Page 12 of Brain Damage

“You’re going to lose,” I inform him, as I pull up beside him, running with easy strides. I’m trying not to sound too braggy, but it’s hard.

“We’ll see,” Clark huffs.

Except even talking is becoming an effort for him.

For the next few laps, I’m ahead of him. But not by as much as I could be. My knee feels wonderful for a change, and I could probably be two laps ahead by now. But here’s the weird part:

I feel myself hanging back.

I keep glancing over my shoulder, seeing Clark about half a block behind. I could zip ahead, and finish the race with an embarrassingly big lead, but I don’t do it. I always keep Clark in my sight.

Finally, at around lap number nineteen, Clark stops running altogether. He had been steadily losing his steam for the entire last lap, so I’m not surprised. When his footsteps go silent, I turn around and I see him resting his hands on his knees and leaning forward, gasping for air.

He’s done. There’s no way he’s finishing the race before me.

I could walk away right now. I could inform Clark that he’s lost and that he is now required to leave me alone. But naturally, I’m far too stupid to do that. Instead, I walk back to where Clark is busy catching his breath.

Clark’s face is red from exertion. When he lifts his face to look at me, his eyes meet mine and he gives me an apologetic half-smile.

“You’re too fast for me,” he manages. I can see a droplet of sweat roll down his temple. “I guess you win, Dr. McKenna. I’ll leave you alone.”

God, I’m such a loser for having a crush on this guy.

“Come on,” I say. “Only one more lap.”

Clark’s eyes widen. His half-smile widens into a grin, and he straightens out with a newfound burst of energy. We jog together side-by-side for the last lap, and I hang back at the end to let him win.

9

AFTER

I wake up to the sound of voices. Angry voices. I try to go back to sleep, squeezing my eyes shut as tight as I can, but the voices won’t let me escape. They are like metal pans clanging together in my brain.

“Two weeks is the most you’re going to get,” a male voice says.

I roll my head in the direction of the voice. It belongs to a tall man with thinning dark hair that is graying heavily at the temples. He wears a long white coat that comes down nearly to his knees. He has his arms folded across his chest, and his eyes are sharp behind a pair of rimless spectacles.

“So you’re just giving up on her?”

This voice comes from the older woman, who has been around more and more. She is always sitting by my bed, talking to me in a soft, kind voice. But right now her face is contorted, making her look older and uglier.

“We’re not giving up, Mrs. McKenna,” the man says. “But she’s been here over a month and we haven’t seen anything in the way of progress. She’s exactly where she was on the first day.”

I think that they’re talking about me, even though they never say my name. Everyone comes in here to talk about me. These conversations never seem happy.

“You just said you’re not giving up,” the older woman retorts, “then you tell me that you’re giving up.”

The man sighs. I’m not sure anymore if he’s angry. He looks kind of sad actually. He shoves his hands into the deep pockets of the long white coat. I notice that his tie has cartoons of little yellow ducks on it. It makes me smile.

“We’ve given her a lot of time, Mrs. McKenna. If it were up to me, I would let her have longer. You know I would. But the insurance is cutting her off.”

“So if she gets better,” the older woman says, “you would take her back?”

The man is quiet for a long time. So long that I almost go back to sleep. My eyelids are heavy and they start to droop. Finally, he says to her, “Mrs. McKenna, you have to face the reality that she probably isn’t going to get any better than this.”

The older woman’s head droops down. “You’re wrong, Dr. Williams.”

“I hope I’m wrong. Believe me.”