I felt incredibly disappointed, having pinned all my hope on Mom and what she might know about my breakup. I had hoped to avoid asking Daniel, but it seemed no one else in my life had the faintest idea about what went down between us.
“It’s so strange, isn’t it, how your mind decided to ignore all that? How it zipped things together and gave you and Daniel a happy ending. Our brains truly are amazing.”Amazing.That was one word for it, though not the one I would use at the moment. She checked her watch, sprang into action. “Are you finished?” She glanced at my soup and I nodded, though it was three-quarters full. “We should get going.” She put on her coat, buttoning it quickly. “I thought we might walk, if you’re up to it.”
As I gathered my stuff, I thought about what she’d said. Itwasstrange and disturbing, and for the hundredth time since coming out of the coma, I wished my mind had chosen another aspect of my life to confabulate. I also wished I had worn my more practical boots, versus the heeled ones I chose that wintry day, completely inappropriate for the weather but a much better match to my outfit. Or that the store had known about the leaky awning, the pool of water that had gathered outside the door and frozen solid overnight into a slick, clear patch of ice that looked like wet sidewalk pavement. That I hadn’t chosen to buy that tie in that store that day for an anniversary I had no memory of.
So many things could have happened differently, though I supposed it also could have been much worse. The doctors did say I was lucky to come out relatively unscathed—at least medically speaking. But that was of little comfort these days as I navigated this disordered world of mine, gingerly putting one foot in front of the other as though I was walking the edge of a cliff, blindfolded.
18
At my appointment I was cleared to go back to work in the next week, which was a huge relief. As suggested by Dr. Mulder when I was discharged from the hospital, I had been keeping a symptom log for the past few weeks. He was pleased to see the headaches had tapered off and the dizziness seemed a thing of the past.
“How’s the memory doing?” Dr. Mulder asked.
I paused, and Mom—who had insisted on coming into the appointment with me—took over. “She’s been working very hard.”
Working very hard?I had a fairly impressive memory list going, had kept all my appointments with Dr. Kay and was determined to find my way back to preaccident-Lucy. But when it came to what I actually remembered, I was not much further ahead than I had been the day I woke up from the coma. The same holes existed, and some of what I did remember from the past few years was fictional. However, Dr. Mulder seemed satisfied by Mom’s answer. “Good. Keep up with the therapy.” He flipped through the pages in my chart. “Who are you seeing again?”
“Dr. Kay,” I said.
“Amanda Kay? Great. She’s fantastic. Well, Lucy, I think everything is looking great. How are you feeling about things?”
Mom shifted in her chair to look at me, but I kept my gaze on Dr. Mulder. “Pretty good,” I replied, then quickly added, “I’m managing.” It felt like the most truthful answer I could give. I may not have been thriving, but I was managing.
“You’ve faced some unique challenges, Lucy, and it seems you’re handling it all very well,” Dr. Mulder said, giving me a warm smile.
“Thanks,” I said, because I wasn’t sure what else to say. “So, does all this mean screens are okay now?”
“Screens are fine,” Dr. Mulder said, continuing to smile like an indulgent grandparent. Probably thinking about how us twentysomethings were addicted to our devices—the unbalanced priorities of today’s youth. Then he gave me a more serious look. “Unless you see an uptick in headaches or any dizziness. Keep the log going for a few more weeks, especially as you start back to work, and be cognizant about how you’re feeling.”
He shook my hand, then Mom’s. “All the best, Lucy. I’m thrilled to see how well you’re doing.”
Mom called Dad as soon as we were out, to let him know how the appointment went. I wanted to remind her the headaches and dizziness had been the least intrusive side effects—the ones we had expected to dissipate, unlike my memory issues. But she was so delighted to be delivering good news I stayed quiet, smiled and nodded as she prattled on first to Dad and then to me as we made our way back to my apartment.
* * *
I thought Matt would be relieved I could go back to work, but he was mostly concerned.
“You’re sure he said you’re ready? It’s going to be a lot of time on the computer, Lucy.” He frowned, used a spatula to transfer the pesto sauce he’d made from the food processor to a bowl. He dipped his finger into the forest green mixture and tasted it before adding another teaspoon of salt. The kitchen smelled amazing, the garlic and crushed basil leaves filling the small space. I leaned against the counter nearby and marveled at his culinary skills. Daniel had been a terrible cook, and I wasn’t much better. I remembered Jenny suggesting we get a good handle on delivery options near our apartment so we didn’t have to subsist on toast and canned tomato soup after we were married.
“Work was pretty stressful before you, uh, had to take leave,” he added.
“What do you mean?” I asked, curious as to what he knew that I didn’t. He had mentioned earlier we’d stopped sharing the ins and outs of our daily work grinds once we started dating. Something about trying to find separation so we’d stay sane. “Like church and state,” he had said, smiling. “We leave the office at the office.”
But now he shrugged. “You were putting in long hours and dealing with some stuff with your team.”
I frowned, not remembering anything particularly stressful about the office other than the usual deadlines and workload. But I also had zero recollection that Matt was not only my “work husband” but also my real-life boyfriend. So it was entirely possible things had been utterly falling apart at work before my accident, and I didn’t remember.
“Well, I’m sure I can handle it. And Brooke’s been amazing at keeping things running smoothly,” I said. “Plus, the dizziness is gone and the headaches are so much better.” Matt still looked unconvinced. “Matt, I’ve been home for over a month. I’m tired of being trapped here and the doctor said I’m good to go. It’s time to get back.”
He nodded, tapped the spatula against the edge of the bowl to clean it of the pesto and then started the pasta water. It seemed he had more to say but was holding his tongue and I decided not to push him on it.
“Give me a job,” I said, rolling up my sleeves.
“Here. You can grate this.” He handed me a wedge of Parmesan cheese and the grater. “We need about half a cup.”
I went to work on the cheese while he tossed some sliced chicken breast into the bubbling olive oil in the frying pan. “Okay, full-disclosure time,” Matt said, pushing the chicken around the searing hot pan with a wooden spoon. He lowered the heat, turned toward me. “Iamworried about the headaches, and the screen time.”
I nodded. I got it. Dr. Mulder and Therapist Ted had been very strict initially about the importance of resting my brain, and it was hard to shift gears. To believe, without some sort of test or scan to prove it, I was okay and my brain had in fact healed. Especially because while the concussion symptoms had abated, my memory was still a disaster. I was better in some ways, worse in others.
