Chapter 8
Eight
ONE MONTH AFTER THE ACCIDENT
The white paper beneath my bottom crinkles with my nervous shifting. Mom rubs a hand over my back. She has to go back to California today. She’s leaving me.
Who’s going to go to the grocery store so I don’t have to risk seeing anyone? Can I afford grocery delivery? Who’s going to sit with me when my heart is threatening to jump out of my chest and my dreams wake me up at night, confusing me with what’s reality and what’s not?
The fact is, I don’t know. Anything could be a lost memory.
I know Fran loves me. She’s even offered to move in. But she lives in a different town. She has a job and clients. And a husband who would probably like to live with his wife. And then there’s the pesky problem that none of us knows how long I’m going to be like this.
Dr. Strouse walks into the room, a smile on his face. “How are the headaches?”
I grind my teeth and resist the urge to smack the smile from his lips. “Better.”
“They’re better,” Mom says, as if the doctor missed my response.
“Well, that’s good.” Another grin. What does this man have to be so happy about? “Have we had the return of any memories?”
“We have not,” I say, unable to keep the snark from my tone.
Mom’s eyes widen in a glare, telling me to play nice.
I sigh. “I’ve had a few strange dreams, but no memories.”
“That’s not uncommon.” He shines his light in my eyes, close enough that I know that Dr. Strouse had tuna for lunch.
Stepping back a foot—thank you, Tuna Breath—he holds up one finger.
“Follow,” he says, sliding his finger from one side of my view to another.
“Good. Your coordination and eye movement are still normal.”
“Does that mean—”
“It means your brain is working properly and there’s no damage to the cranial nerves.”
“It doesn’t mean I’m about to come into six years of memories?” I flash him back one of those obnoxious grins he’s always giving out.
And he laughs—like we’re in this together. “No, I’m afraid not.” He sits next to his computer. “Listen closely—ring, barnacle, Elvis Presley.” He winks. Oh, Dr. Strouse, you’re killing me. “Can you tell me what you had for breakfast yesterday?”
I sigh at the repetition of these visits. “Toast.”
“That’s accurate,” Mom says, her hands wringing together. I think she’s just as anxious about leaving me today as I am to have her go.
“How are the panic attacks?”
“Still present,” I say, feeling more and more annoyed with the man.
“Are we still having them daily? Or have they lessened?”
“I doubt I have one a day,” I grumble.
“More like five to six times a week,” Mom says.
I glare at her. Why? I have no idea. Because this whole entire appointment makes me anxious? Because I’m on the verge of a panic attack right now? All because of this dummy and his questions.
Just make the magic happen, doctor! There’s a reason we pay you the big bucks. Just bring back Rosalie’s memories. Cha-ching!
But he doesn’t cha-ching anything. He types on his keyboard, looking at his screen, not us. “And you’ve started counseling, correct?”
My pulse thrums. Dr. Case—my therapist—would tell me to breathe.
She’d say I’m making this appointment, his smile, and my lack of memories big.
And it doesn’t have to be. The reality is it’s exactly as it was a month ago.
I just need to remember that, keep it small.
“Yes,” I answer. “Twice a week. Virtually.”
“The woman she liked the best is in Tesoro,” Mom says in explanation.
“That’s fine,” Dr. Strouse says, jotting another note on his computer before spinning in his swivel chair to face us once more. “Okay—can you repeat the three random words I asked you to pay attention to earlier?”
I clench my jaw and pull in a deep breath. “Ring, barnacle, Elvis. Unless you want it backward, and then it’s Elvis, barnacle, ring.” I drum my fingers on the white, crinkly paper beneath me. “How much longer until I’m right again?”
“Rosalie.” He rolls his chair until he’s right in front of me and the tuna scent is back in my vicinity. Blech. “I’ve told you before, there’s no answer for that. Those memories may never return.”
“What am I supposed to do about work? The school keeps asking when I’ll be ready to return. How am I supposed to go teach second graders when I have no memory of any training or how to manage a classroom or how to write a lesson plan or what they’re learning? Am I supposed to go back to college?”
“Your training is still there,” he says.
“That’s the funny thing about amnesia. Your brain has different compartments.
One stores the memories of events and another stores your skills.
You still have the ability to be an excellent teacher, even if you don’t remember obtaining those skills.
The part of your brain that holds your training—your semantic memory—is still intact. ”
“So, you’re saying I could just go back to work? Teach subjects and children I don’t remember?”
“Your training would kick in. And you’d get to know your students again. So—yes, that’s exactly what I’m saying.”
This guy has lost his mind.
I shake my head. “Well, it doesn’t matter. I’m moving to Tesoro anyway.”
“You are?” my mother says, her eyes wide. “What about your job?”
“Fran’s there. My therapist is there. Why would I stay here?” I lick my lips. “And I’m not going back to that job.”
“But Rosalie—”
“No, Mom. I’ve made up my mind—” And I have, in this very second. “What’s here for me? People who know me that I don’t remember? That sounds horrifying.”
“A new place might be just what you need,” Dr. Strouse says.
“I thought you said familiarity without pressure.” Now my mother looks annoyed with the smiley doctor. Good. Let’s gang up on him.
“That’s good, too.” He sighs. “Rosalie, is this what you want to do?”
“Yes,” I say, determined with my last-second decision.
“Then I think you should.”
Mom waits for Dr. Strouse to step out before rounding on me. “Is this because I’m leaving?”
“No,” I groan. “I like the idea of a new place. And maybe I’ll go out if I’m not afraid of running into someone I know every moment of the day.”
“Rosalie—” Mom clamps down on her bottom lip.
“I’ve made up my mind.”
“I don’t want you going alone,” she says, standing next to the patient table I sit on.
“Fran’s there. Besides, Grammy is coming! She’s going to move in with me. I won’t be alone.” I clear my throat, hoping it doesn’t give away the lie I’ve just told. Because I am determined to convince my Grammy to come with me. Another last-second-thought-turned-decision.
My last-second thoughts are awesome today.
“Rosalie, maybe you should know a few things first—”
“No. Mother. You know what happens when the unknown is sprung on me.” I swallow and shake my head. “My memories will come back. Just be patient. I won’t have to learn anything because I’m going to remember it all.”
At least that’s what I keep telling myself.