2. Sandrine – Scottsdale, Arizona
Sandrine – Scottsdale, Arizona
Pink. Pink. Pink. All the tiles here are pink.
I walk through Marlowe Rehab’s main corridor with my patient name badge clipped neatly to my sweater, counting my steps without meaning to. One, two, three… Um…four. Right. Four.
It’s not that I forgot how to walk again.
It’s that sometimes my body and my thoughts don’t arrive at the same place at the same time.
But I’m much better than I was five years ago when I lost my memory after a traumatic fall.
I’m also better than I was four months ago when I left the state-run facility in Chicago and my sister put me in a private facility in New York City, then moved me here in Arizona.
I press my lips together and adjust my pace, coordinating with the rhythm of my breath. It’s the only consistent thing in my life sometimes. I breathe in slowly and out even slower. The way they taught me in meditation sessions.
“Watch your step, Miss Jessica.”
I glance up and see the janitor is mopping up something in front of Tilly’s door. My neighbor probably had another accident. She’s in bad shape. But every day, Janitor Steve dutifully cleans it all up.
The water sloshing in his bucket gives off a strong scent of lemon and ammonia. For some reason, I know what ammonia is. I guess there are things the brain can’t erase. Like the way my eyes water from just a whiff.
“Good morning, Mr. Steven.” I offer the janitor a small smile and say his name so they know I didn’t forget who he is.
“Have a good day, Miss Jessica.” He nods, his kind eyes lingering on me as if he’s making sure I’m steady before he moves on.
People do that here. They watch me carefully. Not in a suspicious or taunting way. In a careful, measured way. But it’s a daily reminder: I’m something to be monitored. Something to be managed.
And it’s starting to piss me off. Where I remembered that phrase from, I also have no idea.
I continue down the hall, past the nurse’s station, hoping to slip by unnoticed.
“Jessica, hold on a second,” a soft female voice calls my name.
So close…
I pivot to face her a little too quickly and grab the door jamb when the hallway tilts just slightly to the left. My balance settles as quickly as I lost it. But Nurse Lila is already reaching over the half door to assist me.
“I’m fine,” I say before she can ask.
“I caught that, Jessica,” she replies gently.
She’s one of the people here who watches me with careful focus. But she also keeps it real with me. And I like her.
Keeps it real. Again, origin unknown.
“Let’s get your weekly checkup out of the way.” She guides me into her small exam room.
I sit and seconds later, the blood pressure cuff is on my arm, a blood oxygen meter is squeezing my finger, and she’s running the electronic thermometer across my forehead.
“Any dizziness this morning?”
“Just the usual.” That earns me a look.
I have a traumatic brain injury, after all. Moments like this are expected. It’s the disability I’ve learned to live with.
“I like that blouse you got on today. Another gift from your sister?” She smiles down at me.
“Yeah.” I glance at the blue-and-white striped shirt with ruffled sleeves. “Lourdes keeps sending me clothes.”
“Will she and that husband of hers be back soon?”
The way the women here talk about Lourdes’s husband, Ares Zervas, is shameful. I’m still getting a handle on those kinds of feelings. For men. I’ve felt nothing this whole time. For five years. Maybe because my only exposure to men since my accident has been to ones like Janitor Steve.
Ares was a bit of a jolt to my system. No one told me not to be all gooey-eyed over my sister’s husband. That was just instinctual, I guess.
“I don’t know when they’ll be back.” I narrow my eyes at Nurse Lila. “They’re on their honeymoon.”
“Ah.” She nods like she knows their story. “Your dizziness today, hun? One to ten?”
“Four.” I’ve learned how to work the system.
A low number will give me my usual freedom. Even if it’s really a seven. I adjust by walking carefully and speaking carefully. My speech is still impaired. I had to learn to talk again after the accident. Now, I just speak slower so my injuries are not as noticeable.
Nurse Lila reads me my vitals like the numbers mean something to me. They don’t. But she’s not calling for any backup or coming at me with those chest paddles I’ve seen her use on Tilly.
I’d been told I could leave here one day. Live on my own. I’m not sure if I’m ready for that, but independence is a goal. Start a life for myself. Lourdes is married again to a nice man who’s been very good to her. And to me.
As the nurse removes the blood pressure cuff and the finger torture device, she says, “We’re adjusting your meds today. Dr. Waters put in the order.”
And here I felt today was a good day. I don’t like the meds. But I can’t say no.
Nurse Lila hands me a small paper cup with two pills and another cup with a sip of water. I take the meds without arguing, tilt my head back, and swallow. The usual chalky taste lingers unpleasantly on my tongue.
“Let’s get a quick draw of blood too while you’re here,” she adds.
I close my eyes for a second, resisting the urge to groan. “Sure.”
Nurse Lila is a boss with the needle. With just the slightest pinch, a dark bloom of blood fills the vial.
Blood fascinates me for some reason. Gives me a strange thrill. But I don’t tell anyone that. And I don’t know why.
“All done,” Nurse Lila says, handing me a cotton ball.
I press it to the wound inside my elbow, holding it there as I stand. I should be paid if I’m going to assist with these exams.
I hear people talk about money, but I have no concept of it.
My only experience with money is that right after my accident in Chicago, I was placed in a nice facility.
Then my father died, and months later, Lourdes told me Dad’s money ran out.
The only way to continue my care was for her to declare me a ward of the state.
Social workers then moved me to Lakeshore Neurological Rehabilitation, a state-run facility.
Marlowe is privately owned. And much nicer. I get better care here. Lourdes is paying. Or Ares is.
Being taken care of is starting to bother me, too. All the people in my life have jobs. They have a purpose. I need a purpose.
“Good luck with Dr. Waters,” Nurse Lila says.
“Luck is just another word for good timing,” I murmur.
A brief silence lingers.
“Jessica, where did you hear that phrase?” Her voice halts me.
“I don’t know.” I shrug, not admitting that it echoes in my head. Sometimes over and over. “I must have heard someone say it.”
It’s just another stray thought I can’t explain. Like an infant whose knowledge of the world is gained through observation and unconscious absorption, I’ve had to relearn nearly everything. Those first few months after the accident were hard.
By the time I reach the therapy room, a faint irritation has settled beneath my skin, and it’s not even nine a.m. I’m tired of being poked and measured and observed, tired of being told what my body is doing as if I don’t live inside myself every second of every day.
That’s new, too. This feeling of unease. Of frustration. Shoving all of that away, as I have been doing lately, I push open the door to Dr. Caroline Waters’s office and step inside.
“Good morning, Jessica.” Dr. Caroline looks up from her tablet.
All the doctors here have one. And phones. Of course, I don’t have a phone. I get calls from Lourdes and Elodie, my cousin who lives here in Scottsdale, on the facility’s main line. It makes me feel like a prisoner.
“Good morning,” I say to shake off all this extra anxiety.
“Have a seat.” Dr. Caroline gestures to the chair across from her.
“Okay.” I take it, smoothing my hands over my knees as I sit.
“Did you see Nurse Lila?”
“Sure did.”
She looks up at me with a head tilted like a puppy. “How are we feeling today?”
We?
The question is so familiar it barely registers anymore. “I’m fine. Don’t know about you.”
She studies me again for a moment, pretty brown eyes blinking. “Let’s start with our daily orientation status. Can you tell me where in Chicago you are right now?”
Is this a trick?
“What?” I reply, hiding a thread of panic that will have me hog-tied to a gurney in eight seconds like…
My heart takes a jolt at more of these random thoughts clouding my brain.
My throat tightens. “I’m in Arizona.”
The doctor smiles warmer this time. “Very good.”
I exhale slowly, resisting the urge to roll my eyes. I’m not a child. I know where I am. I am so over this.
“Scottsdale, to be exact,” I admit.
I only know that because my cousin Elodie takes me out once a week for lunch and to get my nails done.
I see signs everywhere. Scottsdale Nails.
Scottsdale Dry Cleaners. Scottsdale Diner, which has the best hamburgers.
Okay, I don’t remember eating a hamburger before I got here. But I assume those are the best.
“And do you remember how long you were in the Chicago facilities?”
I shift in my seat, the answer rising easily despite the irritation simmering beneath it. “Almost five years.”
“Excellent.” Her approval is hollow, but she’s just doing her job.
Every day when I retain something and know something else, it earns me a flicker of satisfaction. But I shouldn’t need validation for knowing my own life.
“Do you remember what we discussed yesterday?” she asks, moving on and glancing at her tablet.
“We discussed a lot of things,” I cross my legs and smile.
“You caught me. About the case study, Jessica?”
Case study. The words stab my chest uncomfortably. I nod, remembering her telling me that she wants to present me to a group of medical students. Apparently, complete amnesia is rare. And to go five years with no breakthroughs is even rarer.
But the doctors in New York said that was because Lakeshore, the state-run place, didn’t have resources for amnesia therapy.
“Okay.” I shrug, not entirely convinced.
But again, what choice do I have?
“Can I bring them in?” she asks.
Them. Strangers.