“I’m a lot better.”
“Good to hear,” Dad said. “You gave us quite a scare last night.”
I didn’t know how to respond. Should I try to explain my behavior, or should I feign innocence? Seeing as I had no explanation, I chose option B. “I’m sorry. I don’t remember a lot about last night.”
My mother frowned. Clearly I’d given the wrong answer. “Do you remember why you’re here?”
At least I knew the answer to this one. “I got hit with a basketball, and it knocked me out.”
“Do you remember how you got here?”
“No.” Honesty was probably the best policy on that one. “I know Mrs. Snow helped me. She was still here when I woke up.”
That got a nod of approval. “Do you remember anything you told her at the high school?”
“No.” I answered perhaps too quickly. Then I pretended to mull it over. “I don’t remember anything from the school.”
“You don’t remember talking to Miss Hadland?”
Shit, what has she told them? Surely she wouldn’t have outed herself. “Not really. I remember her asking me questions, like my name. Was that at the hospital or school?”
“The school.” My mom wasn’t giving me much in the way of context clues, probably on purpose.
I couldn’t help but ask. “I don’t remember her at the hospital though. Was she here?”
“She came with you, but Mrs. Snow sent her home before you woke up,” my dad explained, but my mom gave him a look clearly indicating he’d interfered with her investigation. They did the whole good cop, bad cop thing well.
“Do you know who the president is?”
I grimaced. “Unfortunately, George W. Bush.”
My father snorted, but my mother stayed focused. “What’s your favorite class this semester?”
I smiled. This answer was the same one I’d given Jody two nights ago, or ten years from now. “Theater with Miss Hadland.”
“I thought Mr. Owens taught theater,” Dad said.
“Miss Hadland’s the student teacher right now for both his classes. She’s infinitely superior.”
Mom smiled. “You haven’t forgotten your vocabulary.”
“Where are you planning to go to college?” Dad asked, sounding like he just couldn’t stand to be left out of the game of twenty questions.
“NYU.”
“Really?” they both asked.
Shit, had I not decided yet? Too late now, and what difference did it make in the long run? “I’m pretty sure that’s where I want to go. If it’s okay with you.”
“Of course it is,” Mom said, breaking out of doctor mode to hug me.
Dad wrapped his arms around both of us. “We’re proud of you, Stevie.”
He did sound proud, but he sounded sad too. He likely knew what I hadn’t understood the first time we’d had this conversation. This spring would mark the last time we’d live within eight hundred miles of each other. We’d visit and talk on the phone, but from here on out my life would be my own, distinct from theirs.
Did their knowledge of those facts explain the freedom they gave me during my senior year? Of course they’d trusted me, but perhaps they were also preparing me to live on my own. That free rein would be helpful as I tried to figure out why I’d returned to this moment, but it also made me a little regretful of my attempt to leave the past behind since I’d be leaving them a second time.
*
My afternoon passed slowly between bouts of boredom and waves of sheer panic. On the surface everything seemed mundane, familiar, even comfortable at times. If I was still in high school, getting knocked out in front of my friends would have embarrassed me, but otherwise I wouldn’t have had much to say about the aftermath of my injury. However, I wasn’t supposed to be in high school, so even the most normal of interactions sent me spinning to the brink of a panic attack. Only the continuing threat of a mental hospital kept my complete breakdown at bay.
I slept when I could, simply because it was my only uncomplicated option. When I slept, I didn’t think. I didn’t even dream. Part of me still believed this whole ordeal was a dream. It felt like the kind of thing my mind would do to torture my nights. I’d always had the most vivid imagination, which served me well as a writer but often made for restless nights. The prospect of this all being an elaborate nightmare seemed like the most logical possibility, and I drifted off to sleep many times expecting to awaken back in my own bed, or at least on the stage in the gym. Each time I opened my eyes, I suffered a nauseating sort of mental whiplash from being jerked back eleven years into my past.
I also seriously considered that I might actually be in a coma. Perhaps I did have a stroke at the awards assembly. I had no idea how comas worked since most of my references came from movies or soap operas, but didn’t some people report vivid dreams when they came to? Maybe I just needed rest or a medical procedure, and I’d wake up in this very hospital but back in the right year. If I wasn’t having a run-of-the-mill bad dream, I favored the coma theory the best. Of course that meant I’d suffered a stroke, probably a pretty bad one if I’d slipped into a coma. I might have complications when I came to. But at least this prospect was logical and one I would awaken from. I would wake up, right? Didn’t some people stay in comas forever? Or just die as a result? Clearly, the option had some flaws.
The final explanation, the one I feared most, the one I guarded against at all times, was the possibility I’d actually suffered a mental break. What if my mother had been right in her initial assessment and I’d completely fabricated a future for myself, one I hadn’t lived, one I might never live? My first reason for rejecting this theory was the sheer level of detail in my memories. Then again, didn’t most crazy people believe the truth of their claims? Wasn’t that what made them crazy? If I’d simply created an elaborately detailed life in my mind but knew it to be false, I’d just be, well, probably a writer.
Was I susceptible to this particular brand of insanity because of my artistic side? Fiction writers weren’t exactly known for their grip on reality. Maybe I should embrace a psychological evaluation instead of hiding from one.
I might’ve given up completely and checked myself into the psych ward if not for the memory of Jody’s face when I nearly outed her. If I were only eighteen, I would’ve known her for little more than a month and would’ve never had a one-on-one conversation with her. I would’ve never thought to call her Jody, and even if I’d guessed her sexual orientation, I wouldn’t have any details about her life in years past or her fears about the future. Furthermore, her reaction had made it clear I hadn’t just stumbled onto some random teacher’s insecurity. No, Jody held the key to my sanity, or what was left of it anyway, and if by some aberration of the laws of time and nature I wasn’t experiencing a nightmare or medical breakdown, Jody might be the only thing grounding me to a future I’d already lived.
*
Saturday dawned much the same way as the day before, with a nurse coming to check on me. They now let me sleep for longer periods of time. They’d also removed my IV and started feeding me normal food again. I suspected if my mother wasn’t working this weekend, they would’ve sent me home by now. Home? Could I just go back into my old room and sleep in my old bed? I didn’t seem to have much choice in the matter. At least the room might jog my memories about this stage in my life. My mother had stopped her quiz-style questions, but I knew other details were missing and feared them popping up to blow my cover.
As if on cue, I was drawn from my reflections by a knock at my already-open door. Jody stepped timidly into the room, her eyes filled with concern.
“Hi,” I said.
“Hi. Want some company?”
“Sure.” I sat up and tried to run my hands through my bed head, but it was no use. My hair was too unruly to be tamed without the serums and relaxers I wouldn’t have access to for years.
“How you feeling?”
“Better,” I said, then hedged my bets. “A few th
ings are a little hazy, but I’m slowly getting back to my old self, you know?”
“I don’t really.”
“Oh?”
“I’ve only known you about a month,” she said softly. “I’m sorry, but when you went down the other night, I didn’t even know your last name.”
I shifted nervously. “Bet you’ll remember it now.”
She sighed. “Yes, I’m sure I will.”
“Nothing like a dramatic concussion to get the teacher’s attention.”
“Stevie,” she said, then stopped, rubbed her eyes, and tried again. “You know I’m not here about the concussion, right?”
“Do I?” Of course I did. Her beautiful eyes were dark and sunken. She clearly hadn’t slept, and she perched so precariously close to the edge of the chair I feared she might topple off. I fought hard against my instinct to soothe her. How could I explain something I didn’t understand, something I’d told my parents I didn’t remember?
“Do you honestly not recall the conversation we had in the locker room?”
“I’m sorry. I remember you being there. I remember…I was scared and confused. I’m sorry if I said something…rude?”
Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Have you and I ever seen each other outside of school?”
“I don’t think so.”
“We’ve never talked about, I don’t know, anything?”
I exhaled. I wanted to help her so much my head throbbed, but how could I? I didn’t want to lie. I didn’t want to make her feel as crazy as I did. What could I possibly tell her to ease her fears without giving myself away? “I don’t know what to say, Jod—Miss Hadland.”
Her eyes widened. “What did you call me?”
“Miss Hadland,” I answered quickly.
“No, you started to call me ‘Jody.’”
“I didn’t mean to. You can trust me about that, and anything else I might have said while concussed,” I said slowly, trying to convey my sincerity with every word. “It’s over now. It won’t happen again.”
“Thank you.” She blinked away a tear. “But there’s more, isn’t there? You’re not telling me something. Something you know, somehow.”
“I don’t. I just…I don’t really know what you mean.”
“I’m not sure either, but you can talk to me. I need you to talk to me.” She sighed. “I’m sorry if I scared you the other night, but we can’t help each other if we don’t open up to each other.”
Open up? You have no idea what you’re asking. She wanted me to tell her about herself, or at least what I knew about her. She believed she’d put herself at risk by coming here, but she couldn’t understand how every minute spent talking to me risked exposing something bigger and more complicated than her sexual orientation. Even under the best of circumstances, I wasn’t a risk taker. Now, in the face of her anguish, I was an outright coward. How could I make her see I couldn’t give her what she needed, but that had nothing to do with her?
“I feel badly, but I don’t remember what I said to scare everyone.”
She rolled her head from side to side, trying to relax her neck. “All right. Maybe it was me, or maybe it was nothing. I could be crazy for all I know.”
My heart ached with the knowledge that I was likely the crazy one and with the disappointment that I’d let her bear any responsibility for my issues. Thankfully, we were interrupted before I caved and aired my own insecurities in a misguided attempt to rescue her.
“Hello, Miss Hadland,” my mom said from the doorway. Dad stood behind her wearing a new set of clothes. They’d both obviously gotten some rest last night.
“Hello, Doctor and Mr. Geller.” Jody stood to shake their hands.
“It’s nice of you to come visit Stevie on your Saturday morning.”
“She gave us quite the scare the other day. I don’t want to keep her up too long, but I wanted to check on her.”
“That’s dedication,” Dad said. “No wonder you’re Stevie’s favorite teacher.”
Jody blushed and glanced back at me. “I find that hard to believe. I’ve only had Stevie in class for a month.”
“No, it’s true. We asked her yesterday, and she said you were ‘infinitely superior’ to her other teachers.”
“Dad.” My embarrassment registered so clearly in my tone even I had no problem believing I was a teenager.
“What a nice ego boost for a student teacher who’s only been on the job for a few weeks. I wouldn’t have thought I’d been around long enough to make an impression on Stevie at all,” Jody said, then regarded me closely once more. “Stevie has a lot more going on under her quiet surface than I previously realized.”
“We’re very proud of her,” Dad said, missing the private message behind her words. “Did you know she’s planning to go to NYU in the fall?”
“Impressive choice.”
“Do you think they’ll challenge her a little more than Darlington High School?” my mother asked.
“Possibly, but I’ll keep a close eye on her this semester and make sure she has what she needs to succeed. There’ll be no time for senioritis with the future she’s got planned.”
My dad laughed. “Did you hear that, Stevester? There’ll be no getting away from this one. She’s going to ride you hard.”
I coughed and stared down at my lap, trying to avoid the inappropriate thoughts flashing through my mind.
“I’d better get going,” Jody said, her smile likely appearing genuine to my parents, but I detected her emotional strain just beyond the façade. “I don’t want to wear out the patient.”
“I’ll show you out,” Dad offered.
“Good-bye, Miss Hadland,” I said.
“Feel better, Stevie.”
I watched her go, craning my neck a little to follow her petite form down the hallway. When she was out of sight, I noticed my mother watching me intently.
“How you feeling?” she asked.
“Much better,” I said honestly. Even seeing Jody upset was better than not seeing her at all.
“You certainly have a lot more color to your complexion this morning,” she said. “Is there anything else you want to tell me?”
God, would the questions never end? I wouldn’t come out to her until I went away to college. Her reaction came back to me in vivid detail now, sending a chill up my spine. It’s not that she didn’t take it well. On the contrary, she’d said she’d known for years and quipped, “A mother always knows, but you have to let your children find out some things for themselves.”
I shook off the echo of the future and wondered what else she already knew but refused to say.
*
I went home with my mother when her shift ended. While the hospital was familiar, its cleanliness and uniformity saved me from the sensory recall that overwhelmed me when I entered my old room. The place was a mess. Aside from the clean sheets my dad had probably put on the bed, the space looked lived in. It felt surreal to see my touches freshly applied to a room I hadn’t occupied for ages. Books lay scattered and stacked everywhere—some I remembered, some I didn’t. An ancient laptop sat on a desk, and I recalled how proud I’d been to receive the computer. At the time it had seemed almost magical compared to the bulky desktop in the family room.
A pile of clothes lay on the floor in the corner. Had I really liked turquoise that much? I opened my closet and examined a horrifying array of peasant tops and shockingly low-rise jeans. Surely I owned some looser-fitting pants?
One step at a time. I spied a tracksuit tossed over my desk chair. The white pants also had turquoise accents, but fashion wasn’t my top priority now. After several nights in a hospital gown, anything offered a step up in both comfort and visual appeal. I slipped out of the pair of scrubs my mom had lent me before leaving the hospital. They were too big, and well, my mom’s—an awkward combination in any decade. I held up the pants of the tracksuit only to notice the impossibly small waist and rolled my eyes. I’d never fit into them. They had to be a size six. I
found the tag. Nope, a size four. I actually laughed aloud. No effing way had I ever worn a size four.
I turned to the large mirror over my dresser and started to pinch the fat around my middle, only to stop with my pinching finger empty over a freakishly flat stomach. “My God, I’m skinny.”
I stared at the reflection of my teenage body, lean and fit and a size four. A size four? I’d always hated my appearance in high school. I’d considered myself chunky. I never thought I looked like the girls in the magazines, but damn, I was close. I patted the spot where my paunch would develop in the coming years and laughed again.
“Hello, abs,” I said to the mirror. “Of all the things I’ll lose, I think I’ll miss you most. And boobs, I hate to break it to you, but you’re never going to get any bigger. You will, however, get lower.”
I stared at myself long and hard, wondering what kind of teenage hell had made me disdain this reflection every morning of my youth. Would I look back on my thirty-year-old body with the same sense of wonder when I was forty-five?
My hair shot out in a crazy mess, of course, but it seemed hard to complain when the hair came with the body of an eighteen-year-old. The thought shook me out of my amusement. I was admiring a teenager’s body. My own, but still—was it wrong for a grown woman to be so pleased about an eighteen-year-old’s flat stomach and high breasts? Awkward. I pulled on the track pants and chose a faded T-shirt from the floor.
Wandering around the room, I tried to jog my memory. I picked up books and pictures, trying to remember their significance. Did they have any significance, or were they merely snapshots of a fleeting moment in my life? Of course I knew what mattered in the long run, but how could I tell what held importance for me at eighteen? I sat on the bed and sifted through remnants of my life for an hour but still felt no closer to understanding why I was here. Or what I should do about it.
My room was in our full, finished basement, and I’d also inherited the adjacent rec room and bathroom all to myself when my older brother left for college. Honestly, the space probably had a few more square feet than my current apartment but certainly lacked the view. Still, I appreciated the privacy as I went through my old things. Mom checked on me once. She touched my forehead, even though both of us were certain I didn’t have a fever. She probably just wanted to make a physical connection. An hour later, Dad brought down some fried rice and a purple Gatorade, two of my favorites. Aside from the ever-present fear that they’d ask me a question I couldn’t answer, I kind of enjoyed having them take care of me again.
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