Page 112 of Brain Damage

“Three months,” she says.

Three months. Brigid used to tell me everything, but somehow she kept this from me.

“I just…” Brigid murmurs. “I know you have a lot on your plate, and I didn’t want to…”

No, I get it. She doesn’t want me to feel bad about her joyous news when I’m recovering from my husband trying to have me killed. She knows that I used to want a child. Before.

Do I still want a child? When I look at Chelsea building a snowman out of her mashed potatoes, I think to myself that yes, yes I do. But at the same time, I’m nearly forty. I don’t even have a potential boyfriend on the horizon, much less a guy offering to father my offspring. So I’m thinking it’s not going to happen.

I feel bad about it, but I know I’ll get over it. If I can get over being shot in the head, I can get over anything.

I’ve eaten about half a cheeseburger when I feel something hit my shoulder. Whatever it was didn’t hit me very hard. More like a light tap. And then I feel it again on my thigh.

I look up at the ceiling. Is there some sort of leak right above me? I put my hand on my shoulder but it doesn’t feel wet to me. I must be going crazy. Could this be related to my head injury? Some late sequela?

And then I feel something hit me on the back of my hand. And I see it too. A tiny green ball. I stare at it in confusion for a minute, then I pick it up to examine it further.

It’s a pea.

“Charly,” Brigid whispers to me. “There’s this totally cute guy two tables over who keeps staring at you.”

Before Brigid can tell me not to, I pivot in my seat. And just as I suspected, there he is.

Jamie.

Oh my God, it’s Jamie.

He waves to me. He’s sitting across the table from Sam, who seems oblivious to our interaction.

“You know him?” Brigid asks me.

“Yes,” I say. “From rehab.”

Her eyes widened. “So he’s… messed up?”

I shoot her a look, and she has the good grace to seem embarrassed. “Well, why don’t you invite him to sit with us?”

Before I can tell her not to, Brigid has leapt out of her seat and marched over to Jamie’s table. I just sit there, feeling really self-conscious. The truth is, I’ve thought about Jamie a lot in the last year. Mostly, I’ve beaten myself up for heroically rejecting him. Sometimes I think it was the dumbest thing I’ve ever done. And that includes marrying Clark.

It’s possible that if there were some other man in my life, I would have been able to attempt to forget him. But there hasn’t been. Considering I’ve spent the year recovering, I haven’t really been up to the task of dating. And considering what I look like right now, I don’t feel quite ready to put myself out there. Maybe someday. I don’t know.

As I watch Brigid speaking softly to Jamie, I wonder if he’s started dating again. I’m sure he has. Of course he has. Especially now that he isn’t a full-time single father. Anyway, what woman wouldn’t want to date a great guy like him?

I don’t even realize I’m holding my breath until I see Jamie stand up from his chair. Sam scurries over to our table ahead of him, but pauses for a second when he sees me. He studies my face for a minute, then his eyes turn into saucers.

“Charly!” Sam screams. He looks back at his father. “Daddy, it’s Charly! From the hospital.”

“I know,” Jamie says, his eyes never leaving my face.

I manage a weak smile. “It’s you.”

He nods. “You have beautiful hair, Charly,” he says, then adds softly, “I knew that you would.”

And then my mouth goes completely dry.

The five of us actually have a nice lunch together. It’s a little awkward, but the quiet moments in the conversation are filled by sweet Sam’s adorable attempts to befriend little Chelsea. And Brigid manages to refrain from asking Jamie about his head injury, which is a miracle in itself.

“It’s so great that we ran into you,” Brigid says, as the check arrives.