Page 75 of Brain Damage

If I were a man, it would be so easy. They all just have these little jugs that they pee in.

“Yes,” I say. “Now.”

My mother gets up to find a nurse, and now the countdown has started. I have a feeling she’s not going to find anyone in time. It’s the change of shift right now, so all the nurses are busy.

Before my mother can get out of the room, she stops short at the sight of a figure standing at the entrance way. There is a scary looking man with a shiny bald scalp wearing a black suit with a dark shirt and a black tie. My breath catches in my throat at the sight of him.

“Detective Simpson,” my mother says, looking surprised. “What are you doing here?”

This man is a policeman. Maybe this has something to do with who shot me. I feel a shiver go through my body.

“I wanted to talk to Charlotte,” Detective Simpson says. “Actually, both of you.” He pauses. “We think we have the guy who shot you, Charlotte.”

Is he serious? After all this time, they really have him? How is that possible?

I shiver again, thinking about the ominous voice coming from my left side. You deserve this. Maybe I don’t want to know who shot me.

No, of course I do. I just can’t believe they caught him. It doesn’t seem possible.

My mother’s eyes widen. She frowns and the crease between her eyebrows deepens. “You… have a suspect?”

The detective nods. “The man has a significant prior record of burglaries, and we caught him on camera in the vicinity of your building that night.”

“Is that all you have?” my mother asked. “Seems a little… what’s that word they use in law shows? Circumstantial.”

The detective smiles dimly. “Yes, I would have to agree. But we got a search warrant for his apartment, and we found some of Charlotte’s missing jewelry in a drawer.”

“Wow,” my mother murmurs.

“The only thing we’re missing,” the detective says, “is a positive ID from Charlotte. I was hoping you would allow me to show her a picture…”

“She doesn’t remember what happened, Detective,” my mother snaps. “I’d rather you didn’t upset her.”

“It’s okay,” I speak up. “I… I’d like to see.”

My mother just shakes her head. Detective Simpson advances toward me, and despite the fact that I gave him permission to do so, I flinch self-consciously. He smiles at me. “It’s okay, Charlotte,” he says. “This will only take a minute.”

I just stare at him.

His eyes soften. “You’re looking very well. I’m glad you’re feeling better than the last time I saw you.”

I nod.

Detective Simpson reaches into his jacket, and for a second I’m certain he’s going to pull out a gun. In that second, whatever small bit of control I had over my bladder vanishes. I feel the warmth spreading across my groin. I know I have to say something, but I can’t in front of this stranger. I’ll just have to wait and get cleaned up later.

Instead of a gun, he pulls out a small photo album. He places it down on the tray in front of me. “Can I show you the pictures, Charlotte?”

I nod again.

He shows me a book of faces. Male faces, men who look scary, like thugs. They have scary-looking eyes and scars, and noses that look like they might have been broken. I shudder with each photo I look at.

“I know this is probably hard for you,” Detective Simpson says to me. “But I want you to try your best to identify the man who shot you.”

“But I don’t remember him,” I protest.

Detective Simpson frowns, but keeps turning the pages. “Do your best.”

I turn through the pages, looking at photo after photo of men staring back at me. Wide noses, small noses, large foreheads, thick eyebrows. Blue eyes, hazel eyes, brown eyes…