Brain Damage, page 12
part #2 of Prescription: Murder Series
“Violet,” I correct him.
“They look pretty,” he says. I smile at him. For a moment, I think I’m off the hook, but then he says, “Why are you wearing a helmet?”
I look over at Jamie, wondering if he wants to explain it himself. But Jamie just looks embarrassed. So I guess it’s up to me.
Obviously, I don’t want to tell a little boy that I was shot in the head. That seems like it might traumatize him. So I say instead, “There’s an ice hockey rink out back and I was going to play some ice hockey soon.”
Sam’s eyes get even wider. “There’s ice hockey here?” He couldn’t have looked any more excited if I told him the North Pole was out back, and Santa was busy making Christmas presents with his elves in the parking lot. “I want to play! Can we go play, Dad?”
Jamie looks at me and rolls his eyes. “No, maybe another time.”
“I want to play now,” Sam insists. He grabs Jamie by the hand. The wheels on Jamie’s chair aren’t locked, so he rolls a few inches before he can grab the wheels to steady himself. Sam looks annoyed. “Get up, Dad!”
Jamie’s father puts his hand on Sam’s shoulder. “Sam, what were we talking about on the way over? I told you that your dad is still sick and he can’t play with you right now.”
“I’ll be better really soon though,” Jamie says to his son. “And first thing when I get out of here, we’ll go play ice hockey. I promise.”
I feel like Jamie probably shouldn’t make promises to his son that he definitely can’t keep.
Sam pouts, his adorable little mouth curling into a frown. Finally, he says, “Can Mommy take me?”
There’s an awkward silence as Jamie’s brown eyes fly open. He stares up at his parents. “He hasn’t seen Karen, has he?”
Who is Karen?
Jamie’s parents exchange looks. His father says to his mother: “Why don’t you take Sam to Jamie’s room. We’ll be there in a few minutes.”
I can see Jamie’s cheeks turning red again. He looks even more upset than he did when his father told him that Sam was coming. As soon as his son is out of earshot, he hisses at his father, “He saw Karen?”
“She heard about your accident,” his father says. “She just wanted to see Sam. She’d like to help.”
“She’s an irresponsible junkie!” Jamie snaps.
His father glances at me and frowns. “James, keep your voice down.”
I’ve noticed that whenever Jamie’s father is upset with him, he calls him “James.” The same way my mother always calls me “Charlotte” when she’s upset at me.
“I just don’t trust her,” Jamie says, more quietly this time.
His father sighs. “You haven’t seen her in a long time. She’s really gotten her act back together. She’s like a completely different person.” He pauses. “She’s hoping you’ll be willing to work out… an arrangement. »
“What did she want?” Jamie asks. “Visitation rights?”
His father shakes his head. “She mentioned joint custody.”
Jamie’s mouth falls open. He stares down at his lap, his eyes glassy. “Never. She will never, ever…”
“Jamie,” his father says in a gentle voice. “When you come home, you’re still going to need a lot of help. If Karen can take Sam part of the time, I think that would make things a lot easier for all of us. Your mom and I aren’t so young anymore, you know.”
When Jamie speaks again, his voice is low but I can hear every word: “She’ll have to kill me first.”
Chapter 26
Four Months After
Today I’m doing physical therapy in the hallway with Natalie. I’m sitting in my wheelchair, and she’s standing in front of me, her hands on her hips and her shiny brown hair pulled into a high ponytail that swings behind her head. Natalie is skinny but she’s very strong. When she helps me walk during my Walking Group, I can see the wiry muscles bulging in her arms below her scrub top.
“Today,” Natalie says, “we’re going to work on wheelchair mobility. I’d like you to get better at pushing your own wheelchair. I think that would be better for you than a power wheelchair.”
Natalie looks very young, but she seems so confident all the time. Like she’s been doing this for a million years.
“Why do we need to do that if you’re teaching me how to walk?” I ask.
A tiny crease appears between Natalie’s eyebrows. “Walking is good exercise,” Natalie says, “but you have to realize, Charly, you’re not going to be walking well enough when you leave here. You’re going to be primarily using your wheelchair to get around when you go home. Probably for a while. You know that, right?”
“Oh,” I say. I didn’t know that. I try not to let on how much this disappoints me. Despite how awful I’ve been doing in my Walking Group, I still assumed I’d be walking at the point that I left here. “For how long?”
Natalie shakes her head. “I can’t predict that.”
At least the answer isn’t “forever.”
Natalie straightens up and gets real close to me. “Okay, Charly,” she says. “Put your hands on the rims of the chair.”
I do as she says.
“No,” she says. “Put both hands on the rims.”
“I am,” I insist.
“You have your right hand on the rim,” she observes. “But not your left. Put your left hand on the rim.”
I hate my left arm. I hate it when people ask me to do things with it that I can’t do. I hate it when it gets in the way. I almost agree with Valerie that I’d sort of like to cut it off. Then at least people would stop nagging me about trying to use it when I can’t.
Because I know I’m not going to be able to do it the normal way, I pick up my left hand with my right, and attempt to place it on the left rim of the chair. This is not very easy for a number of reasons. First, I can’t see the left rim—it’s in that endless chasm that makes up the left side of the universe. It’s also sort of hard to see my left arm. When I touch it with my right hand, I can’t really feel it, not in a normal way, and it often feels very stiff and hard to move.
Right now, I get my hand on my left arm, and it will not budge. Not only that, it seems to be pulling away from me, which it doesn’t usually do. I wonder if that’s a good sign.
“Charly!” Natalie exclaims. “What are you doing?”
“Putting my left arm on the rim of the chair,” I say.
“That’s my arm!”
Oh. That explains a lot.
Natalie sighs and steps away from me, studying me for inspiration. Finally she says, “You’re not going to be able to push this chair with your left arm.”
Yeah, I could’ve told her that.
Natalie kneels down and removes the right footrest from my chair. She then instructs me to push with my right hand and use my right foot to help guide the chair. I keep my left arm safely tucked in my lap and my left leg in the foot rest. It actually works fairly well, and I find myself moving further than I have gone in a long time under my own power.
“You’re doing great!” Natalie tells me.
I go faster and faster. I want to make it down the entire stretch of hallway. I want to go faster. I want to feel wind running through my hair, even though I don’t have hair anymore, and what little hair I have is covered by a helmet. I’m almost there, almost at the finish line, when all of a sudden…
The wheelchair stops short.
For no reason whatsoever. I get thrown forward, and the wind is knocked out of me. I probably would’ve fallen to the floor if I didn’t have a belt across my lap.
“What happened?” I ask, baffled.
“You ran into a wall on the left,” Natalie says. She smiles and rubs my shoulder. “You don’t have to go so fast, Charly. And watch out for obstacles on the left. This isn’t a race.”
A race.
Something in Natalie’s words jogs my memory. I close my eyes for a second and remember a photo hung up in my room. A photo of myself, my short blond hair tied back in a ponytail, my skin wet with sweat, the number 237 pasted on my tank top.
“I used to run marathons,” I say.
“Yes,” she says quietly. “Your mother told me.”
I can feel myself running, my feet pounding against the pavement, my helmet-less hair flapping in the wind. I used to love it.
“Do you think I’ll be able to run marathons again?” I ask.
“Sure,” Natalie says. “Even if you can’t run, there are people who could push you the length of the marathon in your wheelchair. So you can definitely be a part of it.”
That really isn’t the same thing at all. But that’s okay. I don’t think I wanted to hear the real answer to my question anyway.
Chapter 27
Four Months After
I feel so tired today.
My body feels so heavy. My arms feel like they weigh a thousand pounds each. My head weighs one ton. The effort of keeping it on my shoulders is just too much for me.
I don’t really feel like eating right now, even though my lunch tray is right in front of me. When they came to get me to walk this morning, I didn’t feel like doing that. I told them no. All I want is to go back to bed.
That guy who always sits next to me in the hallway is sitting next to me now. I forget his name. It starts with a “J”, I think. He’s trying to talk to me. I’m too tired to talk though. I’m too tired to even tell him that I’m too tired to talk. I wish he would stop talking to me and just let me go back to sleep. I wish somebody would take me back to my room and put me in bed.
The doctor comes over to us to talk. I can’t remember his name either. I’m having trouble remembering names today. Why does everyone have to have a different name? It’s so hard to remember. Everyone should have the same name.
Maybe the doctor can bring me to bed. I might be too tired to ask him though.
“Dr. Greenberg,” says the guy next to me. Oh right, the doctor’s name is Dr. Greenberg. I need to try to remember that. I wish I weren’t so tired. “There’s something wrong with Charly today.”
The doctor raises his graying eyebrows. He has smiley faces on his tie. They dance around before my eyes. “Is there? Why do you say that?”
“She’s not talking,” the guy says. He looks worried. He has a little crease between his eyebrows. He’s very cute. I wish I could remember his name. “She hasn’t said a word since she got out into the hallway, and she’s not eating her lunch.”
The doctor smiles. I forgot his name again. Dammit. “Well, Jamie, I’m sure you know that Charly isn’t the most talkative person.”
“She always talks to me,” the guy insists. “Always.” He takes a breath. “The first thing I remember clearly after getting hurt is sitting here in the hallway, talking to her.”
I stare at smiley faces on the doctor’s tie. They look blurry for some reason.
“Charly’s recovery is going to be slower than yours,” the doctor says to him. “Her injury was much more severe. She’s going to fluctuate day-to-day.”
“No,” the guy says, shaking his head. “There’s something wrong, Doc. I know it.”
The doctor steps toward me. The smiley faces become clear for a minute, then become blurry again. I just need to sleep, just a little bit. Please. Please.
“Charly,” the doctor says. “How are you feeling today?”
I’m feeling tired.
Did I say that out loud? I’m not sure I did.
“Charly.” The doctor is shaking my shoulder now. “Look at me. Look at my face.”
“I’m tired,” I finally manage to say.
I feel the doctor’s fingers touch my forehead. I don’t know why his fingers are so cold. They are like ice. Cold hands, cold heart.
“I think you have a bit of a fever,” the doctor tells me. “We’re going to take you back to your room and do some tests.”
I’m going back to my room. I get to go back in bed. I’m so happy. I can finally sleep.
“Is she going to be okay?” the guy next to me asks.
“Don’t worry, Jamie,” the doctor says. “She’s going to be fine. I promise.”
Of course I’m going to be fine. Just as soon as I can get some sleep.
_____
I’m dreaming. It’s that dream I always have but so much more vivid this time. Like it’s almost real. Like I can almost touch it.
I’m coming home from work late in the evening. I step out of the elevator, into the dimly lit hallway. It’s very quiet, and makes me wish we had a doorman who I had to make inane small talk with. I hear the muted thumps of my feet hitting the carpeted floor in the hallway outside my apartment. I reach my door, last apartment on the right. I put my key in the lock.
The door swings shut behind me as my left hand absently feels around for the light switch. I flick the switch. Let there be light.
Then I see it. The gun pointed straight at me. My blood turns to ice. I want to scream, but I can’t.
I hear the explosion.
For a moment, everything is black. Well, not entirely black. Crimson, actually. Like my corneas are coated in a layer of blood.
Then the crimson fades away and I’m staring up at the ceiling of my apartment. I recognize the crack that sort of looks like a dinosaur. I meant to get the ceiling repainted. I’ve just been too busy. I’m always so busy.
I try to get up, but I can’t move. My body doesn’t seem to work anymore. I feel sick, dizzy. There’s something really wrong with me. I’m injured. Actually, I think I’m dying. I think this might be the end.
And that’s when I hear the footsteps. Heavy shoes rising and falling on the wooden floor. The footsteps stop right next to my left ear. I try to see the shoes, to identify them, but I can’t. My left side has dissolved into a giant void.
I can hear the floorboards creak as the person bends down next to me. I may be dying, but I’m not dead yet, and I suspect this person intends to finish the job. I try to turn my head, to capture my left side. But all I can grasp is more ceiling.
I try to remember Amy’s instructions: turn left, scan left. But it’s as useless now as it is during our sessions.
The person leans in closer to me, so close that I can feel hot breath on my neck. And then I hear a husky voice speaking to me, right in my ear:
“You deserve this.”
And then I wake up. Drenched in sweat that isn’t from my fever.
Chapter 28
Fourteen Months Before
When I was younger, I really never gave much thought to getting married.
I guess I assumed I’d meet some nice guy in medical school. We’d date for a few years then get married. And after finishing residency, we’d have two children. Or at the most, if he insisted, maybe we would have three. Definitely not four children. What on earth would I do with four children?
Needless to say, I didn’t meet my future husband in medical school. The boys in my class seemed so immature, too focused on partying and joking around, and when I decided on dermatology, I knew I had to work harder than anyone in order to secure a spot. Dermatology is incredibly competitive. Also, I went to school in a small town in Connecticut, where the dating possibilities outside of my classmates were limited, so my social life in medical school was practically nonexistent. At the time, it didn’t seem like that big of a sacrifice.
By the time I finished my internship, I had a bit more free time to consider dating, but by then, it seemed like “all the good ones” had been taken. Or more likely, there were no good ones in the first place. Not for me, anyway. I started to feel like maybe I was one of those people who was just never meant to couple off.
It didn’t bother me so much. I mean, sometimes it did. When there would be a wedding or some other event, and I didn’t have a plus one. But in general, I was fine. I’m not a particularly social person. I had friends. I had a great job that I genuinely loved. I didn’t feel sorry for myself or cry myself to sleep at night. I was fine with being single.
And now I’m holding hands with my handsome husband as we wait to check into our room at our honeymoon suite in the Bahamas. It’s surreal. I keep looking over at Clark and reminding myself he’s my husband. He’s in no way the husband I would have pictured for myself, even in the days when I believed getting married was a given. I’ve always been maddeningly realistic, and I imagined my husband would probably have some male pattern baldness or a bit of a gut. I never in a million years thought I would ever be married to such a handsome man. Who’s also a lawyer, for God’s sake.
Jesus, I can’t believe this guy is my husband. What the hell?
Clark gives my hand a squeeze. I love the way my smaller hand gets lost in his big one. “I can’t wait to get to our room,” he says.
“Me too,” I tell him, squeezing his hand back.
I may not be as charismatic and likable and gorgeous as Clark, but for some reason, he seems to really like me. I mean, he married me, so he must. Right?
Sorry, it’s just a little bit hard to let go of those insecurities. Even after I lost the twenty pounds I wanted to lose. Because it turns out I really needed to lose thirty pounds.
The hotel concierge, a dark-skinned man with an easy smile whose badge identifies him as Pierre, hands over our room keys. “Congratulations,” he says warmly. “I just confirmed your reservation for three weeks.”
Great. We’ve only just checked in and already there’s a screw up I have to fix.
I clear my throat. “I’m sorry, there’s been some mistake. The reservation is only for two weeks.”
“It’s okay, Charlotte,” Clark says, laying his hand on my shoulder. For not the first time, it strikes me as odd that he still calls me Charlotte, even though all of my friends and family call me Charly. Even my work colleagues call me Charly. It’s sweet though. He wants to have a different name for me than everyone else does. “I changed it to three weeks.”
I frown at him. “But I only have two weeks off from work. There’s no way I could take more time off than that. I’ve got patients scheduled.”
