Chapter 10
Ten
SIX WEEKS AFTER THE ACCIDENT
Fran’s husband—yeah, I’ll never be used to that—has lugged all of my boxes inside. And gone to practice, because the man is a legit professional athlete. The life my bestie is living now… Just wow.
“I still can’t believe your mom let you move,” Fran says, pulling a homemade crocheted blanket out of one of my boxes.
I rip open a box that reads “kitchen” on it and grit my teeth. “Well, apparently I’m twenty-six years old and she doesn’t get to tell me where I can or cannot live.” I sigh. “And I knew if Grammy came, she’d let me leave.”
“Are you kidding?” Fran says. “Living with Noreen is going to be a blast.”
I love my grammy. But she isn’t Fran. I’m supposed to be living with Fran. I’m supposed to be keeping her out of trouble. “Yeah,” I say. “She’s good to me.”
“And you’re good for her.” She doesn’t say what we’re both thinking. Grammy’s been lonely since my grandpa died—at least that’s what I’ve heard. It’s such a fresh loss for me, and while it’s been a year, it’s fresh for Grammy, too.
“I certainly need a friend,” I say.
Fran wraps an arm around me and leans her head against mine. “Hey, you have me.”
“I know. This just isn’t the same.” I peer around the house.
Grammy will be here this afternoon with all her things.
And I’m putting away so much stuff I don’t even recognize.
When did I obtain so many wide-legged jeans?
And have I seriously worn a dress covered in dinosaurs? My head hurts just thinking about it.
But then, headaches are a new reality of this life, too.
“You have so many people on your side, sweetie,” Fran says. “And if you’d let me introduce you, you’d have a few more.”
“No. Nu-uh. Fran, you know the drill.” I shake out my hands and pull out of her hug to look at her.
“If you put me in a room with a bunch of strangers who all know me, I’m going to have another panic attack.
If you drop a bunch of names that I’ll never remember, it’ll only stress me out.
It won’t help me remember any quicker.” I swallow and repeat Dr. Strouse’s words that day. “Low pressure.”
“Low pressure doesn’t mean zero pressure.”
“Believe me, there’s plenty of pressure. Complete strangers were dropping by with casseroles and gifts and wanting to see me. With Mom gone, I’d be the one answering that door.”
“Those people were your coworkers. Your friends.”
I grind my teeth and shake my head. “I don’t know who they were.”
“I am very aware. You factory reset your phone after that sweet school librarian sent you a ‘get well’ text.”
“She wanted to bring me pickle juice and bone broth, Fran!”
“She’s seventy-nine.” Fran shoves my bright yellow plates into a cupboard—those I remember! Mom bought them for me at a yard sale the summer before college. I loved them.
“Pickle juice, Fran! Pickle juice and strangers are not going to help my memories come back. I felt like a show pig on display for the world. Come look at the girl with the broken brain!”
“Show pig?” Fran pulls two glasses from the kitchen box. “What does that even mean?”
“I don’t know. You’re getting me all anxious and crazy.” I shake out my hands once more. “You can tell me about those people when I ask. The end.”
“You have friends who love you, Rosalie. People who would do anything for you.”
“Strangers,” I grunt.
“Friends!” Fran smacks the top of her box.
I grip the edges of the tote I just opened. “Do I know any of these people’s names? Would I recognize these so-called friends?” She shakes her head. “Then they need to love me enough to give me space. At least until my memory comes back.”