Page 23 of Brain Damage

For a moment, Clark leans in like he’s going to kiss me, but then he hesitates. Instead, he reaches out and pats me on the head. Except I’m wearing my helmet, so it just makes this loud rapping noise that reverberates in my ears even after Clark has waved goodbye and walked down the hall and gotten into the elevator.

He didn’t even bother to take me all the way to my room.

“He’s gone already?”

I look to my right side and see the old man from my group has been placed beside me in his wheelchair. He’s frowning so that his thick, bushy white eyebrows are bunched together.

“He didn’t realize how late it was getting,” I explain.

“But he just got here!”

I don’t know what to say to that one.

“I don’t like him,” the old man says. “He reminds me of that guy who was president before Dave took over. That guy was a really bad president. He did a lot of things that hurt poor children and he wasn’t good to his wife. His wife was played by that woman who looks like a man. You know who I mean?”

“Sigourney Weaver,” I say, and a nurse at the station who had apparently been listening to our conversation looks like she’s about to fall over in surprise.

Sometimes I surprise myself. Maybe my brain isn’t completely broken. Although it’s definitely pretty damaged. And there’s one other thing that I suddenly realize.

I’m pretty sure that my husband was the one I saw in the doorway the other day when I was talking to Dr. Williams. The one who was glaring at me like he wished I had died that night I got shot.

15

BEFORE

The burly man with the bald head is advancing on me, his meaty hands clenched into fists. I take a step back, my heart pounding.

“Can I help you?” I choke out.

Before the man can open his mouth again, our front receptionist Margo intervenes. “Mr. Barry,” Margo says. She’s really good at dealing with troublemakers, probably because she has three sons at home. “I told you that Dr. McKenna has a very busy schedule this morning…”

Barry. Regina Barry’s husband—soon to be ex-husband, now that her psoriasis is gone and her confidence is back.

No wonder he’s pissed.

“Dr. McKenna,” Mr. Barry growls under his breath. “I want to talk to you about my wife Regina.”

“Mr. Barry.” I try to keep my voice steady. “I can’t discuss a patient without their permission.”

“To hell with permission!” he roars. “Because of your ‘treatment’”—Mr. Barry makes air quotes with his fingers—“Regina walked out on me! She thinks she’s too good for me now.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I say stiffly. I have to bite my tongue to keep from telling him that I’m actually not the slightest bit sorry.

“I’ll bet,” Mr. Barry snaps. “Whatever witch medicines you gave her messed with her brain.”

Despite everything, I almost laugh at how ridiculous he’s being. “That’s impossible.”

“I know it’s all your fault, Dr. McKenna.” Mr. Barry sticks his face close to mine. “And believe me, I’m going to make you pay.”

I’m going to make you pay.

The words make my mouth go dry. Believe it or not, I’ve never been threatened before by a patient. I’ve had patients who were psychopaths, jailbirds, or just plain jerks. But this is my first threat. And when he says it, standing over me with his biceps as thick as tree trunks, a thrill of fear runs down my spine.

“Excuse me,” a voice speaks up, “but you can’t talk to Dr. McKenna that way.”

The trance is broken. I look over to identify my savior, and see none other than Clark Douglas, standing behind Mr. Barry. Looking, by the way, achingly handsome in a crisp white dress shirt and tie. I’ve never been so grateful to see a person in my life.

Mr. Barry snaps his bald head around. “Mind your own business, asshole.”