by Sarina Bowen
“Yes,” she says quietly. “I pulled it Wednesday night and read the whole thing.”
“So… did you find any dates in there?”
“Yes,” she says. She reaches for a sticky note and shows it to me. Saturday, December 10th. No surprises there. “That’s the night you were admitted to the hospital.” Then she swallows uncomfortably.
“Anything else, Lenore? You kind of look like you saw the devil.”
That’s when she chews on her lip. It’s her tell, and I rarely see it. But she’s nervous about something. “I read the whole file twice. Every word. The last time I read it was during the month we began working together. But now I know you better, so it read differently to me.”
“And?”
She sighs. “And there are some things in there that seem strange.”
“Are you going to tell me what they are?”
“Yes, but first I need to tell you that this is all speculation on my part.”
“Just please tell me what you saw.”
“First of all, the information they sent over about your medical treatment is woefully incomplete. It's not actually a medical file, like you would get from the hospital. It's more like a one-page summary that somebody typed out to send to us. And it is barely sufficient.”
“One page? I was in that hospital for weeks.”
“I know that. It’s just a summary of injuries. I know which of your ribs were broken, but I don’t know what drugs you were given for the pain.”
“Do you need to know that?”
She shakes her head. “Not necessarily, because you’re not being treated for addiction. But it’s not right. A request for medical records should never have been answered with this half-assed information. As for your head, it only says that the patient was confused, due to a probable head injury.”
I snort. “Wow. So forthcoming.”
“Right.” She chews her lip again, and I can tell we’re not done yet. “By comparison, the file included much more information about your academic history, including a transcript of your first semester grades. Nice work, by the way, all A’s.”
“Thank you. I didn’t take any of those exams, but I did everything else. That’s why I lawyered up in the first place, to get the credits.”
She looks down at a note on her pad. “You took chemistry, an intro to psych, a math class, a course on Chaucer, and Spanish. You got credit for courses you don't remember taking.”
“They couldn’t have predicted my memory loss at the time,” I point out.
“Right. That's why it didn't seem strange to me the first time I read it.”
“And now it does?”
She frowns, and I feel a tingle of awareness at the back of my neck. “A month or so ago, you and I got off on a tangent about liminality in The Canterbury Tales.”
I chuckle. “Sure, yeah. It’s more fun to talk about Chaucer than about myself.”
“Right.” She smiles. “When’s the first time you read Chaucer?”
“Like, any of it?” I ask. “I have no idea.”
“Did you read The Canterbury Tales in high school?”
I’m sweating now and I don’t even know why. “Those stories are everywhere. They’re referenced in a million other works of literature.”
“Uh huh. But you can quote from “The Knight’s Tale” in Middle English.”
It’s starting to hit me what Lenore is saying. “You think I remember some of that class.”
“You remember Chaucer,” she says carefully. “But not sitting in the class.”
“Right,” I agree. “Or the professor’s name. Yeah. Okay, that's weird. Head injuries are weird.”
“Yours is especially weird,” she says.
“In what way?” I demand.
She puts her elbows on the desk and then puts her head in her hands. “Rickie, I don't have any medical experience with TBI. So I did a bunch of reading this weekend, and I couldn't find a single TBI case with memory issues that are similar to yours, where so much material is retained so perfectly.”
“There are other cases. Like that CEO who slipped in the bathroom and lost his entire life’s memories.”
“I read about him,” she says quietly. “His brain scan revealed a loss of blood flow to the right temporal lobe.”
That’s true. And yet my brain scan showed no abnormalities like his. “That man also had learning issues after his accident. Difficulty forming new memories. I didn’t.”
Lenore nods calmly.
Nothing inside me is calm. Because I know what Lenore is trying to imply. “You think I don't have a TBI anymore.”
“That’s one explanation,” she says with deliberate care.
And I realize it’s even creepier than that. “You think I never had one. You think my memory loss is only traumatic?” My voice gets high and weird. “Like…a dissociative fugue. Wh-what is the new term for that?” Then I answer my own question. “Dissociative psychogenic amnesia.” My heart pounds, and I hear a rushing sound in my ears.
“That’s an extreme interpretation,” she says. “That brain fog you suffered after the accident sounds very much like a concussion.”
“But that went away in weeks.”
She watches me, and waits.
Bile climbs up my throat. I might actually vomit. When did this office get so small? I stand up and quickly unlatch Lenore’s window, and roll it open to the summer air. I stick my head outside and breathe. The sight of the green lawn below us makes me feel a little calmer.
Just breathe, I remind myself. I haven’t had a panic attack in a long time. Months. And now I’m on panic attack number two in two days.
Panic attacks, by the way, are a very rare symptom of TBI.
What if I never had a TBI?
When I turn back to look at Lenore, her eyes are worried. I’m scaring her right now. And, honestly, that's the most frightening thing yet. Her fear. “Shit, I’m not going to jump.”
“I know,” she says quickly. “I'm no doctor, okay? I struggled with whether to bring this up. But after rereading that file, I had certain suspicions. And I shared them with my advisor, who thought that you and I should have a discussion.”
A discussion sounds so benign. “You think my entire memory loss is psychological.”
“I think it could be. This honestly isn't the first time I've wondered,” she whispers.
“And you never said anything?” Anger surges inside me, and I know she doesn't deserve it. But when will the hits stop coming?
“Rickie, you are the smartest client that I have, perhaps the smartest person I know…”
“You wanted me to figure it out for myself,” I say heavily.
“It was just a suspicion,” she says. “My job is to lessen your trauma, not increase it. And there wasn’t any proof. And let’s not forget my lack of medical experience, and the lack of a decent medical file here. Although I was open to exploring that idea if you ever went there yourself.”
But I never went there myself. Some shrink I’m going to be. “I could get another scan,” I suggest. “Mine came up clear.”
“You could,” she agrees. “There might be a hospital somewhere with a more sensitive machine. We could investigate. But if a new set of scans is clear, then you still don't know anything. It could still be a medical condition that we can't find on an MRI.”
“I’m so tired of not knowing,” I say uselessly. “And I hate this theory of yours.”
“Why?” she asks.
“What do you mean why? I've been so angry about my memory loss and now you're telling me that it's my own fault.”
“Whoa now,” she says, pointing a finger at me. “That is a very bad take on this discussion.”
“I know,” I grunt. “But last year I was a guest speaker at that cognitive psychology course. Remember? Everyone was so impressed that I knew the ins and outs of memory loss diagnoses. It's just that I had mine all wrong.”
“Rickie, I hate to break this news—but if you’re
going to become a clinical psychologist, that means a lifetime of interpreting other people’s psychological issues without ever being sure that you’ve got a good grasp on your own. We are all our own worst patients.”
“I realize that,” I grunt.
“One problem at a time,” she says gently. “This changes nothing.”
“How can you say that? My treatment should change. I should be considering hypnosis or some shit.”
“That option has always been open to you. But you told me hypnotism is for suckers. Those were your actual words.”
My laugh is bitter. “It’s true.” I get up out of my chair. “Our time is up, right?”
“Almost,” she admits. “But sit down a sec. I don’t want you to walk out of here feeling angry and confused.”
“I’ve been angry and confused for a couple of years now,” I point out. “Today is no different.”
“It is, though,” she says quietly.
I know she’s right. I just don’t know what to do about it. “What if you call the Academy? It’s been at least a year since anyone bothered them about me. What if you reached the infirmary and asked for another copy of my file?”
She taps her fingers on the desk. “I’m game. But if they weren’t helpful before, they probably won’t be now.”
“Probably,” I admit. “But what if you get someone new on the phone? Somewhere, someone knows what happened to me that night. I mean—lie to them if you have to. Say I’m in crisis. Tell them I’m psychotic. Ask them if I was shot at or blown up. I don’t care how outlandish you make it. If they issue a denial, they might throw you some more details. Do whatever it takes.”
She takes a deep breath. I can tell she’s thinking about it.
“Please,” I whisper. “I know it probably won’t work. But just try.”
“Okay,” she says. “Okay.”
“That’s all I ask.” On that note, I make my exit, leaving Lenore’s worried face behind.
Twenty-Six
Daphne
I’m very frustrated. I suppose that’s nothing new. I’ve spent the whole summer feeling frustrated by my situation.
Except now I’m also sexually frustrated. That’s new. And it’s all Rickie’s fault.
After Violet’s departure—and the promises she extracted from me to tell her absolutely everything about the future developments between Rickie and me—I’d expected to have some free time with him.
But that’s not what happens. Instead, my idiot brother takes Rickie on a guys’ hiking trip to the White Mountains, where they summit three of the Presidentials in the span of four days.
Guess who has to milk the cows while they’re gone? This girl. It’s Chastity and me in the barn at the crack of dawn for four days straight. She’s ridiculously cheerful at seven in the morning. A year ago she was worried about starting college and worried about finding her place in the world.
But now Chastity behaves like she’s found a secret trove of happy pills, and won’t share. She’s living her dream, planning her future with my brother and so in love that she might as well be skipping through a field of daisies at sunset.
Meanwhile, the second-floor hallway is way too quiet for my taste. The weather has finally cooled off, but I haven’t. I lie in bed every night listening to the crickets chirp, and feeling lonely.
Is it crazy to miss somebody that I thought I wanted gone? I spend a lot of time remembering the view of those gray eyes as he kissed me in bed. Like I was a precious gift to hold and explore. Sometimes I catch myself smiling so hard that I roll my face into the pillow and sigh.
The pull I feel toward him is uncomfortable for me. Whenever I feel this way, it usually ends in disaster.
“Come on, Daphne,” Violet had said before she left. “Rickie seems great. And they can’t all be like Reardon.” That didn’t sway me very much, because my data set is still small.
But then she’d said something else that got to me. "If you don’t take a chance, then Reardon wins."
And that’s true. I can’t let Reardon Halsey have a lasting effect on every part of my life. He may ultimately ruin every professional ambition I have, and that’s on me. I will pay for my mistakes.
But I won’t pay for his. And if Reardon is the last man I ever make myself vulnerable for, that would be horrible, right? The man outmaneuvered me for now. He can take my job, but he can’t take my happiness.
I won’t let him.
In theory, anyway. My bold decision has me flopping around in bed, and not even the cool Vermont air blowing in through the window can cool my heated, yearning skin.
Rickie and my brother drive back on Tuesday night. They roll up at sundown in Dylan’s truck, while I’m in the kitchen with Mom, prepping tomorrow’s meals.
My heart leaps as soon as I hear their voices outside. And it takes tremendous effort to keep on peeling carrots when I’d rather run for the door, the way Chastity is doing right now.
"Hey! We’re in the middle of a game, here," Grandpa complains from the dining room.
"You’re winning anyway," she says, laughing. Then she plants a kiss on Dylan the minute he appears in the kitchen doorway.
"Greetings!" he calls out after kissing her hello. "We are filthy dirty and Rickie got himself a sunburn. But we smashed all three peaks."
"Congratulations," my mother says, wiping her hands on her apron. "Did you have dinner?"
"You bet we did. We’d better take turns in the outdoor shower. It’s that bad. But then I’ll come back in and take care of this laundry." He drops a bag in the mudroom. "But you come with me, lady." He takes Chastity’s hand, and they disappear outside.
Rickie doesn’t enter the house at all. I have half a mind to run after him for my own kiss hello. Or—let’s be honest—a glimpse of his naked body in the outdoor shower by the bunkhouse.
But I play it cool, and I wait.
Guess what? Playing it cool is the pits. Rickie doesn’t knock on my door at all on Tuesday night. I don’t even get a glimpse of him until Wednesday morning at breakfast, where I’m hovering in the kitchen making pancakes and watching the stairs like a stalker for his appearance.
When he finally shows his face, the first thing I notice is that his sunburn is already fading to a golden tan. But the second thing I notice is the way he avoids my gaze.
"Morning," he says, his voice subdued. "How’ve you been?" His eyes are elsewhere.
"Fine," I reply, but my heart drops. I pour him a mug of coffee, but then I force him to look at me when I hand it over. And I brace myself to see regret or disinterest on his face. Why else would he be avoiding me if there were no second thoughts about our hot and heavy shower last week?
He lifts his gaze to mine, finally, and I’m shocked to see dark circles under his eyes. He looks like he hasn’t slept in a week. And I must be pretty bad at disguising my surprise, because he winces. "You okay?" I whisper.
"Of course," he says. His index finger slips artfully across the back of my hand as he takes the mug of coffee from me, leaving tingles on my skin.
I look up at him, encouraged by this small display of warmth. But the back door opens, and Rickie turns away from me as Dylan enters the kitchen, with Chastity bringing up the rear.
"Oooh, pancakes," my brother says, grabbing a plate.
"You’re on cleanup duty," I point out. "It’s Wednesday, so we’re heading to Burlington at ten."
"Yeah, I know," my brother says, stealing one right off the griddle and handing the plate to Chastity. "Rickie is staying here today."
"What?" I say, and it comes out as a squeak. "Why?"
The man in question uses the ladle to pour another pancake onto my griddle. "I’m gonna help Dylan catch up on some maintenance, and just Zoom into my class."
"Oh," I say, thrown. That's exactly the suggestion I’d made to him a few weeks ago, back when I was trying to stay out of Rickie’s orbit.
And now he’s taking that suggestion, and I'm so disappointed.
"
But don’t worry!" Dylan says, oblivious to my despair. "Chastity is going with you instead. You'll have to drive, but she'll hop out and make the deliveries, so you don't need to park."
"Okay, sure," I say breezily. "But what's she going to do for five hours while I'm at work?"
"Buy a computer!" Chastity crows, bouncing back into the kitchen. "I've been waiting for this day for a long time. And I finally have the cash." Her smile is like sunshine.
Even I’m not a big enough bitch to rain on that level of glee. "Okay, that's really great."
"After the store sets it up for me, I’ll entertain myself at the library. It's all good."
I guess that's settled, then. I make a couple of pancakes for myself, and for my mom. And then I get ready to hit the road.
An hour later I'm burning up the highway miles toward Burlington, with the applejack delivery—and Chastity—in tow.
Conversation doesn’t flow easily. Chastity will probably become my sister-in-law someday, so I should really make an effort.
She and I have never had much in common, but that’s not the real problem. I’m so distracted by the questions swirling around in my heart. Why did Rickie look so beat? And why is he blowing off our Wednesday?
Our Wednesday. Just listen to me. I don’t even know myself anymore. A new wave of frustration washes over me. Who's going to make me stop for ice cream and give me the fuck-me eyes?
This is why I avoid tattooed hotties with pretty gray eyes. They’re addicting.
"Hey, Daph?" Chastity says suddenly.
"Sorry, what?" I ask guiltily. "I'm a little distracted."
"That’s okay. I was just thinking about the school year. And I know money is tight this year. I mean, money is always tight. But I also know that it, uh, bothers you."
"True enough." Have they been discussing me? Is it worse than I even realized?
"I just wonder why you never considered living with us at Rickie's place in Burlington. There’s one more bedroom. And it's so cheap."
"How cheap, exactly?" I hear myself ask. When Dylan had brought up this possibility last Christmas, I'd said that I wasn’t interested. I didn’t want my brother all up in my business.