Chapter 1 #2
“You hit your head and your brain started bleeding,” he says bluntly.
My eyes widen. “My brain is bleeding?”
“Not anymore. It was bleeding. On the right side there, but we kept you sedated overnight until it stopped.” His attention goes back to his tablet. “You’re lucky you got to the hospital as soon as you did, or it could have been a lot worse.”
My brow furrows as I gaze down at the IV sticking out of my wrist, the various wires coming out of the sleeves of my pajamas.
Despite the moonstones and dream catchers and evil eye talismans my grandmother gave me over the years—all of which are sitting in a storage unit somewhere in Malibu—this feels like the very antithesis of luck.
“But how did I hit my head?” I ask. “Did I fall? Was it at home?”
“I’d love to tell you, but like I said, you’ve been sedated, so we couldn’t ask you.
What I can say is that you hit your head twice.
The first time was likely a few hours before you passed out.
That injury caused the intracranial hemorrhage.
You probably didn’t even realize it was serious, just thought it was a headache, but the blood built up around your brain for the next few hours until you passed out and hit it the second time.
” He finally looks back up to me. “Do you recall anything about the initial fall?”
At this point, I think it’s obvious to both of us that the answer is no, but as the seconds pass, I realize Dr. Buterman expects me to say something.
“Maybe I fell off the stepladder when I was cleaning out the closet?” I offer, hoping it rings true.
Dr. Buterman’s brow quirks up. “Excuse me?”
“The closet in my bedroom,” I explain. “My boyfriend and I are moving to Boston and I’m in the middle of packing up our apartment in Silver Lake.
He got this offer from a cybersecurity firm there—which is great, but it meant he had to start right away—so we decided that he should head out first while I stay behind to pack up the apartment before I fly out to meet him.
It sounded like a good idea at the time, but I didn’t realize we had so much stuff.
We’ve only lived together for a year, so I don’t even know how that’s possible.
The bedroom closet alone has taken me forever.
It’s so big, I have to practically climb inside to reach anything, and… ”
The words fade when I realize the line between Dr. Buterman’s eyebrows doesn’t disappear. I’m not sure if it’s just because of my tendency toward verbal diarrhea, which has seemingly survived a traumatic brain injury, or if I’ve missed some fundamental component of my diagnosis.
“Let’s back up a bit,” he says, his tone changing slightly, like I’ve fully engaged his attention for the first time. “What’s the last thing you remember before you woke up here?”
“The last thing I remember?” I repeat.
He nods. “Let’s start with yesterday.”
The question hits an empty corner in my brain. Yesterday feels like such a bizarre concept. Like “business casual” or “sustainable fashion.” Something that should make sense, but if you take a minute to think about it, only gets more confusing.
Objectively, I know what I did yesterday, because every day has looked the same for the past month.
After eight long hours at my desk at Probus Recruiting—proofreading job descriptions, screening résumés, and leaving countless voicemails that never seem to be returned—I navigate the 101 back home to Matt’s and my apartment in Silver Lake.
Then I order takeout and spend the evening packing up our life, box after box piled by the door, ready for the next adventure.
That’s what my best friend, Sara, called it: an adventure.
Like Matt and I were two intrepid explorers on our way to discover some uncharted territory.
That sounds so much better than the truth: My boyfriend was offered a lucrative role at one of the top cybersecurity firms in the country, and I’m tagging along until I figure out what to do with my life.
But when I try to assign those moments to yesterday, recall the finer details—what I had for breakfast, what I wore to work—there’s just a big empty space in my mind where all those details should go.
“I… I don’t know,” I admit, my pulse beginning to thunder in my ears.
Dr. Buterman watches my expression carefully, then notes something else on his tablet.
“But this is fine, right?” I continue, trying desperately to smile.
“Forgetting a few details is probably normal for this sort of thing? I just need some time to recover. Like Maria Chen! When we were in high school, she fell off her skateboard crossing the Pacific Coast Highway after volleyball practice, and when she came to, she didn’t remember where she was.
But it only lasted a few minutes and then she was back.
I’m sure I just need a few minutes, and then I’ll be fine! ”
Dr. Buterman hums to himself. “When dealing with injuries in that particular section of the brain, it’s not unusual to observe some memory loss. That said, I am concerned about your level of cognitive deficit.”
Cognitive deficit. The two words make my stomach drop. I remember going to see my grandmother in the hospital once her health had gotten really bad, and how the doctors used that phrase, as if a medical term could soften something awful.
“And what does that mean?” I ask carefully.
His attention goes back to his tablet. “Well, your brain is healing nicely, but it’s clear there are some significant retrograde impairments likely caused by trauma to your hippocampal formation that—”
“Dr. Buterman!” I cut him off, my voice shrill with panic. “Layman’s terms. Please.”
He looks back up at me, his thin lips making a stark line across his face, like he’s getting ready to deliver bad news to someone not aware they’re about to receive it. And then I realize… oh, that’s exactly what’s happening right now, isn’t it?
“That means you don’t have to worry about that move to Boston, Ms. Stephens,” Dr. Buterman says. “You already live here.”