Brain damage, p.16
Brain Damage, page 16
part #2 of Prescription: Murder Series
I can’t think of any celebrity that Karen resembled. Actually, it’s sort of hard to think of any celebrities in general. Finally, I say, “Morticia Addams.”
Angela bursts out laughing, while Jamie shakes his head. “That’s low, Charly,” he says, although he’s smiling. “Really low.”
“She was also really young,” I add. “I mean, really young.”
“So you like them young, do you, Mr. Knox?” Angela teases him. “Very interesting…”
Jamie groans. “She’s twenty-eight years old, you idiots.”
“Suuuuure she is,” Angela snorts. “So tell me, who’s hotter: Morticia or Charly?”
Jamie’s face turns almost as red as it did last night. “Angie, quit it. Anyway, I can’t even think about Karen that way anymore. She’s evil.”
Angela grins at him. “I take it that you and your ex-wife are not on good terms.”
Jamie winces. “She’s not my ex-wife… we were never married. We were never even dating, not really. We just hooked up a bunch of times before I realized she was an alcoholic and a drug addict.”
“That’s what you get for picking up women at your bar,” Angela says with a wink.
Jamie rolls his eyes. “Yeah, thanks for the tip, Angie.”
“So I guess it wasn’t a planned pregnancy?” Angela says.
Jamie snorts. “Are you kidding? I didn’t even realize she was pregnant until a year and a half later when I got slapped with a paternity suit.”
“Ouch,” she says.
“Yeah, it wasn’t great,” he sighs. “Actually, it completely messed up my life at the time. I was living with a woman and that fell apart. She didn’t like that I had a kid she never knew about or the fact that I wanted to be part of his life. But I was adamant about that. I mean, I didn’t want to have a son that I didn’t even know. So we worked it out that Karen had custody, but I got visitation rights.”
“So what happened to make you hate her so much?” Angela asks the question I’ve been dying to know the answer to.
“I came in one day to pick Sam up,” Jamie recalls. “I found him toddling around the floor with uncapped needles lying around. Karen was unconscious in the bathroom. I called the police, and she ended up going to some inpatient drug rehab program. And I got full custody.”
“So you had sole custody of your son for the last five years?” Angela asks him. “Wow, I bet your social life sucks.”
He hesitates. “Okay, yes, it does. I mean, it did. But that’s not the most important thing. I’m not about to compromise Sam’s safety. She’s been wanting joint custody for the last year claiming she’s clean, but I don’t buy it. So I’ve been fighting her.”
“Does Sam like her?” I ask him.
“Well, yeah, of course he does,” he says. “She’s his mom…”
Jamie trails off then, looking into the distance. He bites his lip.
“Does she have proof that she’s clean now?” Angela asks him.
Jamie shakes his head. “Yes, she does. But… I mean, this is my kid we’re talking about. Even if she’s sober now, what if she doesn’t stay that way?”
“Or what if she falls down a flight of stairs and cracks her head open?” Angela retorts.
Jamie glares at her. “You know what, Angie? You’re being really annoying. Why can’t you just blindly be pissed off on my behalf?”
Angela shrugs. “I speak the truth. If you don’t want to hear it, then don’t listen.”
“I thought she was really just way too skinny, Jamie,” I volunteer. “I bet she gives really uncomfortable hugs. Sam probably won’t like her as much as you.”
Jamie’s face relaxes, and he smiles at me. “Thanks, Charly. I knew I could count on you to be on my side.”
He seems much more upbeat after that, until the next time he walks, when he practically falls flat on his face.
Chapter 36
Four and a Half Months After
Have you ever heard of a game called Taboo?
We play it in Thinking Skills Group today. I sort of remember playing this many years ago. Each person gets a card, and that card has a word on it that you have to make the other players guess. Pretty simple, as long as you don’t have brain damage. Which, of course, we all do.
“It’s your turn, Charly,” Amy tells me.
She hands me the box of cards, and I select one with my right hand. The word at the top is “clown.” I suddenly feel a little bit confused about the rules of this game.
“You want the others to guess the word at the top,” Amy says to me when she notices my hesitation. “And you can’t use any of the five words at the bottom.”
“Okay,” I say.
I stare at the word “clown,” thinking about it for a minute.
“Charly?” Amy says. “Go ahead.”
Obviously, I’m taking too long.
“This kind of person wears a lot of white make-up on his face,” I say. “He also has a red nose and is in the circus. Also, the Joker and Ronald McDonald are this kind of person.”
“It’s a clown!” Helga cries out excitedly.
“That wasn’t very hard,” Dr. Vincent complains.
Amy sighs. “Charly, you weren’t supposed to use any of the words at the bottom, but you used all the words at the bottom.”
“I thought that was what I was supposed to do,” I say, frowning.
Amy just shakes her head. “Helga, why don’t you have a turn?”
Helga takes the box of cards and discards at least five of them before she settles on a card.
“Okay,” Helga says. “This is something that happens to women at some point in their lives, but it might not be a good thing.”
“A stroke,” Angela speaks up. She laughs at her own joke.
“Her period?” I guess.
“Oooh, I know,” Helga says. “When it happens, she has a big party and wears a white dress.”
“A wedding,” Dr. Vincent says quickly.
“Helga,” Amy says gently. “You used one of the words that was taboo.”
Helga frowns and throws the card down. “I don’t like this game,” she says. “It’s too hard.”
“I don’t like it either,” Dr. Vincent chimes in. “I’d rather try to figure out who shot Charly in the head.”
So would I.
“Dr. Vincent,” Amy says patiently. “I told you that we’re not going to talk about that. We don’t want to traumatize Charly.”
“It won’t traumatize me,” I say. “I want to know more than anyone else who shot me in the head.”
Plus it’s way easier than playing Taboo.
“Do you remember any more of your dream, Charly?” Dr. Vincent asks me.
I close my eyes. I can see the living room of my old apartment. I can hear that voice over my head: “You deserve this.”
It’s so familiar. If only I could see the person on the left. Stupid brain.
“It was a man,” I say. “I know that much. If he’d only move to my right side, I could see him.”
“Maybe in the dream, you could ask him to move?” Helga suggests.
“And while you’re at it,” Angela says, “You can ask him not to shoot you.”
“Alright,” Amy says, placing the box of cards resolutely in front of Dr. Vincent. “We need to get back to the game.”
I close my eyes again, trying so hard to remember. I’m worried that part of my brain is simply gone and I’ll never remember.
Chapter 37
Four and a Half Months After
Dr. Foster is the psychologist here. That means he’s supposed to talk to us about our feelings. Even though it’s his job, I’m not sure he’s particularly good at it. I probably talked to Dr. Foster half a dozen times, but I’ve never felt like opening up to him. Maybe it’s not his fault though. Maybe it’s me.
Today we are having a group talk therapy session in the gym. The group is called “stroke group,” even though I didn’t actually have a stroke. It currently consists of only three people: me, Angela, and a young guy named Alex. The three of us each sit in wheelchairs, although I know I’ve seen Alex walk without support.
I remember when Alex came in, Angela whispered to me that he had a stroke from doing too many drugs. Looking at him now, I believe it. He keeps fidgeting in his seat, running a shaky hand through his long dark hair. His skinny arms are covered in tattoos—literally, covered. There’s hardly a millimeter of un-inked skin. He looks like he’d rather be anywhere but here, which is something I can certainly sympathize with.
“Why don’t we begin?” Dr. Foster suggests. He sits facing the three of us, perched in an armchair, as a psychologist should. He’s mastered that part, at least.
“Could I have a drink of water first?” Alex asks.
“Certainly,” Dr. Foster says, rising from his chair.
“Don’t,” Angela warns him in her smoky voice. “It’s a trick. He can’t have water.”
“Bitch,” Alex hisses at Angela.
Dr. Foster frowns at Alex. He rises out of his seat and checks the tag hanging from the back of one of the handrails of his wheelchair. He shakes his head. “She’s right, Alex. You’re on water restriction because of your blood sodium level. I can’t get you water.”
“But I’m thirsty!” he nearly yells.
Alex’s face turns bright red. He looks like he might leap out of his chair and start sucking the saliva out of our mouths.
“You need to focus on other things besides being thirsty,” Dr. Foster advises him.
Alex squares his jaw. “I’m only allowed one liter of fluid per day,” he says. “Do you know how much one liter of fluid is?” He doesn’t wait for an answer. “Neither do I, because this is America and we don’t use the metric system here. But let me tell you something, it’s not much.”
“I understand,” Dr. Foster says. He looks at Angela and me. We don’t seem nearly as thirsty. “Maybe it would be better to begin with someone else today. Angela, how are you feeling today?”
“Super,” Angela replies, rolling her eyes.
Dr. Foster amps up his caring shrink face. “Anything in particular bothering you?”
Angela shrugs. “Just… you know, thinking about the future.”
I wait for Dr. Foster to prompt her, but he doesn’t. He just looks at her, waiting. Angela doesn’t seem to be taking the bait though.
“While we’re waiting for her to talk,” Alex says, “can I get some water?”
He leans forward eagerly in his wheelchair. Dr. Foster shakes his head at him and he falls back dejectedly.
“My boyfriend came to visit yesterday,” Angela finally says. “Happy?”
I saw Angela’s significant other during lunchtime yesterday. He had a mullet and dirt ground into his fingernails. But Angela’s face really lit up when she saw him. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her that happy.
“How long have the two of you been together?” Dr. Foster asks.
“Twelve years.”
“That’s a long time,” he comments. “Longer than a lot of marriages.”
“Longer than I’ve gone without having water,” Alex throws in.
“Anyway,” Angela says, shooting Alex a look. “Bobby told me that he thinks I should come home from here, and he’ll take care of me.”
Dr. Foster raises his eyebrows. “And what’s wrong with that?”
Angela gives him a look like he’s an idiot. “Bobby is my man. He’s not going to still want me if he’s helping me on the toilet.”
“And what’s the alternative?”
Angela shrugs. “I guess there isn’t any. I don’t have anyone else.”
It’s hard to feel sorry for Angela. She might not have anyone besides Bobby, but I would kill to have even one person who would be willing to take me home and take care of me. I have a husband, apparently, but he seems to have absolutely no interest in me. And it’s entirely possible that he was the one who put me here in the first place.
Dr. Foster pushes his spectacles up his nose. “So if Bobby were the one who had a stroke, you wouldn’t help him?”
“Of course I would,” Angela says, shaking her head. She frowns at him. “You’re twisting my words, Doc.”
“Listen, Angela,” Alex says. “If somebody cared about me enough to get me some water, I wouldn’t start thinking about it too much and wondering how it would work out. I would just take the water, you know what I’m saying?”
“You’re saying that I should let him help me,” Angela acknowledges.
“No!” Alex barks at her. “I’m saying that nobody cares about me enough to get me some goddamn water!”
With those words, Alex leaps out of his wheelchair. There is a sink for hygiene in the corner of the room, and before Dr. Foster can stop him, he turns the sink on and sticks his face underneath, his tongue hanging out, lapping up the precious water.
It takes three people to get him away from that sink.
_____
I’m sure if you gave Valerie a choice between dressing me and dressing a corpse, she’d pick the corpse. Even a corpse that was stiff and decomposing. I bet she wouldn’t even have to think it through before deciding.
I’m not sure how the simple act of putting on a shirt has turned into such a battle. Basically, it’s Valerie versus My Body. And while Valerie always wins, My Body definitely puts up a valiant effort.
“Stop pushing me,” Valerie says through her teeth as she fights to get my right arm through the shirt sleeve. That’s my good arm, so it should be easy. But it isn’t.
My mother is watching. She frowns at the site of our struggle at the edge of my bed. “Why does she always lean so much to the left when she sits up?”
Valerie looks relieved to temporarily abandon her quest to put on my shirt. “She doesn’t know where her midline is,” she explains. “When she’s tilted to the left, she thinks she’s sitting upright.”
Mom squints at me. “Charly, do you think you’re sitting up straight?”
“Yes,” I admit. Even though I know it’s the wrong answer.
“Jesus,” my mother says.
“So what happens,” Valerie continues, “is whenever I try to correct her by moving her to the right, she feels like she’s tilted to the right and is going to fall, and she starts pushing me with her good arm so that she can move back to the left.”
Mom shakes her head. “How do you fix that?”
“Mirrors can sometimes help,” Valerie says. “The idea is that if she sees herself in the mirror, she’ll realize that she’s tilted to one side. But her vision is so bad on the left side, it doesn’t help her very much.”
“So what else can we do?”
Valerie shrugs. “Hope that her brain heals.”
Well, that doesn’t seem to be happening anytime soon.
As Valerie continues to dress me, I tell myself over and over again that I am not going to fall to the right side. Even if I feel that way, I know that I am really sitting up straight. But it’s very hard not to believe in your own sense of balance.
“Charly, stop pushing me!”
And the battle continues…
Chapter 38
Nine Months Before
I try to run when Clark isn’t around. I know it sounds silly, but I don’t want my husband to see (and smell) me when I’m all hot and sweaty. Yes, I know I get hot and sweaty during other activities. But I can’t really do anything about that.
I get back to my apartment from a five mile run, feeling high on adrenaline. My knee is completely better. I could have run ten miles, except I wanted time to doll myself up before Clark got back from the office.
Don’t tell my mother, but I went running at Central Park. She hates it when I run there—she’s convinced I’ll almost certainly be raped and murdered. But seriously, what’s the point of living near this amazing park if I can’t run there? I stick to more crowded paths, for the most part. Even though it’s much nicer to run in solitude.
Before heading upstairs, I stop to check the mail. It’s the usual mix of bills, medical mail, and junk mail. Honestly, I don’t mind spam in my email, but junk mail seems like just a horrible waste of trees. It makes me sad. Medical mail is the worst though. A large bulk of it is journals. I honestly don’t understand how I receive so many medical journals, since I have no recollection of requesting any of them. They end up in a huge pile on my coffee table, making me feel guilty about the fact that I never, ever read them until I crack and throw them all out. And then there are the invitations to conferences and other continuing medical education activities—I swear, I could be traveling three hundred and sixty-five days of the year and not manage to go to half of those conferences.
And finally: insurance. The American Medical Association wants more than anything in the world for me to have good life and disability insurance.
In the stack of mail, there’s only one item I can’t identify, which is an envelope with no return address. My name and address have been typed in. Intriguing. Is it possible that I’ve gotten one piece of interesting mail?
I rip open the envelope right in the mail room. I pull out a torn sheet of typewritten paper. I scan the writing and realize it’s a divorce decree.
And my stomach sinks.
I grab my mail and head upstairs, shaking in spite of the sweat I worked up during my run. I ride up in the elevator, willing it to make it upstairs before my legs give out from under me.
When I get to the apartment, I’m relieved to see that Clark is home early. He’s sitting on the couch, watching television, when he’s supposed to be working on an upcoming case, but I’m too upset right now to be annoyed at him.
“Clark,” I say.
Clark looks up at me and grins. “Hey, there. You look all cute and sweaty.”
I ignore his remark and plop down next to him on the couch. “Look what I got in the mail.”
Clark takes the torn piece of paper from me and studies it for a minute. “I don’t get it,” he finally says. “It’s a divorce paper.”
“Right,” I say. “And look at the names.”
“Kyle Barry and Regina Barry,” he reads. He shrugs. “I have no idea who they are.”
