Page 71 of Brain Damage

My jaw drops so quickly that it almost unhinges. How does he know that? Was he following Clark? Or was he following me when I went to the private investigator? I don’t know what’s worse. They’re both equally awful, I think.

“My private life is my business,” I say, maintaining that same calm voice. “I’m going to have to ask you to leave now.”

“Charlotte—”

“You need to leave.” My tone has become sharp enough to make him flinch. “Now. Or else I’m calling the police.”

The threat about the police makes Leroy’s eyes fly open wide. It makes me wonder if this wouldn’t be his first brush with the law. I wouldn’t be surprised at this point.

“The police?” He looks like he’s going to cry. “But I thought… Don’t you have feelings for me too?”

“No.” I force myself to look him in the eyes. “I don’t. And if you don’t leave right now, I’m calling 911.”

I reach into my purse for my phone, just to show him I’m serious.

“You don’t have to call 911.” He takes a step off the alcove in front of my building, and I take a step onto it, shielding me at least somewhat from the rain. “I’m not going to hurt you. I’d never do that.”

I’m not so sure.

“Please, Dr. McKenna.” There’s a desperate look in his eyes. “Don’t call the police.”

I’m not going to call the police while I’m standing here out in the pouring rain, but I’m sorely tempted to do so as soon as I get inside. My gut is telling me that this matter has already escalated to the point where I need to get law enforcement involved. Then again, what will they do? It’s not like they’re going to assign me a bodyguard. Leroy can return, whether I call the police or not, so maybe it’s better not to escalate things.

“Fine,” I say. “If you leave right now and don’t ever come back, I won’t call the police.”

The look on his face is so hurt that for a moment I feel a stab of guilt. It’s hard to shut down a man who has just declared his love to me, as misguided as that declaration was. But it was the right thing to do.

Someone like Stan Leroy has the potential to be dangerous.

Even though I want nothing more than to be safe and warm inside my apartment building, I wait in the alcove and watch to make sure Leroy leaves. He trudges slowly down the block, his shoulders sagging as if under the weight of all the rain pouring down on him.

50

AFTER

Things are going very slowly with therapy. If you gave my therapist, Valerie, a choice between dressing me and dressing a corpse, she’d pick the corpse. Even a corpse that was stiff and decomposing. I bet she wouldn’t even have to think it through before deciding. The simple act of putting on a shirt is a battle. Basically, it’s Valerie versus My Body. And while Valerie always wins, My Body definitely puts up a valiant effort.

Valerie keeps saying that I’m pushing her away, because I don’t understand when I’m sitting up straight. Whenever I try to correct her by moving her to the right, she explained to my mother, she feels like she’s tilted to the right and is going to fall, and she starts pushing me with her good arm so that she can move back to the left.

She’s tried having me look in a mirror to see if that will help, but so far, it hasn’t. We seem to be stuck. I’ve been hearing the word “plateau” a lot lately, and I don’t think it means anything good.

Today we are having a group talk therapy session in the gym with our psychologist, Dr. Foster. The group is called “stroke group,” even though I didn’t actually have a stroke. It currently consists of only three people: me, Angela, and a young guy named Alex. The three of us each sit in wheelchairs, although I know I’ve seen Alex walk without support.

When Alex came in, Angela whispered to me that he had a stroke from doing too many drugs. Looking at him now, I believe it. He keeps fidgeting in his seat, running a shaky hand through his long dark hair. His skinny arms are covered in tattoos—literally, covered. There’s hardly a millimeter of un-inked skin. He looks like he’d rather be anywhere but here, which is something I can sympathize with.

“Why don’t we begin?” Dr. Foster suggests. He sits facing the three of us, perched in an armchair, as a psychologist should. He’s mastered that part, at least.

“Could I have a drink of water first?” Alex asks.

“Certainly,” Dr. Foster says, rising from his chair.

“Don’t,” Angela warns him in her smoky voice. “It’s a trick. He can’t have water.”

“Bitch,” Alex hisses at Angela.

Dr. Foster frowns at Alex. He rises out of his seat and checks the tag hanging from the back of one of the handrails of his wheelchair. He shakes his head. “She’s right, Alex. You’re on water restriction because of your blood sodium level. I can’t get you water.”

“But I’m thirsty!” he nearly yells.