Page 33 of Brain Damage

“Can you tell me what you see, Charly?” Amy says.

I look down at the black-and-white sketch in front of me. “It’s a mom washing the dishes.”

“Right. Anything else?”

I study the drawing. “The mom is distracted and the sink is overflowing.”

“Anything else?”

I shake my head no.

I already know what Amy is going to do next because the same thing happens every single time. She whips out a bright red ruler and places it on the left side of the drawing. I turn my head to the left, looking for it. Finally, I spot the red. And now that I have it as a guide, I can see the rest of the drawing.

“There are two kids trying to steal the cookie from the cookie jar,” I say. “And the little boy is on a stool that is going to fall over.”

“Good,” Amy says. She leans back in her chair and gets this thoughtful expression on her face. “Charly, why did you say that the woman was a mom?”

“I guess because there are two kids in the picture,” I say with a shrug.

“Yes,” Amy says, “but you couldn’t see the two children until I put the red ruler on the paper.”

“I don’t know then,” I say. “Maybe she just looks like a mother.”

“Or maybe,” Amy says, “your brain was able to see the two children, but you just couldn’t put the whole thing together. Maybe you’re absorbing everything that’s on the left, but you just can’t process it.”

Maybe. I guess it’s possible. But the woman in the drawing really does look like a mom. She has an apron and everything.

There’s a rap on the door to my room, which is on my right. Amy and I both look up. A nurse whose name I can’t remember is standing in the doorway, smiling at me.

“Charly,” she says, “when you’re done with therapy, you’ve got a visitor.”

“A visitor?” That’s exciting. I almost never have visitors here. “Is it my mother?”

The nurse gives me a big smile. “No, it’s a man named Stan Leroy. He says he’s a friend.”

Stan Leroy.

I know that name. It pings something in the depths of my damaged brain.

“No,” I say.

The nurse’s smile fades. “But⁠—”

“No.” My voice is louder than I’ve ever heard it before. “I don’t want to see him. Keep him away.”

“Charly—”

“Keep him away!”

There’s a tight feeling in my chest, and it’s suddenly hard to get air in. My fingertips start to tingle more and more with each shallow breath. Amy looks alarmed.

“Jackie,” Amy says, “I don’t think a visitor is a good idea right now.”

Jackie looks confused, but she nods and hurries off. It isn’t until Amy rubs my right arm, assuring me that the man is being sent away, that the panic starts to subside. And even then, I can’t shake off a sense of dread in the pit of my stomach.

24

BEFORE