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Trina St. Jean
ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS
Copyright © 2015 Trina St. Jean
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
St. Jean, Trina, 1971–, author
Blank / Trina St. Jean.
Issued in print and electronic formats.
ISBN 978-1-4598-0807-2 (pbk.).—ISBN 978-1-4598-0808-9 (pdf).—
ISBN 978-1-4598-0809-6 (epub)
I. Title.
PS8637.A45724B53 2015 jC813'.6 C2014-906661-9
C2014-906662-7
First published in the United States, 2015
Library of Congress Control Number: 2014952054
Summary: Jessica struggles with retrograde amnesia after she is injured by a bison on her family’s ranch.
Orca Book Publishers is dedicated to preserving the environment and has printed this book on Forest Stewardship Council® certified paper.
Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for its publishing programs provided by the following agencies: the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund and the Canada Council for the Arts, and the Province of British Columbia through the BC Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.
Cover design by Chantal Gabriell
Cover images by Getty Images
Author photo by Eileen Abad
ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS
PO Box 5626, Stn. B
Victoria, BC Canada
V8R 6S4
ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS
PO Box 468
Custer, WA USA
98240-0468
www.orcabook.com
Printed and bound in Canada.
18171615•4321
To my daughters, Anissa and Elianne.
I love you both to infinity and back.
Table of Contents
Part I: AWAKE
Snapshots
It’s a Bird, It’s a Plane…
Mirage
Squeezing Water from a Stone
Step by Step
Trivial
She Calls
It’s All Fun and Games Until Someone Loses an I
Oscar-Worthy
Never-Never Land
Rotten Luck
Miss Congeniality
Abduction
Strangers in the Night
System Malfunction
Brush Off
Part II: HOMECOMING
The Next Contestant
Solidarity
Nostalgia
Pandora’s Box
Icing on the Cake
Cerebral
Shop Till You Drop
Poltergeist
Human Sacrifice
Big Shoes to Fill
The Imposter
Vive la Liberté
Hellhole
Ancient History
Rose-Colored Glasses
Spontaneity
Need for Speed
Penance
Lying Eyes
Part III: SURRENDER
Pen Pals
Snapping
Throw Me a Line
Illusions
A Walk on the Wild Side
Enchanted Forest
Pièce de Résistance
A Fine Kettle of Fish
Detachment
Back to the Basics
Survival
Intruder
Outsider
Road Trip
Filling in the Blanks
The Olive Branch
Author’s Note
Acknowledgments
Part I:
AWAKE
Each day is a little life:
every waking and rising a little birth,
every fresh morning a little youth,
every going to rest and sleep a little death.
—Arthur Schopenhauer
The Essays of Arthur Schopenhauer; Counsels and Maxims
Snapshots
I remember.
That’s what they want me to say, this Woman sitting beside my bed, this Man by the window. But I won’t, because it would be a lie.
The Woman places a stack of photos on my bedside table, then slowly slides the top one toward me. Her eyes dart from me to the Man. He leans against the wall by the window, staring at the tree branches outside.
“Honey,” she calls to him, her voice tight. He looks at us over his shoulder with tired eyes, then shuffles closer. It feels like the room, the entire building maybe, sucks in its breath when I pick up the photo and study it carefully, slowly, as if my life depended on it. Because it kind of does.
A family stands on the beach. The Woman, petite with wavy black hair, has her arms around the Girl’s shoulders. The Girl’s sunburned face is lit up by a grin. The Boy, wearing an oversized pirate hat, sits on the Man’s shoulders. They are all wearing colorful beachwear. The Man is stocky, with a buzz cut, and has socks on with his sandals. There are palm trees and ocean waves behind the family. Obviously, it’s a vacation shot, taken somewhere far from here. How do I know?
Some things—the big stuff—I am sure of. Like, I do not live in a tropical place, and the Earth goes around the sun. It’s the not-so-minor details that leave me guessing, like what my favorite flavor of ice cream is, why my head hurts and who I am exactly.
Nine days have gone by, they say, since I awoke from the Big Sleep. The coma. I stare at the photo, the expectation so thick in the air that I can almost taste it. This Woman and this Man want my eyes to open wide and a loud click to go off somewhere in my brain. For me to say, “Oh yes, of course, how could I forget that amazing day?”
But it doesn’t happen.
I do know that the Girl on the beach, with the naïve I’ve-got-my-whole-life-ahead-of-me grin, is the same Girl who gazes back at me from the bathroom mirror. But I could be looking at a photo of some random generic, happy family in a resort brochure, because I feel only a cool emptiness when I gaze down at them.
I slide the photo back across the table, look up at the Woman and shrug. She nods her head and says softly, “Okay, okay,” but her eyes glisten with disappointment.
This Woman, you see, is my mother. This Man is my father. The Boy in the photo is my ten-year-old brother, Stephen. My name is Jessica, and I am fifteen years old. And thanks to a bison bull named Ramses on their—our—ranch, my brain is mush. One Very Bad Day, April 26, to be exact, Ramses charged me, putting me in the coma. Eleven days in the coma plus nine days out equals twenty days in the hospital so far. I can walk and talk and eat and don’t need sponge baths anymore.
But my old life is a long blank that my brain no longer fills in for me.
I know all of this because they explained it to me, slowly and gently, with concern in their eyes. Intellectually, I can understand. Inside, though, where it really counts, I can’t feel any of it. When she—the Woman, my mother—reaches toward me and wraps her arms around me, it’s like I am being hugged by a complete stranger waiting in front of me at the grocery-store checkout. Not an ounce of warmth or love flows through me. Not even sadness.
The Woman releases me from her grip, then picks up the photos with shaking hands. She doesn’t want me to see her face, I think, because she walks over to a bulletin board on the wall near the window and carefully starts putting the photos up, one by one, with push pins.
The Man steps closer and puts his hand on my shoulder. I flinch. “Well,” he says, “maybe next time.”
I watch the Woman as the Man paces around the room
, glancing out the window every now and then. I am a lump, sitting there. Feeling nothing and saying nothing.
I may finally be awake, but I am hollow.
When I am alone and the hallway outside my door is quiet, I step slowly, carefully, into the bathroom. My hands fumble in the darkness until they find the switch. The fluorescent lighting hums, and the Girl is in front of me. The Girl in the Mirror.
“Jessica,” I whisper.
Her brow is slightly furrowed, and her gray-blue eyes stare coldly back at me. She’s a serious girl, it seems. Her face is pale, but maybe that’s from being cooped up in a hospital for weeks. A few freckles are scattered across her cheeks, and there are faint patches of purple and green, leftover bruises from her Very Bad Day. Her hair is mousy brown and medium length, mostly, except for a patch above her right ear that has been shaved. I run my hands back and forth over the stubble until my fingertips find the small circular dent. This, I’ve been told, is where a tube was inserted through my skull. I lower my hands to the edge of the sink and lean closer.
The Girl’s mouth opens, stretching wide until I can see a lumpy, off-white filling in one of her back teeth. My face muscles begin to ache, so I close my mouth and force a grin. What made the Girl smile? Did the corners of her lips curl up easily and quickly at the slightest joke or a greeting from a passing stranger? Or maybe her smile was reserved for those she loved, those who had earned her trust.
The smirk slips away and I close my eyes, then slowly reopen them. Her pupils shrink, then expand, but the eyes reveal little emotion. A thought slides into my mind: the eyes are the windows to the soul. I get as close to her as I can, until my breath leaves vapor on the glass, and I peer harder into those eyes. I see the dark outer edge, the blue flecks, thin red veins on the whites of her eyes. The soul, however, is nowhere to be found.
I move on to her forehead. Fairly high, with a small widow’s peak in her hairline. Turning sideways, I inspect an ear—small, with two piercings—and then lean back to take in the overall shape of her skull. The house of the brain. I lift my hand slowly and tap on the side of her head with my knuckles.
“Hello,” I say. “Anyone home?”
The Girl in the Mirror gazes back at me, her expression vacant. I know someone is in there, hiding in the darkest corners of that mind. She was a real person once, before her slate was wiped clean. I knock again, this time hard enough that a slight ache throbs in my temple.
“I said, anyone home?”
She doesn’t flinch. A wave of irritation washes over me, and my fist becomes tighter, until my fingernails cut sharply into my palm. I knock again on my temple, and again…until the fist flies out in front of me before I can stop it or think about how stupid I am being.
Crack. The sound of bone against glass. Pain shoots down into my hand, then to my wrist. I step back. The Girl in the Mirror has raised eyebrows, an open mouth. She is obviously shocked.
At least I know she’s paying attention.
It’s a Bird, It’s a Plane…
I have hardly slept, but it must be morning because a woman comes in with a cart and gives me a tray.
“Good morning, Sunshine,” she says. When she’s gone I open the lid and inspect the pancakes. They are limp and the color of cardboard. I am deciding whether I can force myself to take a bite when I hear someone clear his throat.
A short man with black hair and a salt-and-pepper beard stands in the doorway. His hands are in the pockets of his khaki pants, like he’s going for a stroll in the park. The sure way he walks and the confidence in his smile both scream “doctor,” but not in an arrogant way. I surprise myself by knowing his name: Dr. Lavoie. And I remember what the Man and Woman told me: this man saved my life. He is a hero, my very own Super Doc.
“Hi, Jessica,” he says. “Your parents are meeting me here in a bit, but I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d pop by early. Okay if I interrupt your breakfast?”
I nod, replacing the lid on the pancakes. “I would be forever grateful,” I say. He smiles and steps into my room, pausing to look at the photos on the bulletin board: the beach vacation, the Girl holding a newborn baby boy, the Girl wearing a giant cowboy hat. There are also cards signed Get Well Soon and Lots of Love xoxoxo. Super Doc stands with his hands on his hips, moving his head slowly from side to side as he works his way down the rows of photos.
“Hmm,” he says. “Hmm.”
Warmth rises into my face. He has probably poked and prodded me all over, this doctor. But his looking at the pictures feels more intimate somehow.
“I was a happy camper, wasn’t I?” I say, wanting more than anything for him to stop hmming and staring. He turns and gives me a gentle, even smile.
“I especially like the one with the cowboy hat.” He waits to see what I will say. Maybe he hopes he will catch me off guard, that I will reveal some hint of a memory or some preference for another picture. I laugh too loudly instead.
“I guess I had bad taste too.”
“You have something against Western wear?” He winks as he pulls a pen out of the front pocket of his blue-striped shirt.
“I’m not sure,” I answer.
He nods and sits down on the chair next to my bed. “I thought it was time we had a little chat.”
I suddenly feel stupid that I’m wearing Hello Kitty pajamas. He’s waiting for me to give him the thumbs-up, I guess, so I say, “All right.”
“You seem to be doing well.”
Well? If that’s another way of saying screwed in the head, maybe. I meet his gaze and am trying to think of the best way to correct him when the Woman bursts into the room. Her hair is messy, but she pats it down.
“Sorry,” she says. “Ray had a bit of trouble with the tractor this morning, but he got it going and here we are.” I don’t see any “we,” only her, but the Man must be close behind.
Super Doc laughs politely and stands to shake her hand.
“Glad you made it.” He gestures to the chair, and she sits down as the Man strolls in.
Friendly handshakes between the men, and we settle down to business. I sit on the bed and we talk about my Brain. The Accident. My Life.
Super Doc is amazingly positive and has nothing but good things to say. I am strong, he says, and young, and that has allowed my brain to heal quickly. Although my walking is a bit shaky at the moment, it won’t be long before it is back to normal. “It’s amazing, Jessica, how far you’ve come in the past three weeks. The human brain’s ability to recover from trauma never ceases to astound me.”
“Uh, thanks,” I say.
The Woman’s eyes are shiny and proud, like I’ve won a spelling bee.
The Man’s face, however, is solemn. He leans forward. “So,” he says, “when is she going to start remembering things?”
Super Doc doesn’t miss a beat. “That was what I wanted to talk about next.”
The joy on the Woman’s face fades. Super Doc turns to me then, and his brown eyes are warm and kind. “Everything I’ve said is true. You are bouncing back remarkably well, Jessica. Most people with this kind of injury eventually recover the majority of their memories. But I can’t lie. There’s no real way of knowing yet, and no guarantees.”
I keep my eyes down, studying my hands, and though I probably should be upset or worried, I feel strangely numb. My post-traumatic brain struggles to absorb what he has said. Most people get their memories back. Not all. And, of course, Super Doc wouldn’t lie. I want to ask him if having no feelings is usual too, but that would only add to the Man’s and Woman’s stress.
“For now, Jessica should continue with her rehabilitation,” Super Doc says. “We’ll do another CT scan soon and take it from there. Feel free to ask me questions anytime.”
Suddenly they are all standing up and exchanging handshakes. “Thank you,” the Woman says. Her face is as white as my bedsheet.
Super Doc reaches over and gives my knee a squeeze, then heads toward the door. I nearly grab his arm, beg him to stay an
d save me again, get me out of this mess for good. But I am a wimp and watch him go.
“Oh, Jess,” the Man says softly, his arm going around my shoulder. “It’s going to be okay.”
My mouth answers without my brain’s permission. “And how do you know?”
I’m not sure whether the flash in his eyes is hurt or just plain worry, but either way, I disgust myself.
Mirage
I’m putting the lid over the untouched shepherd’s pie the hospital calls dinner when the Woman walks in. A kid with reddish hair and blue-framed glasses trails in behind her. It’s the Boy, my brother from the photos. He carries a bright-red gift bag with orange tissue paper flaring out of the top like it’s caught fire.
“Stephen missed school this afternoon to come see you,” the Woman—Mother, I remind myself—says. “He couldn’t wait to give you an extra-special gift.” The Boy peers at me over the top of his glasses.
My brain surprises me with what must be the kid’s nickname—Little Man—but I don’t know if Jessica was the only one to call him that. I’m also surprised by my urge to reach over and tousle his hair. He looks skittish, though, and I don’t want to scare him.
Mother glances at the door. “Jessie, is it all right if I leave the two of you alone for a few minutes? I need to go fill out a form.”
“Does he bite?” I ask, and the Boy’s mouth curls up a bit in the corners. Mother looks at him worriedly, but he gives her a nod, and she heads out the door. The Boy and I are quiet for a moment, looking at each other.
“Hi, Little Man,” I say.
He lets out a sigh and pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “This is good. I’m happy you’re awake. I was”—his voice cracks—“I was scared I might never talk to you again.” His hunched shoulders make him appear small and fragile, like if I sneeze too hard the breeze might knock him over.