After several days of testing and meeting with specialists, we determined the TBI didn’t affect my ability to walk, talk, or eat. But aside from my parents, I couldn’t recall a single memory that once mapped my childhood. As we approached discharge, we were prepared for the worst-case scenario.
“What if her memory never comes back?” my dad asked the neurologist.
“With time, most patients with severe TBIs still restore full memory. If by some small chance that isn’t the case for Teddy, we’ll cross that bridge when we get there,” Dr. Spalding said.
The gravity of what he was saying settled over the room. It settled over me.
The pressure suffocated me. It didn’t matter that I had lived. What mattered was that I remember.
I combat those memories like a December cold that won’t go away. I’ve plagued myself for months, let myself die inside trying to rebirth this person they feel like they’re missing, and I refuse to do it anymore.
“Mom, I need to keep living my life. I can’t spend it walking on broken glass like one wrong move will sever everything that I am. I’m walking home,” I say, pushing off the car and stomping in the opposite direction.
I weave around the rows of vehicles filling the parking lot as my mom inches out of her spot and follows a safe distance behind me. My blood boils, and I start to jog as though I can outrun her car.
A battered pickup truck blocks my path, and I’m forced to circle around it. I look over my shoulder to see if I can make a break for the trees on the edge of the road when I plow into the side of a warm body.
“We’ve got to stop meeting like this,” Miles says, his voice gruff as he disentangles us.
I check over my shoulder one more time, and the disapproval in my mom’s eyes fuels this fire inside of me to do something reckless.
“I need a ride.”
I meant to ask instead of demand, but under the weight of her stare, I feel pressed for time.
Miles releases me from his grip and tracks my gaze to my parents’ car. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
He stalks toward the driver’s seat and unlocks his truck, and I follow closely behind, yanking on his arm to get his attention.
“Listen, buddy. I’m sensing you don’t want to be around me, but I need this favor. So, if it’s space you want, I’ll give it to you. But only after a ride. Otherwise, I’m hunting you down every damn day this summer and playing a horrific version of ‘Chopsticks’ on the recorder,” I threaten.
His eyebrows perk, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. Then they flick over my shoulder to my glaring mother, and he swallows. He opens the driver’s-side door and with a quick jerk of his head, he motions toward the passenger seat.
“Thank you!” I gasp.
I jump in and scoot across the bench. Then he slams the door closed and pulls out of the parking lot, taking a left-hand turn away from the cabin.
We ride in silence for several long minutes with me checking the rearview mirror for a vehicle that never comes into view. By the time I let myself relax and get a good look out the window, I don’t recognize a single landmark around us, and I feel my shoulders instantly stiffen.
“Where are you taking me?”
“You tell me,” he says.
“Oh, um…”
I didn’t think this through.
I survey the unfamiliar cabin-speckled streets as if I’ll find a better one for him to drop me off at than the one I live in. I don’t have a clear-cut plan, but I can’t expect him to meander around for half the day. He’s not my chauffer, and I’m sure he has other things to do.
“You can just take me home now if you want to,” I say, and if he hears the disappointment in my voice, he doesn’t comment.
He nods but keeps driving in the same direction. His eyes are fixed on the road, his hand loose around the steering wheel. He seems content with our silence, but I’m struggling.
“Has anyone ever told you that you don’t talk very much?”
Silence.
“You know what, this is good. It’s exactly what I need. I don’t like talking either.”
