
At the next table, George — who’d recently suffered a mild stroke — was trying to coax an old memory of a ship from his mind onto the canvas. Rachel crouched slightly in her chair to bring herself level with his hand.
“Maybe try blocking in the hull with big shapes first,” she suggested gently. “Don’t worry about the detail yet.”
George looked at her, eyes narrowed in concentration, then nodded and began to rework the bow of the vessel with renewed confidence.
As the evening wore on, the room hummed with a productive energy that Rachel loved. She’d found this place during rehab — back when she still thought she might walk again if she just pushed hard enough, believed hard enough. The centre’s staff had never offered pity, only encouragement. In that warm acceptance, Rachel had rediscovered something that mattered more than running fast or jumping hurdles — the ability to create. In the process, she had progressed to becoming a talented artist in her own right, and a portion of her apartment was given over to easel and materials. Now she gave back in kind.
At one point, as she rinsed a set of brushes in the sink, she caught sight of herself in the mirror above — cheeks slightly flushed, dark hair beginning to frizz where it escaped her bun. There was a smudge of green on her jaw. She smiled faintly and wiped it away with the corner of her sleeve.
By the end of the session, the students were still buzzing. Talk of the upcoming exhibition swirled through the clean-up routine. The Christchurch Art Gallery was to mount an exhibition of work from the city’s numerous community art groups, and the members of this class were keen to have their work chosen for display.
“Do you think my one might get picked?” Elena asked shyly, clutching her drawing.
“I think it’s a strong contender,” Rachel said. “But remember, it’s not just about who gets picked — it’s about what we all put into it. And you’ve put in a lot.”
That earned another beaming grin.
When the last student had left and the tables were wiped down, Rachel took a moment to lean back and exhale. Her arms were tired, her shoulders sore, but inside, she felt that warm click of something meaningful — like a puzzle piece sliding into place. She didn’t have to walk to be whole.
Still, as she drove home later, part of her mind wandered to the conversation with Sarah earlier. The idea of coffee with a stranger felt foreign and oddly risky. But there was also a flicker of anticipation.
Matt Freeman. IT consultant. Ballroom dancer. Cowboy name. Would he look at her and only see the chair? Or would he see ... her?
“Just coffee,” she said aloud into the quiet of her car. “And only if he doesn’t say something stupid like, ‘you’re so inspiring.’”
She turned into her driveway, headlights sweeping across the porch. It had been a long day, but her heart wasn’t as heavy as it had been that morning.
Maybe, she wondered, this was how new chapters began — not with grand declarations, but with a single, cautious cup of coffee.
...
Tuesday didn’t start well. Rachel wheeled into the kitchen still half-asleep, the early light weak through the net curtains, and reached instinctively for her favourite mug — the tall, slightly wonky, hand-thrown ceramic with a teal glaze and gold flecks. It had been a graduation gift from her godmother, Chloe — her mother’s younger sister and one of the few people in her life who had never tried to smother her with advice.
But this morning, her fingers found a rough edge. A new chip glared up from the rim like a wound. She stared at it for a moment, uncomprehending — then saw the folded note tucked beside it on the bench.
Sorry. I knocked it when I was rushing. Hope it’s not too bad. – M x
Rachel sighed. Mara was normally meticulous — annoyingly so, at times — but even the best of helpers had clumsy mornings. She rubbed her thumb over the chipped edge. It wasn’t broken, just bruised. Still, it unsettled her.
At college, things didn’t improve. She crossed paths with Anton from the Architecture Department, who cornered her near the staff copier with his usual smug grin.
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