Left Neglected Part 11

"I need to see what they do so I can help you."

"I really need a hat before the kids get here. I don't want them to see me like this, and there might be traffic. You can sit in on therapy tomorrow."

Or the next day. Or the day after that.

"You sure?" she asks.

"Yes, really."

"Eight hundred Boylston Street," she says.

"You got it."

"And you'll tell me what happened in therapy when I get back."

"I'll fill you in on everything."

Or at least half of everything.

My mother writes the address down on a receipt she finds in her pocketbook, I rea.s.sure her that she has the exact address two more times, and she finally leaves. I relax and return to watching Ellen. She's smiling and chatting with someone named Jim. He sounds like Jim Carrey. After a couple of minutes, it occurs to me that I should be able to see Jim Carrey. But I can't. I try. But I still can't. I can only see Ellen. What if I can't ever see who Ellen's talking to? What if rehabilitation doesn't work? What if this never goes away? What if I can't ever go back to work? I can't live like this.

I don't want to watch Ellen anymore. I look out the window. It's a clear, sunny day, and in the glary reflection, I see my hideous bald head. I don't want to look at me anymore, but it's either Ellen, my hideous bald head, or the prison. Ellen's guest, whoever he is, says something that cracks her up, and Ellen laughs as I close my eyes and cry.

--- "MORNING, SARAH."

The chair is empty. The TV is off. The voice sounds familiar, but I can't place it.

"h.e.l.lo?" I ask.

"I'm over here."

I turn my head. I see the prison.

"Okay, we'll work on it," says the woman's voice.

The woman then materializes in my mother's chair, and it's Heidi, Ben's mom. That's a bit odd. I wouldn't expect her to take time out of her day to visit me. Maybe she has something to tell me about Charlie and school. G.o.d, I hope he's not in trouble.

"So, you don't get enough of me at Before the Bell?" she asks, smiling.

I return the smile, but I don't understand what we're happy about.

"Heidi, thanks so much for coming to see me."

"No need to thank me. I'm just doing what the board says. You're my eleven o'clock."

Huh?

"I'm your OT."

Again, huh?

"Your occupational therapist. This is what I do."

"Oh!"

The scrubs, the purple Crocs, the photo ID hung on the end of the lanyard around her neck. I always a.s.sumed she was some kind of nurse but never asked what she did or where she worked.

"How're you doing?" she asks.

"Good."

She stares at me, waiting, like I'm a troubled teen denying that the drugs are mine. I have a traumatic brain injury, my head is shaved, I can't walk because I have no idea where my left leg is, and she's here because she's my occupational therapist, and I'm her 11:00. "Good" isn't even close to a real answer.

"Actually, not so good. I don't want to be here. I don't want to have this condition. I just want to go home."

"Hey, I don't want you here either. As much as I like having the chance to finally get to know you better, I'd rather do that in my living room over a bottle of wine."

I smile, appreciating Heidi's kindness, but only for the slightest moment because now I'm too busy expanding on how "not so good" I am.

"I've missed so much work, so many important deadlines. I have to get back to work. And my kids. Charlie's struggling in school, and I miss tucking Lucy into bed, and Linus. I really have to get back home."

My voice starts to crack when I say Lucy's name, and it splits wide open when I get to Linus. Tears are rolling down my face, and I don't even try to stop them. Heidi hands me a tissue.

"I want my life back."

"We'll get you back. You gotta stay positive. I saw Charlie and Lucy yesterday before school, and they're doing fine. Have they seen you yet?"

"They're coming today for the first time."

It's been two and a half weeks since the accident, and Bob said that Charlie and Lucy have started asking, "When is Mommy coming home from work?" I wish I knew. I also wish they didn't have to see me here, like this, bald and disabled in a rehabilitation hospital, but I can't wait any longer to see them.

"Good. And I just met your mom. She's so sweet. She wanted to know where she could go buy you a hat."

Of course she did.

"Where did you tell her?"

"I sent her to the Pru."

"Did she ask for the address?"

"Yup, she's all set."

She's something.

"So, we're going to retrain you to pay attention to the left. Ready to get to work?"

"Yes."

I blow out a deep breath.

"Can you tell me what time it is?" she asks.

"Eleven o'clock."

"And how do you know that?"

"Because you told me I'm your eleven o'clock."

She laughs.

"I'm gonna have to be on my toes with you. I'm actually running a little behind today. Can you tell me how late I am?"

"I don't see a clock in here."

"Well, you're wearing a beautiful watch."

"Oh yeah."

My Cartier watch. Platinum, crown set with round-cut diamonds, and Roman numerals on the face.

"Can you tell me what it says?"

"I can't find it."

"Can you feel it on your wrist?"

"No."

"How did you put it on?"

"My mother did it for me."

"Okay, let's find your watch."

She gets up and appears to leave the room, but I don't hear the open-and-close of the door. I wait for her to say something. She doesn't.

"You smell like coffee," I say.

"Good, you knew I was still here."

"I'd kill for a coffee right now."

"There's a Dunkin' Donuts in the lobby. You tell me what time it is, and I'll go get you one."

I inhale her coffee smell again, and my heart pumps a little faster in antic.i.p.ation as I imagine the weight of the extra-large Styrofoam cup, warm in my hand, filled to the top with heavenly vanilla latte. Where the heck is my watch?

"I'm sitting on your left. Can you see me?"

"No."

"Follow my voice. Keep going, past the TV."

"I can't."

There isn't anything past the TV.

"Mmm, that coffee was sooo good," she says, teasing me with her breath on my face.

I try to visualize the coffee aroma emanating out from Heidi as a visible vapor trail. I'm a cartoon mouse sniffing out a huge piece of Swiss.

"I can't."

"Yes, you can. Follow my voice. Come on, look to the left."

"I feel like I'm looking at everything that's in the room. But I know you're in the room, so I can't be, but that's what it feels like."

What I perceive and what I understand to be true are at war inside my head, fighting to the death, giving me a colossal headache. Or maybe I just need a colossal coffee.

"Okay, let's try some stimulation. Do you feel this?"

"Yes."

"What does it feel like?"

"Tapping."

"Good. What am I tapping?"

"The back of my hand."

"The back of which hand?"

I look down at my right hand.

"My left?"

"Good. Now try to look at where I'm tapping."

I look down. My stomach bulges embarra.s.singly far onto my lap. I was hoping that since I apparently eat only half of the food on my plate, I might at least shed some pounds while I'm here. Even on the weirdest diet ever, I don't seem to be losing any weight.

"Sarah, you still with me? Look at what I'm tapping."

"I don't feel it anymore."

"Okay, let's change it up. How about now?"

I see something moving at the edge of the room, but it's too blurry and impermanent to make out what it is. Then suddenly, it snaps into focus.