Blank

by Trina St. Jean

  She looks perfect, like she’s stepped out of a fashion magazine. So this is the miracle worker Super Doc has sent to help me with my temper. “I’m here to ask you a few questions. Do you feel up to that this afternoon?”

  “I had plans to go bungee-jumping,” I say, “but I suppose I could cancel.”

  Her laugh doesn’t suit her at all—it’s loud, a little obnoxious. I like her more already. “You seem to have your wits about you anyway.” She pulls a notebook and a deck of cards from her bag. “So, we’re going to do a sort of test. First I’ll show you cards with faces. I want you to tell me the names of the people. Then I’ll ask you questions. Just answer them to the best of your ability. And a tip: it’s better to guess than to say you don’t know.”

  She sits down. The first card is so easy I roll my eyes.

  “Michael Jackson,” I say.

  “Is he alive or dead?” she asks, and my reply—“He beat it”—gets a grin.

  The next is equally challenging.

  “President Obama.”

  And so on and so on. She shows me famous actors and singers and a few politicians, and I know them all. I don’t have to guess. She smiles encouragingly after each answer, and I start to feel like an idiot. Big deal, I want to say. Of course I know these people. I would have to have lived in a bubble for fifteen years not to.

  When the cards are done, Dr. K. exclaims, “Excellent!” and scribbles something in the notebook. Probably something like Recognizes everyone in the whole damn world except herself.

  She says it’s time for part two, and I brace myself for the worst—what’s your favorite color, what kind of food do you hate, what are your hobbies, blah, blah, blah—but instead she comes out with, “What is the capital city of France?”

  I’m annoyed—what does any of this have to do with my tendency to freak out?—but I think maybe this is a test to see if I will lose it again, so I play along. I answer, one after another, questions about geography and famous dates. I get a few wrong, I think, because she writes something down. But it doesn’t seem to be a big deal. At the end she says, “You’ve passed with flying colors.” Then her face turns serious, and she leans toward me.

  “How are things going?”

  An uncomfortable feeling creeps though me, and the only thing I can think to call it is embarrassment. I passed, but everyone knows by now that my brain is defective and I can’t remember anything that matters.

  I shrug. “Should I guess?” I ask.

  She nods slowly, as if she understands exactly what I mean. “I can only imagine.” She stands up and tucks the cards and notebook back into her bag. “That was great, Jessica. A good start. I’ll come back in a few days, if that’s okay?”

  I nod, and she’s almost out the door when I say, “Dr. K.?”

  She turns around. “Yes?”

  “You look like Pocahontas.”

  I get a smile.

  “Aren’t you supposed to help me get a grip?”

  Her face turns serious. “I need to do a few assessments to make a plan for our therapy. Then we can begin the real work. See you soon.”

  I sit on the edge of the bed, the word therapy hanging in my mind, and a feeling of loneliness sinks in. I know that Nelson Mandela is dead and Avril Lavigne is alive and kicking. I wonder what I’d say if Dr. K. flashed me my own picture.

  Oscar-Worthy

  Another morning with Rehab Ruby, and I kick butt. “Wow,” she says. “Your progress is mind-blowing.” And I think she means it. Back in my room, I take a shower, then watch the birds flit from tree to tree outside my window. Mother and Father are staying in a small apartment the hospital provided, but they have to take turns going back and forth between here and the ranch to take care of the bison and so Stephen can go to school. They’ve told me the schedule, but I can’t keep track of what day of the week it is and who I’ll see when. They have lives; I don’t.

  But if I want to get my life back, I can’t hide out forever waiting for some magic cure. A surge of determination comes over me, and for lack of anywhere better to go, I trudge down the hallway to the TV lounge.

  The girl with the nose rings is there again, stretched out on the couch with her feet crossed on the arm. She’s flipping through the channels with the remote, and the flicker of a smile crosses her face when she sees me.

  “Hey, hotshot. What’s going on?”

  My face gets warm, but I hold myself together enough to squeeze out, “Not much” before I plunk down into the armchair. We peer at the TV, and she keeps clicking until she stops on a scene.

  “Ooh la la,” the girl says. “What happened to Felonia?”

  On the screen, a woman lies in a hospital bed, her blond hair spread out across her pillow like a silk fan. A machine connected to her by wires emits high-pitched beeps. One perfect scratch, bright red like her lipstick, angles upward from her eyebrow to her hairline. Her eyes are wide, and despite her condition, she is stunning.

  A square-jawed man walks up to her bedside and clutches her hand in his.

  “Felonia, my darling, I’m so sorry. It’s all my fault. If only I hadn’t decided we could drive through that storm, this never would have happened.”

  Her eyes, though I didn’t think it was possible, open wider. “Storm? When?” she says.

  The square jaw falls slightly, and the handsome man leans closer. “Don’t you remember the accident?”

  “Accident?” she says. “What accident?” Her voice rises to meet the beep of her monitor.

  The man swallows. He speaks slowly, afraid. “Do you even know who I am?”

  “Should I?”

  The camera zooms in on his face, the man’s mouth hanging open in shock. “I am Sam, your fiancé,” he says. “And I think you have…amnesia!”

  Violin music plays as the scene fades to black and a deep voice announces, “In tomorrow’s episode—”

  Nose Ring girl sighs loudly and changes the channel to where Alex Trebek is waiting for an answer. Or rather, a question.

  “How lame,” she says, turning toward me. “So what brings you to this lovely place?” She gestures to my patch of shaved hair. “Were you in a car accident?”

  My mind scrambles for the right answer. I can’t exactly tell her that I’m much lamer than any character on a soap, that my story is true. I am a real, live, breathing cliché. I clear my throat.

  “Something like that” is all I can say. She scrutinizes me, her brown eyes dark and intense against her purple hair, trying to figure me out. I stand up before she can find out there’s nothing to discover. “Bye,” I say. And Ruby would be proud to see that I walk in a perfectly straight line down the hallway and back to the cocoon of my room. I hide there for the rest of the day, picking at my lunch, flipping through TV channels and dozing. So much for progress.

  After dinner, Mother is there to tuck me in. “Sorry I wasn’t here earlier. Stephen had a science fair,” she says, placing a stack of magazines on my bedside table. “Grabbed these from your room at home.”

  She stays for a bit, filling me in on Stephen’s magnetism project, until my eyes get heavy. She stands up and gives me a quick peck on the forehead.

  “I love you, Jessica.”

  I feel flushed suddenly, like someone has blasted a blow-dryer in my face. I swallow, uncertain what to say. But before I have time to think about it, she is out the door. It clicks shut behind her.

  It’s not the first time she’s said I love you, but it’s the first time I’ve felt a reaction when she did. That warmth could have been a genuine response to what another human being has said. Or maybe it was only nervousness, a fear of saying or doing the wrong thing.

  Or could it be, maybe, that I am beginning to care?

  Never-Never Land

  Stephen and I stand in front of the elevator.

  “How long do you think they’ll be?” he asks.

  “Awhile,” I answer. “Those doctors are always running behind.”

  My parents are meeting
Dr. K. today, and I wasn’t invited. But that’s okay, because I get to have some time alone with Stephen, away from Mother’s protective gaze. She even said we could go for a walk in the hospital if we stick together, and Stephen assured her that he would oversee my whereabouts. I get the feeling, from the words he uses, that he isn’t your typical ten-year-old boy.

  “Where are we going?” I ask.

  “Where do you want to go?” he asks.

  I picture the two of us sitting in the cafeteria, with its weird smells, sharing a dry muffin that’s been here longer than I have. An idea forms in my mind. “How about we play pretend? Like that caravan game or something?”

  His eyebrows rise in surprise. “Here? I’m not sure this is the place—”

  I clasp my hands tightly in front of me, begging. “Pretty please? It’ll be like old times.”

  A strange expression clouds his face, and he’s about to speak when the elevator dings and the doors slide open. We step inside, and the doors shut. Stephen glances at me, then points his finger and slowly, purposefully, pushes the B button.

  “All right,” he says. “Let’s explore then.”

  “That’s my boy,” I say. But, strangely, now that he’s agreed I feel jittery. Since waking up from the Big Sleep, I’ve gone up a few floors in the hospital for tests, Mother holding my hand, and made a few trips to the cafeteria. Otherwise, the Head Trauma Unit of the hospital has been my whole world.

  The elevator lurches to a stop, and the light above the door reads B. The doors slide open to reveal a concrete wall.

  “Thumbs-up or thumbs-down?” Stephen asks.

  The wall isn’t exactly calling to me, but the last thing I want is to go back to my room. So I give a hesitant thumbs-up. He leads me by the hand into a cold, damp tunnel. “It’s fantastically sinister down here,” he says.

  He’s right. The place gives me the willies. There is no sound, no life. But I force myself to move, to fall into step beside Stephen. This is what I asked for. Little Man rolls his eyes and twists his mouth into a ghoulish expression.

  “Isn’t it faaa-bulous being a vaaa-mpire?” he says in a deep voice, rubbing his hands together. “I think ve vill find some veddy scrumptious prey in this place, no?”

  I nod. “Yes, yes, I think so.” I’m surprised how easily and naturally he throws himself into the game. He must have been missing this, been waiting to have some fun with the Girl all this time.

  “Zen ve must walk like zis,” he says, hunching low and narrowing his eyes. He creeps down the corridor. I stand and watch him until he skulks back toward me. He puts his hands on my shoulders. “Vat is ze matter? Have you forgotten everyzing I have taught you?”

  I hunch down too and try to make the same diabolical expression. But I have a feeling I look like I’m constipated. “No, no, of course I haven’t. Vere are ve going, master?”

  “To ze catacombs,” he says. “Zere vill surely be some poor lost souls vandering zere, just for us.”

  “Faaa-bulous,” I say. And together we lurk down the tunnel. It takes a few minutes, but I start to forget that we are in a hospital and don’t think about the fact that I am too old to be playing such games. We explore the basement as hunters of the night. I am no longer Jessica the girl with brain damage. I am a vampire, on the prowl for blood.

  We reach another elevator, and Stephen stands straight. “Ve are going back into the world now,” he says, pushing the call button, “and ve must hide our real identities. You call me Stephen, and pretend I am your brother.”

  I am a little sad to end the game, but of course it cannot go on forever. I stand straight too, and then the elevator bell dings. A man in scrubs nods at us as we step through the doors. “Which floor?” he asks.

  Stephen looks at me with a raised eyebrow.

  “Um,” I say, “twelve, please.” The top floor, not back to the Head Trauma Unit. Stephen winks at me.

  I’m starting to get into the swing of things.

  When nine o’clock comes and it’s lights out in the ward, I lie on my back, gaze up at the ceiling and replay the afternoon with my brother. It all seemed real, like a spell had been cast over us and turned us temporarily into real vampires. Pretending we were time travelers from the future in the Cardiology department on the twelfth floor was magical too, until I started to crash and Stephen had to lead me by the hand back to my room. I could barely keep my eyes open during dinner with the family at the cafeteria, and they left early to let me rest.

  The time I shared with Little Man was weird and crazy and made me forget all the things that are wrong with me. I’m not clear on how this memory thing works, but I think I will always remember today.

  Rotten Luck

  Day fifteen post-coma. My fun with Stephen has me feeling gutsy, alive. Out, I tell myself. I need to get out of my room.

  Nose Ring girl is in the lounge when I arrive. The TV is off, and she is flipping through a magazine. She sees me glancing around the room in search of the remote.

  “Lost,” she says. “Maybe one of the guys hid it. Ha-ha, so clever.”

  I walk over to the TV and click it on, then settle into the ratty old couch. She laughs. “Duh. Why didn’t I think of that?”

  A little boy is running through a field on the screen, chasing a dog. Happy music plays, and the message Cheese—Help Them Grow appears.

  “How touching,” Nose Ring girl says. She throws her magazine onto the coffee table. “Ah, what the fudge. Let’s see what’s happening to the rich and beautiful today.”

  The music for the soap, called Through the Hourglass, begins. Each of the actresses tosses her hair around as music and the opening credits play. I grit my teeth. I could get up and change the channel, or I could leave without knowing what happened to Felonia and her amnesia. But part of me wants to know, needs to see what happens to her. Did they strap her down to the bed?

  After a recap of last week’s events, the action picks up at the hospital. A doctor—a Leonardo DiCaprio look-alike—stands over Felonia, a clipboard in his hand. “I’m sorry I have to be the one to deliver the bad news,” he begins in his manly voice, “but the tests have verified what we feared was true. In the accident, part of your cerebellum was damaged. And unfortunately, it is the part that controls your memories.”

  Felonia gasps and clutches her perfectly manicured hand to her chest.

  Idiotic soap. They can’t even get the anatomy right: I know from Super Doc that the cerebellum does not control memory. The frontal and temporal lobes do.

  Dr. DiCaprio puts the clipboard down and sits on the edge of the bed. He takes her hand in his. “I can only imagine how difficult this must be to hear. If you need anything, anything at all, I will be here. Day or night.”

  The scene fades to black as the two of them gaze longingly into each other’s eyes. The next scene begins at a gravesite with a woman holding a bouquet of flowers, but I am not listening. My heart pounds. There is no cure, I am thinking. Nothing can be done.

  “She’s lucky,” Nose Ring girl says suddenly. She glances at me. “Felonia. She’s lucky.”

  I am afraid to ask, afraid to enter into this conversation. But I have to know what she means. “How’s that?”

  She sighs. “Think about it. How many people get a chance to start fresh like that?” Her dark eyes glisten in the bad fluorescent lighting.

  I could come clean, could tell her that she’s looking at one of the rare few lucky enough to get a so-called fresh start. But I didn’t come to the TV lounge to expose my secrets.

  “I would give anything to have my whole miserable past erased,” she continues, propping her feet on the coffee table, “to be given a clean slate.” She raises her hand and snaps her fingers. “Poof. Vanished.”

  She’s looking at me, waiting for me to agree. Her idea is a lake in my mind, and I dip and splash through its murky waters, trying to make sense of it. Lucky, she thinks. What comes out of my mouth is not what either of us expects. “What have you done that’s so b
ad?”

  Her eyes narrow. “Well, we’re getting mighty personal, aren’t we?”

  This means nothing to me, but, of course, she has no idea. You need to have a personality to think something is personal. “I guess so,” I say.

  She studies me carefully, her hands gripped tightly on her lap. “I don’t even know you.”

  I let out a snort of laughter. “I don’t know myself either,” I say.

  One of her eyebrows rises, but she doesn’t ask what I mean. “Oooh. That’s deep.” The wheels of a cart squeak as it rolls by the door. She glances at the hallway, then stands up. “I should get going before my mom throws a fit.”

  Once at the door, she turns back toward me. “My name’s Tarin. I’m visiting my gran. She had a stroke.”

  She waits for me to tell her what I’m doing here. I fake interest in the commercial for a kitchen gadget that chops veggies at the speed of light.

  She takes the hint. “Stay cool.” Then she’s gone.

  The soap is back on; the woman at the gravesite is on her knees, sobbing. But I’m not absorbing a thing. I’m thinking about what Nose Ring girl—Tarin—said, wondering if she truly meant it. It’s hard to believe anyone could be crazy enough to want to have amnesia.

  Felonia is lucky, she said. Lucky is discovering a suitcase of money in your attic. I doubt that a two-thousand-pound bison playing a solo game of rugby with your head can ever be a good thing.

  Miss Congeniality

  Early afternoon. Mother is in my room, giving me a mini-lecture on her favorite subject, Life Before the Very Bad Day. Today it’s about our summers, and how we usually go camping and I am obsessed with roasting the perfect marshmallow and Stephen puffs up when he gets a mosquito bite. I nod and listen, but all I want is to have a long nap or pick my hangnails. She finally gives me a goodbye peck on the cheek and I curl up on the bed, but the door swings back open.

  I think maybe she forgot her purse or something. But when I look up, three girls around my age are standing in the doorway. One is short and athletic-looking, with blond hair pulled back in a ponytail. Another looks like a little waif, with long brown hair parted in the middle. The third is super tall, with a couple of bright-blue streaks in her dark hair. They are all smiling in a friendly-but-terrified way that makes me feel like a specimen in a zoo.