Page 111 of Brain Damage

Good luck! I can’t wait to see your hair!

Love,

Jamie

I close my eyes as I hold the card in my hand. I hope he does get to see my hair. I really do.

EPILOGUE

ONE YEAR LATER

I don’t know why, but before I go out to lunch with Brigid, I put on a layer of lipstick.

I’m not a lipstick kind of girl. I wasn’t before, and I’m not now. Brigid is the one who’s into layering her face with paint. I mean, if it’s a date, sure, I could put on a layer of lipstick and maybe even spring for some mascara. But it seems silly to put on lipstick just to go out to lunch with my best friend, even if it’s just a shade of rose that doesn’t stand out much. Especially since the last thing people are going to be looking at is my face.

But what the hell. Sometimes it’s fun to look nice.

As I’m painting my face, I notice that Kitty has been watching me the whole time. I show Kitty my makeup and she meows in approval. I took her back from Brigid a few months after I came home, and I’ve been spoiling her even more rotten than before. That’s what she gets for helping to save my life.

I grab my cane before I head downstairs. After a year, that’s what I’m left with. A sturdy metal cane that keeps me from losing my balance when I walk. For short distances, I could probably go without it. But the alternative of winding up flat on my face on the sidewalk is so unappealing that I prefer to use the cane.

Let me tell you something about walking with a cane: people stare. You don’t even realize how rude people can be until you’ve given them something to stare at. Back when I first left the hospital, and I was still using the wheelchair a lot outdoors, you’d think my hair was on fire based on how much people stared at me. The hemi-walker attracted fewer stares, but it was still pretty bad.

The cane attracts the least number of stares, but people still look twice, probably wondering why a young(ish) person like myself is hobbling around with a cane. If I were eighty years old, I’m sure I wouldn’t be quite as much of a spectacle. But after a year, I’ve gotten used to it. Well, sort of.

Other than the cane, I do look pretty similar to how I looked before. My hair is still growing back. It’s short and practical, but then again, it was short and practical before. The only difference is that this time it’s not my choice. My face is slightly asymmetric if you look carefully. If I don’t concentrate, sometimes I drag my left foot when I walk. I also still wear glasses with the prism on the left lens, although I’ve gotten a much cuter pair than the ones I had in rehab.

Anyway, all told, considering I was shot in the head, I think I look pretty damn good. Especially compared with Clark.

The last time I saw Clark was when he pleaded guilty to first-degree attempted murder. I was very ready to testify against him, and I heard that Jamie was too, as well as Ernest Gamble. It seems like his lawyer convinced him that taking the plea bargain of twelve years in prison was smarter than going through a trial and getting a life sentence.

I watched Clark at the sentencing, dressed in a suit that fit him poorly given all the weight he had recently lost. I guess prison food is even worse than hospital food. His hair was disheveled and he looked every day of his forty-two years. The brightness was gone from his blue eyes.

Whenever I’m having a bad day, whenever my muscles are feeling tight or my balance is off, or I’m just generally feeling sorry for myself, I think about Clark’s sentencing. And I feel a little bit better. Like maybe there’s some justice in the world.

When I get downstairs, Brigid is waiting for me in the lobby with her daughter Chelsea. I’m glad now that Brigid opted to take a few years off to be a stay-at-home mom, because now she’s around to keep me company. And I get to see my goddaughter a lot too.

“Where should we eat?” Brigid asks me.

“Old McDonald’s!” Chelsea cries out.

“Veto,” I say. As much as McDonald’s excited me back in rehab, there’s no way I’m going there today.

We end up going to a diner a couple of blocks away—although not the diner that Clark and I used to go to, which is forever tarnished. We almost always go somewhere in a five-block radius around my apartment. I still feel unsteady enough on my feet that I don’t want to take a long walk. But the weather is nice, at least. As I walk down the block, I feel the breeze lifting the strands of my short hair from my face.

On days like this, it doesn’t seem so bad that I’m taking an extended hiatus from work. Other days, I feel like I’m losing my mind. The truth is, I miss my job desperately. I miss the challenge of medicine and seeing patients and having a purpose and… well, all of it.

Cognitively, there are still some issues. I’m not back to where I was before. But I spoke to my old advisor from residency, and he told me he thought there was a path for me to get back to working again. It might be a long, hard road, but I’m determined to do it. Even if it takes me ten years, I’m going to be Dr. McKenna again. I’m determined.

Weirdly enough, I end up ordering a cheeseburger and french fries at the diner, which is pretty much what I would’ve gotten if we were at McDonald’s. I’m sad to say I’ve grown too old for McDonald’s. Their fries just sit in my stomach like a big ball of lead.

As I watch Brigid picking at her turkey sandwich, I can’t help but notice she looks a little bit green. I’ve known Brigid for a long time and I recognize that green face.

“You’re pregnant,” I say. It’s not a question.

Brigid glances at Chelsea then grins sheepishly. “Shh, we don’t want her to know quite yet.”

“Brigid, that’s wonderful!” I exclaim. “Congratulations! How far along are you?”