Welcome Home Brooklyn
Welcome Home
Brooklyn
I come home from the hospital on a brisk but sunny morning a few days before Christmas.
The kids are at a friend’s house down the street, something we’ve planned for so I can have some alone time at home, reacquainting myself with my life.
The kids visited me in the hospital yesterday, and I remember more about them now—their lives, their existence—but I’m still having a hard time with their faces.
Same with everyone. I can recall voices, scents, the sense of everyone, but the faces that go with the people remain a murky mess inside my brain.
Like a fun house mirror, they are distorted and warped.
“It’s called associative prosopagnosia,” the doctor told us. “Also known as face blindness. Not a common ailment, but not totally unusual after a head injury. It should be temporary.”
Should be.
In addition to not recognizing people but knowing who they are, which is very odd, and my exceptionally spotty memory issues, there’s a physical component to all of this—I was hit by a car, after all.
Thanks to the relentless efforts of PT and OT, I’m stronger, steadier, but I still tire easily.
They spent hours each day working with me, training me, working on my balance, getting my feet back under me.
There was a treadmill, a bike, weights, but also puzzles and cognitive tests, and talk therapy. I fell into bed each night exhausted.
The bruises from the accident have mostly faded, but the aches and sharp pains are still there. And my head hurts. All the time. The staples in my scalp itch like mad. They come out at the end of the week, thank God.
Other than all that, I’m starting to feel more like myself again. I have to go slowly, be careful, and have a thousand follow-up appointments, but they finally agreed to let me go home, and I am so happy. Mostly.
I am doing everything I can to ignore the devastated portion of my psyche. My husband is gone. There is no telling where Trey is. I have no idea if he’s dead or alive.
Nor have the police found who was driving the car that hit me.
They keep insisting Trey was driving, and it’s hard to maintain my truth that it wasn’t him.
There’s no question the two incidents are linked: Trey leaves, and I am nearly killed.
My husband leaves, and the sister of his first wife becomes an indispensable part of our lives.
I can’t shake the feeling that someone wants to orphan my children, and I don’t know why. There’s no doubt that we’re all in danger. But I don’t know the reason. At least, not that I remember.
When Margot pulls into the driveway, I am relieved to be assailed with memories. I know my house.
It isn’t grand like so many in the neighboring streets, but a solidly built French country cottage, white brick with blue shutters, two chimneys, and a half-moon dormer peeking out from the pitched roof.
The Japanese maple has grown to a great height, and its naked branches are decorated with dangling stars.
I remember planting the tree. It was a wet spring day, the soil loosened by the overnight rains.
The lawn was gracious, green and lush from the spring rains.
White hydrangeas bloomed along the slate path that curves around the house toward the backyard.
Trey and I, covered in mud, wrestled the ball of the tree into the ground, laughing.
Happy. The baby was in his bouncy chair on the porch, alternately sleeping and chortling; Four was such a good boy.
Amenable. A good sport. Just as laid back as his dad.
The familiar pinch in my heart at the thought of Trey stops me in my tracks.
Not knowing what’s happened to him is grueling. Is he alive? Dead? Captive? Laughing his way through Europe or South America, pleased as punch to have tricked us all? Rich as Croesus and living the life of Riley?
I shake him away as if he’s simply a ghost. Answers will come. Now that I’m home, I’ll be able to delve deeper into this mystery.
I start up the path to the front door. The house sits on a slight rise, with woods in the back and a creek running at the foot of the property.
We’re in a coveted cul-de-sac near downtown Franklin.
Walking to restaurants and shops is a meandering but very doable endeavor.
The kids’ school is close enough that we can walk them instead of driving, too.
We bought the house with exactly this in mind, both of us charmed at the idea of small-town living.
There is another reason we wanted this particular place, one that my mind is struggling to recall correctly.
It feels fantastical. It wasn’t something we needed or were looking for.
But in the woods behind this home is an underground shelter.
Built during the height of the Cold War, it is deep, dark, and completely secure.
Shelves line the back wall, filled with canned goods, water, and dehydrated foods. Enough for weeks of a siege. Or worse.
When we first saw it, we laughed. Now, for some odd reason, I feel comfort knowing it’s there.
We generally use it for tornado warnings, a safe spot to hide out with the kids when severe weather hits.
It’s large enough for all of us to sleep in, with four bunks attached to the concrete walls, two on either side, a bed for the dog, even a bathroom and shower.
Sometimes we go “camping” with the kids when there are overnight threats.
Margot has spent more than one night with us in there.
Relief at the memories, yes, but something about this is tugging at me. I need to go to the shelter. But before I can fixate on the issue, I hear the dog barking. It is his happy bark, his greeting bark. He-knows-his-people-are-home bark.
“You good?” Margot asks.
“Definitely. Everything is very familiar.” Pretending I don’t notice the unmarked cop car sitting to the left of the drive, I walk the path to the front door with a little more confidence.
I’ve done this a million times. Put my key in the lock.
The door swings wide. The dog bolts into my arms, twisting and shaking in his joy at my appearance.
“Hey, Bohdi,” I say softly, smoothing my hands over his fur. “I missed you, too, baby.”
But that sense of dislocation sneaks in again.
How can I remember the dog, remember picking him up at the shelter, his tiny shivering body nestled close to my chest on the ride home, but not remember bringing my own children home from the hospital?
Giving birth? Neve and Four have appeared to me as babies, but their first moments are still lost.
Patience. I need to be patient.
I ruffle the little cocker spaniel’s soft ears and straighten his collar.
It is clean and the fibers tight—new—with a small box on it, one I don’t recall, but when I glance out at the lawn again, I see stakes in the ground, with little flags waving.
An electric fence. That’s right. We’ve just installed a new one so he can go out front safely when we sit on the porch.
He also has a GPS tracker in the tag with his name, just in case the fence fails.
I remember buying the tracker, clear as day. I remember there’s a storm shelter, and that we planted the Japanese maple after a storm. So why can’t I remember everything? Why, looking at my house, despite the stirring recognition, does it not feel like this life is really mine?
“You still okay?” Margot asks. “You disappeared on me.”
I set the dog on the floor. He dances at my feet, tongue lolling. “It’s just weird. So many pieces are missing. I suppose they’ll all come back. And if they don’t, I’ll make new ones.”
“There’s the spirit. Are you hungry? You probably need to sit down and rest for a bit anyway.”
“I’m not really hungry. But I could murder a cup of tea.”
We start toward the kitchen. The house looks charming, sporting its holiday decorations.
Typically, we take them down the weekend after Christmas, clearing out the clutter and resetting for the new year.
That will give me something banal to do.
Touching each ornament and wreath should bring back all kinds of memories.
When I turn right out of the foyer, there is a strange woman standing in front of the double ovens. Her back is facing us, and she moves as if she doesn’t hear us. I clear my throat.
She whips around, a sheet pan in her hand. Jumping slightly, she puts her free hand on her heart and drops the tray to the stovetop with a clatter.
“Oh, you startled me. I had hoped to have these done before you arrived. Welcome home, Brooklyn!”