Page 76 of Brain Damage

Brown eyes.

For a moment, I’m no longer in my hospital room. I’m back at my apartment. I jiggle my keys in the lock, and then open the door. And then I see the familiar face in my living room. Dressed in casual clothes that would’ve gotten my unobservant neighbors to hold the door open to let him in. He’s sitting at my desk, his face gleaming with sweat, his bald head shimmering under the lights I flicked on when I entered. He smiles at me. Hello, Dr. McKenna, he hisses. Remember me? Remember how you convinced my wife to leave me?

And then I see the gun pointed at my face.

I feel a cold sensation come over me. I can still see Kyle Barry’s beady brown eyes staring at me, biting into me. My hands have started trembling violently. Bile rises up in my throat, and I retch.

“Charly!” my mother gasps. “Are you all right?”

“It was him,” I manage, placing my hand on the picture of the bald, burly man in the photo. “He’s the one who shot me.”

“That’s our suspect,” the detective confirms.

They’ve got him. After all this time, they’ve got the bastard that shot me. And with that realization, I throw up all over the detective’s photo album.

54

Today I have a family meeting scheduled to discuss the future.

My mother and I are meeting with Dr. Williams and my therapists to figure out What Will Happen to Charly. I am terrified, to say the least. I know I haven’t done as well as everyone hoped, and I can’t even imagine my mother taking care of me by herself. She can’t even help me to the bathroom on her own. So my options are limited.

We’re having the meeting in a small conference room just outside the rehab unit. My nurse brings me outside the room to wait for everyone to arrive. I do my best to sit patiently in my wheelchair. I start feeling restless, but I’ve learned from experience that if I move too much or start playing with the belt on my lap, an alarm will go off. If the alarm goes off, that means I can’t be trusted alone. And more than anything, I want everyone to trust me to be alone.

So I just mostly play with the hem of my sweatshirt. It’s an old shirt that I’ve had since college, and all the elastic in it is stretched out. It’s not exactly what you’d call attractive, but it’s comfortable, and it zips up, so it’s easy to get on while wearing my helmet. There’s a little hole at the bottom of it, and I can easily fit my finger inside.

“Hello, Charlotte,” a voice says from behind me.

I turn my wheelchair around using my right hand, and immediately, I get this feeling like I was punched in the chest. This time, I can easily recognize the incredibly handsome man standing in front of me. It’s Clark, my husband.

“Hi,” I say in a hoarse voice.

“It’s really good to finally see you again,” he says softly.

“Yes,” I manage.

“I missed you,” he says.

“Yes,” I say again. Then I add, “I missed you too.”

Have I really missed him though? Or better question, has he really missed me?

“You look great,” he says.

I don’t look great. By any definition of the word “great,” I don’t look great. I am dressed in sweatpants and a sweatshirt that are at least two sizes too big, and I have a giant helmet perched on my skull. I’m pretty sure I also have a big white splint on my left hand, but I’m not sure because I don’t know where my left hand is.

Clark really does look great though. I always forget how handsome he is. His chestnut hair is so thick and luxurious, I can almost feel my fingers running through it. His eyes are as blue as the waters of Aruba. Even though he’s just wearing a casual plaid shirt and jeans, they fit him perfectly.

“Thank you,” I say.

“Your voice is getting closer to normal,” he says.

I squeeze my knee with my right hand. What does that mean? Sweat breaks out in the back of my neck. “What’s wrong with my voice?” I blurt out.

“Oh,” Clark says with a shrug. “The last time I saw you, your speech was all slurred. But it’s much better now—barely slurred at all. You also put back on all the weight you lost—and then some.”

Is he telling me that I’ve gotten fat? It does seem like my clothes have been getting tighter recently. And the nutritionist paid me a visit yesterday, which I thought was weird. But Jamie and Angela never said anything about it. Not that I would’ve expected them to.

“What are you doing here?” I ask him.