Two days pass in a near-catatonic haze. I balance on the edge of awareness like a drunken tightrope walker and grapple with all-consuming grief.
So far I’ve learned Mom had stage four glioblastoma. The most aggressive brain cancer out there. It was too late for treatment when the doctors found it and she passed away less than three months later.
From my short conversations with Dad, we’ve established my amnesia starts the day my parents told me about Mom’s diagnosis. It was raining that day… Dad called, asking when I’d be home because he and Mom wanted to talk face to face.
It’s as if my brain decided too much bad shit happened and rebooted, erasing the neurological trauma. It reverted me to the last stable version, boosting my physical recovery more efficiently after the accident.
Dr. Phillips didn’t comment when I blurted that out. He doesn’t speak much at all and he’s starting to piss me off, withholding information like that. I get why, but it grates my nerves nonetheless.
The only other thing Dad’s told me is that we live in Ohio now, not Florida. We needed a change of scenery after Mom died. Dad said we lasted until summer vacation last year before moving halfway across the country.
Every time I ask what else I missed, he suddenly has somewhere to be, people to see, shit to take care of…
He’s afraid another dose of news will send me over.
Plausible. My heartrate spikes whenever I think about Mom. Whenever I poke the black hole inside my mind, hoping it’ll spit out a few memories.
Dad stopped by around eight this morning, but once I asked for my phone, he pulled a disgusted face at my breakfast and vanished into thin air.
I’m not sure what he was so disgusted about. His colleague, Jonathan Matthews, brings me a fresh bagel and coffee every morning when he takes his shift outside my door.
Dad introduced him as his most trusted friend, and from the smile on Jonathan’s face when I muttered, it’s nice to meet you, I deduced we already know each other.
He doesn’t say much when he comes over. We have a brief chat about the weather and he asks the standard how are you doing today? question, but he’s pleasant, and he makes me feel a little less lonely.
Time ticks away until noon when a soft rap at the glass door pulls my attention from the gameshow I’m watching on the wall-mounted TV. Seeing Dad enter with Dr. Phillips, I promise myself I won’t risk him disappearing by asking about the past again.
I’ll ask about the future.
After all, I don’t know when I’m being released.
“Good morning, Hailey,” Dr. Phillips chirps, fetching the clipboard from the foot of my bed. “How are you feeling?”
“I’m okay. When can I leave?”
Dad smirks, the first almost-smile I’ve seen on him since I woke up. “Not long now, sunshine. We’ve been discussing your situation.”
“Yes, we’ve found a potential solution to facilitate your recovery.” Dr. Phillips squares his shoulders, taking a dramatic pause. “We believe that placing you in a neutral environment would be beneficial. The change in setting should make the healing process smoother. There’s a higher chance you’ll regain your memories if you’re not confronted by your past all at once.”
My brows furrow as I turn to my dad who’s suddenly busy studying the tiles. At least he’s still here.
“I don’t understand. Wouldn’t shock therapy work faster? I thought going home, meeting my new friends, seeing my new space… it’d all trigger memories.”
Dr. Phillips cocks an amused eyebrow. “Because that worked so well last time?” He chuckles, temporarily loosening the doctor-patient stiffness. “As proven a couple of days ago, shock therapy is not advised in your current state.”
Whenever I start asking questions, Dr. Phillips materializes by my bed, a syringe at the ready, his rapt attention focused on my vitals. He stabs me whenever that damned heart monitor signals another panic attack.
“Precautions,” he says. “We can’t risk brain damage.”
My stiff, covered-in-bandages neck and dislocated shoulder agree. I hope the deep, bloody wounds I carved down my throat won’t scar. My shoulder should heal without an issue, though it might always be more fragile than the other. I dislocated it during the accident, and it hadn’t had enough time to heal before I snapped it out of place again.
The cherry on top? My brain injury took a nosedive. The swelling returned, hence the stiff neck and persistent headaches. I was sedated for twenty-four hours to stabilize my condition.
So, yeah… I get why Dr. Phillips uses me as a dartboard, but it sucks.
“You’re too fragile to handle too much information in too short a period of time, Hailey.”
“We could do it in stages,” I counter. “I could stay at home for a while before I go back to college.”
I’d risk adding and meet my friends but I’m afraid I’ll hear Dad say softly you don’t have friends. Having a cop for a dad, a famous cop who took down dangerous men, has never been easy. He had to hide me and Mom at my grandparents’ farm in Idaho more than once over the years, so all I had through middle school and high school were people I spoke to in the halls. No real friends, no one to go shopping or sneak out to parties with.
“I know you want your memories and connections back, but with severe head trauma and brain swelling, we need to be extremely careful. Too much too fast, and your brain might jam up.”
The rational part of me understands he’s talking sense. It also fears what might happen in another incident.
What if I fry my brain beyond repair? What if I lose the sliver of a chance to regain my memories?
It’s not worth the risk, but the stubborn part of me wants all the information right now.
I sip the coffee, letting the bittersweet liquid douse my flaring temper before the monitor beeps and I end up sedated for another day.
“What do you mean by a ‘neutral environment’?” I ask, my head full of picturesque recovery centers by the ocean. Sprawling rose gardens, gentle music, airy bedrooms. “I don’t want to drop out of college. I’m already two years behind!”
“No one says you’re dropping out,” Dad speaks up, his voice steady but the hand he runs down my cheek trembling. “I did some research and found a private college. It’s purely for drama, dance, and creative arts students. They have excellent acting coaches. Much better than any you’ve had so far. It’s in a remote location, away from the city, away from distractions. It’s… serene. Somewhere you can heal in your own time.”
So they want to send me away to a middle-of-nowhere fancy boarding college. Dad goes on, selling the place with cheap ad-copy: like-minded people, small community, private rooms, housekeeping.
I stop listening when he calls it elite.
Juilliard is elite. This Lakeside place is most definitely not.
“Think about it,” Dr. Phillips says once my dad runs out of steam. “We can talk more later today. You have at least another week in this bed provided you stay calm and recover enough for me to feel confident about discharging you.”
Easy for him to say. He’s not the one with two years’ worth of experiences and knowledge wiped like a USB flash drive dropped in coffee. Whatever I learned in college is gone.
“Will I need to start as a freshman again?”
“That’s something you’d discuss with the dean, but I’d think it would be the wisest choice.”
He doesn’t say it aloud. Doesn’t even hint it, but his reasoning shines in his dark eyes. I should start afresh because I might never regain my memories…
