Page 9 of Brain Damage

The older woman is leaning forward eagerly, her blue eyes wide behind the lenses of her glasses. She has dark circles under her eyes. Her blouse is wrinkled, like she slept in it.

“She did it!” the older woman says triumphantly. “I saw her thumb move.”

Amy shakes her head. “I… I’m not so sure.”

The older woman sniffs. “Well, you weren’t paying attention then.”

Amy bites her lip.

The older woman stands up. She stands next to me and lays a hand on my shoulder. I try to look up at her, but my head feels funny when I lift it. There’s something resting on my head making it hard to move. Something strange and heavy.

“You know your name, don’t you, Charly?” the woman says to me.

I’m confused. Is my name Charly then? Or is it Charlotte? Or is it Lisa? Or Susan?

For God’s sake, why don’t they just tell me my name already?

“She’s tracking better,” Amy says.

The older woman waves her hand as if this is no consequence to her. She leans forward so I can make out all the wrinkles on her skin. She is so old and smells like flowers. “You know more than you’re letting on, don’t you, Charly?” she says. She winks at me. “You know who I am, don’t you?”

I have absolutely no idea who this woman is.

“Mrs. McKenna,” Amy says in a soft but stern voice. Her pretty face looks angry. “We agreed you could sit in on my session if you promised not to disrupt your daughter’s therapy.”

Amy is angry. Really angry. What have I done to make her so angry? I must’ve done something terrible to make her so upset.

Oh my God, what have I done?

“Oh, Charlotte,” I hear Amy say suddenly. “Don’t cry! Why are you crying?”

The older woman starts asking her if it is good that I am crying, and meanwhile, Amy keeps rubbing my hand. How could it be good that I am crying? What is wrong with that stupid old woman?

7

I am dreaming, or at least, I think I am.

A gunshot echoes in my ear, and I try to see where it came from, but I can’t. I can see the right side of my apartment so clearly—my bookcase filled with textbooks about skin conditions, a maple wood desk, and my wide-screen television. But I can’t see who’s making the footsteps coming from my left side.

Even though it’s a dream and I know it’s a dream, I still can feel hot breath against the left side of my neck. And I hear words hissed in my ear. It feels so real.

Then I wake up.

The room we are in now is real and it’s small, with only a bed, a single dresser, and a television. Nobody else is here but the two of us. This is my room. I think so, anyway. That’s what everybody says.

The older woman is with me, but she’s on the phone. She’s speaking in a hushed, urgent voice but I can make out the words she’s saying.

“Do you think you could come see her this weekend?” the woman murmurs into the phone.

The older woman is sitting in a chair next to me. I am sitting too. In a wheelchair. I’m always sitting in a wheelchair these days, even though I’m not old or sick. Well, I might be sick. I’m not sure.

The woman’s voice raises a notch. “You haven’t seen her in over a week. I don’t care how busy you are with work—she’s your wife.”

I watch the way the older woman’s face is turning red. I wonder who she’s talking to.

“She does know who you are!” she cries. “Even if she doesn’t greet you by name, she definitely recognizes people. I’m sure of it!”

The older woman is nearly yelling now, but I get distracted by the sound of heavy footsteps outside the door. I watch the doorway, waiting to see who will appear.