2. Sandrine – Scottsdale, Arizona #3
She’d been reading on her tablet, presumably scanning my chart to see if I’d made any mistakes. Standing, she turns to the students and speaks in medical jargon I don’t understand. The students ask her questions again like I’m not in the room.
“What’s fascinating in cases like Jessica’s is when a patient exhibits a talent that was not part of their therapy.
Playing the piano. Speaking another language.
In Jessica’s case, she showed an advanced talent for art.
” She lifts my sketchbook and folds it to one of my earlier works back in Norridge.
“This is an example of the patient’s art. ”
Looking at the floral scene I painted, pride swells in my chest at how the color blooms across the sheet in sweeping, layered strokes. The tones are weak, though, because they’re watercolor. It always bothered me because in my head I saw the scene with deep violets smeared in white.
Everything looks like flowers under murky water.
One of the students in the gallery leans forward. “Wait. That looks like a painting that just sold for ten million dollars at auction.”
I look up and see him on his phone, already typing.
“The artist was never revealed. Or the buyer.” He passes his phone around.
“Looks exactly like those Amon Fritz paintings,” another student says casually.
The third student leans in and stares at my sketchbook. “That’s just a copy.”
“What?” I snap. “I didn’t copy anyone. I never heard of Amon Fritz. I have no memory of anything. I’ve been locked up for five years.”
“Looks identical.” The male student squints. “Except that one looks like acrylic.”
I catch a glimpse of the paintings on his phone screen, and my stomach drops. The scene and the wave of the petals are almost identical to what I’ve been painting. It has the same movement. It’s the same colors, but not as vibrant.
Only, that is not my painting. How could it be? Or is it? Ten million dollars? Who’d be stupid enough to pay ten million dollars for a painting of flowers by an unknown artist?
“Maybe she saw them before the accident and recreated them subconsciously,” one female student offers casually, again like I’m not in the room. “Like some kind of fixation.”
Anger sharply burns my chest.
“I’m not fucking fixated on anything,” I grouse.
Every head turns toward me.
Finally.
“Jessica, we don’t use that kind of language during these briefings,” Dr. Caroline scolds with wide eyes. “No one is accusing you of anything.”
But they are. They did.
The doctor squints at me and adds, “Did you actually swallow the medication?”
“Yes.” I slam my fist on the table.
Dr. Caroline just puts down my sketchbook.
The edges of the room blur slightly as a cold wave washes over me.
The panic spikes, sharp and overwhelming.
My hands start to shake, the tremor from earlier returning with a vengeance, spreading up my arms. Next, my head is throbbing.
I press my hands to my head as if I can hold it together by force.
I slide out of the chair, dropping to the floor. My back hits the wall as I draw my knees up to my chest. The motion is instinctive, protective, a defense my body knows even if my mind doesn’t.
I rock and hum. Chanting slips from my throat, low and steady to ground me. It fills the space in my head, pushing back the noise, the confusion, the fear. Just not the pain.
“What’s she doing?” the guy student asks, his voice distant, distorted.
“I don’t know,” Dr. Caroline replies with uncertainty in her tone. “She hasn’t presented this behavior before.”
Behavior. I’m just a case study. This is just their job. It’s not personal.
All the words thrown at me. Amnesia. Traumatic Brain Injury.
They’re just medical terms or labels like Disabled.
They crowd into my brain and press against my skull.
It’s a shock of pain in my head like that first day in the hospital.
I’ve never felt pain like that since, but today it’s back.
Crushing against me from all sides, not letting me think about anything else.
“Enough!” a different voice snaps at Dr. Caroline. “She’s overwhelmed.”
Nurse Lila…
Help me…
I don’t look up, but I feel the tension in the room snapping taut.
“Jessica?” Her voice cuts through, firmer but kinder.
“You should have stopped, Caroline. How can you not see that?” Nurse Lila’s warm hands cup my shoulders, steady and familiar.
I latch on to that sensation, letting it anchor me.
“It’s okay, Jessica,” the nurse murmurs. “I’ve got you.”
There’s movement around me, more voices, but they blur together. My focus narrows to the steady rhythm of my own breathing, the hum still vibrating faintly in my chest.
The world softens at the edges, colors bleeding into one another as the tension drains from my body.
“It’s all right.” Nurse Lila comforts me, her voice closer now since she’s holding me. “I’ll call Elodie. You’ll be fine. Maybe she’ll bring you across the courtyard to the spa.”
“Spa…”
Something pricks my arm. I barely feel it. Gentle hands lift me onto something soft. The gurney.
Transport, they call it.
I glance down and see the needle in my arm. Slowly the room slips away, quiet and mercifully dark.