“I’ve never been so scared in my life. When I realized you weren’t breathing, I kept thinking about how it was my fault, and how I was going to have to tell your mom that both of her girls were dead.
“I’d called 911, and when they came they did all they could do, but it wasn’t good enough, you still weren’t breathing. I performed CPR long after everyone told me to stop, long after I could barely breathe myself from exhaustion, but I couldn’t stop, and I’m thankful I didn’t because you came back. I got you back.
“When the EMTs took you to the hospital I called your mom and she met me there. We waited for the doctor to tell us what was going on, why it was taking so long for us to see you. I was afraid maybe you’d been gone too long and there was brain damage, but when the doctor finally came to see us and told us what had happened, that you weren’t responsive, that you had slipped into a coma, we were both shocked. The doctor said that with everything you had been through it wasn’t too shocking that your body might do this as a way of healing, a way to escape the trauma and find rest.
“Your mom and I stayed with you that night, then Rogan came the next night. Your friends would stop by almost every day, and sometimes when we were all in the room with you, your heartrate would increase, and your eyelids would flutter, as if you recognized our voices, as if you wanted to be a part of the conversation, but you still didn’t wake.
“For six months we waited with no idea when you might come back to us, for six months we prayed that you would, and for six months I prayed I hadn’t ruined you by bringing you back. I knew that it was no accident that you had drowned, you were too good a swimmer for that to happen, which made me question if I’d done the right thing, but I couldn’t let you kill yourself. I couldn’t let you give up like that. I had no choice but to save you.
“When you did finally wake up it was the best and worst day of my life. I never expected that you would have created an alternate reality, a reality so drastically different from our own, but when the doctor explained what you believed had happened, that Rogan had died, that you had been stalked, it all made sense that you had created a self-inflicted, torturous world in which you were responsible for everything that had happened.
“He told us that the overwhelming amount of guilt you were experiencing drove you into a depression so deep your mind couldn’t handle it all, and after Cass’s funeral you had had enough. He didn’t know if you would ever recover the memories from before the breakdown, but he suggested I bring you here, the place where it happened.” He stops to take a breath, so I use the opportunity to interject.
“You said I was in a coma for six months?”
“Yes,” he answers as if this was yet another question he had hoped I wouldn’t ask.
“How old am I?”
“You’re sixteen, you’ll be seventeen next week,” he says calmly, but from the way his chest is heaving I know he’s anything but calm. He didn’t want to be the one to tell me this.
“But I’m nineteen! Three years have gone by! I’m in college!” I shout. “It’s been three years. I know it’s been three years . . .” I repeat my words in a whisper.
Looking into Bruce’s eyes, I know I’m wrong. “I’m sorry, but it hasn’t. It’s been six months, Jess,” he says with so much sadness in his voice.
“This doesn’t make any sense, Bruce. When I first woke up a couple of weeks ago, I talked to you about Kyle and Rachel, about the party I was going to, about how I had thought I’d heard Rogan in my bedroom, which is what caused my breakdown. Kyle told me I’d been hospitalized for almost three years. How could we have talked about any of that if I’m not old enough to have experienced it?”
“I’m sorry, Jess, but we never had that conversation. You’ve only been out of your coma for a few days, and I don’t know who Kyle is.”
“A few days? It’s been longer than that since you told me about Cass, about Rogan. It was when I first woke up, which was a couple of weeks ago, and what about all the visits I had with the shrink? What about the time it took for you to get me released? And what do you mean you don’t know who Kyle is? He’s my doctor!” I shout, my head pounding with frustration.
“I wasn’t the one who told you about Cass or Rogan, Jess, the doctor did that, and I don’t know what you mean by ‘all the visits,’ you only saw the therapist a couple of times.
“As for the time it took to get you released, I had little to do with that. Your mom spoke with the doctor and he said he felt you were okay to leave so long as we monitored your progress with regaining your memory and inform him if you seemed to be having any . . . relapses,” he says hesitantly, obviously not wanting to upset me with pointing out that possibility.
“Your doctor’s name, by the way, is Mike Santora, not Kyle.”
“But you picked me up from the hospital today? You said the doctor had agreed to release me?”
“That’s right, Jess, but I didn’t have to work to have that done. You were fine to leave according to their evaluations.”
“I don’t get this, I don’t get any of this, Bruce. I had to be put on medication to sleep because I couldn’t sleep, then I had to have that medication adjusted because I was sleeping too much. How could all of that have happened in a few days as opposed to the few weeks I remember it taking?”
“The doctor did say you were having trouble sleeping and that he had put you on medication, so my only thought is that during that drug-induced sleep your mind continued on with the reality you had created. Maybe your mind has been trying to assimilate what was with was is, which is causing the confusion now.
“I can tell you, though, that there is no Kyle or Rachel, that there was no college party, and that your nervous breakdown was not caused by hearing Rogan’s voice, but by the death of your sister. I’m so sorry to have to break it to you like that, but I’m trying to be honest with you so there isn’t any more confusion for you as to what is and is not real.”
Shaking my head in disbelief, I turn away from him. I hate the look in his eyes, so much pity, so much sadness; it’s too much for one person to see.
Searching my brain for another question, anything to get us past the revelation that I have had years given and taken years away from me in a matter of seconds, a fact I’m not sure yet how I feel about.
“When I would text you . . . or when I thought I was texting you, 2:08 in the morning was a common time for us to talk. Does that mean anything to you or is that just another weird thing my mind made up for no good reason.”
“You remember 2:08?” he asks curiously, seeming happy to change topics.
“Yeah,” I answer cautiously, not liking his interest in my question. I’m facing him once more, trying to decipher his expression, but I can’t figure out what he’s thinking.
“Interesting,” he says.
“What’s so interesting?” I demand, frustrated over not knowing what he knows.
“I’m sorry, it’s just that that was the time they said you slipped into the coma. You’d been in and out of it for hours after you were admitted, but they declared you unresponsive at 2:08 in the morning. The brain is amazing, isn’t it?” he asks intrigued.
“Yeah, real amazing,” I say snidely. “I lost months of my life because of its amazing qualities.”
“Sorry, Jess. I shouldn’t have said that. Please forgive me. I meant nothing by it.” He implores.
“It’s fine, Bruce, but you have to forgive me for not having the same appreciation as you at the mess my mind has created for me. I don’t know who I am anymore, I don’t know how old I even am, and I don’t know how to assimilate the life I’ve been believing myself to be living into the life I’m actually living. This is a lot to take in, so give me a minute,”
“I know I’ve given you a lot to think about. Why don’t I take you home? You can sleep on it, and if you want to talk or ask more questions tomorrow we can do that?”
I nod, turning to look out the window at the darkness surrounding us, and I beg the
Cosmos to help me. I don’t know how they can help me since I don’t know what kind of help I need right now. Would it help me to remember or to forget? Maybe for tonight they can just help me sleep.
In front of my house, I sit in a silent car with a patient Bruce waiting at my side. I know I need to go inside, I know I need to face the inevitable. I know all of this, but my feet haven’t gotten the message.
“Would you like me to carry you inside?” Bruce jokes.
“Don’t joke, in my world you used to do that all the time, much to my irritation.” I inform him.
“I carried you a lot?” he asks surprised.
“Yep.” I answer not wanting to get into how pathetic I was in my other life. How often I cried, and how often I fainted for no good reason. Thank the Cosmos I have a chance to change that weakness that resides inside me.
“Well, that’s not really my style, but if you do need the help . . .” His discomfort is obvious, and a part of me wants to exploit it, but I hated when he did it in my other life, and I imagine I’d hate it just as much in this life.
“Thanks, but I got this. I just needed a minute. Are you coming in?”
“I’ll see you to the door, but then I’m going to head out. This has been a long day, I’m sure you want to rest.”
I know I won’t sleep, but rest does sound nice, and I’m sure Bruce needs the rest as much as I do, if not more, after all, I’ve been sleeping for six months.
Chapter Twenty
Present day . . .
The house is quiet when I walk in. Mom is nowhere to be found on the first floor, so I run upstairs to see if she’s in her bedroom. At the top of the stairs, I freeze. Cass’s door is open. I remember how it looked the last time I saw it, I’m not sure I’m ready to see it like that so soon, but I have to walk by it to get to my room, so I suppose it’s inevitable. Taking a calming breath, I find the will to move.
I shouldn’t be surprised, after so many revelations about the details I’ve distorted in my mind I shouldn’t feel surprised at all, and yet that is exactly what I feel. Her furniture is placed in the proper places, her pictures are scattered about her walls and on her vanity mirror. I see no dust, no boxes, no disorder, as if she has never left, as if she might walk in right now. Mom is sitting on the bed looking at a picture in her hand.
“Mom?” I ask softly not wanting to startle her.
“Oh, honey, I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you come in. How are you? Is Bruce here?” She seems calm, but the redness around her eyes tells me she’s been crying and is trying to keep it together for my sake.
“No, he dropped me off, but he didn’t stay.”
“Oh.”
She doesn’t get up or seem to have any intention of doing so, so I sit down beside her on Cass’s bed, the bed I last saw leaning against the wall. What have I done to myself? I question silently.
“Mom, are you okay?” I ask while gingerly taking hold of her trembling hands, setting Cass’s last school picture down beside us on the bed.
“Oh, sweetie, I don’t know how to answer that. I thought when you woke up I’d feel better, that if I could talk to you again I wouldn’t feel so lonely around here, but I do feel lonely. I missed you so much, your wit, your sarcasm, everything, and now that I have you back I worry that I won’t know what to say to you anymore, that I won’t be good enough for you anymore, if I’d been there for you before maybe this never would have happened to you at all.”
“Mom, stop! You have nothing to feel guilty about! I did this on my own, and I’d have done it no matter what anyone did or did not do for me. I know my absence has hurt you, and I can’t tell you how sorry I am for that, but I’m here now and I want to make it up to you.
“You were a big part of my other life, so for me I haven’t been away from you for that long, but I get that that isn’t the same for you. Six months is a long time, and on top of all of that you had to deal with the loss of Cass. I don’t know how to make this up to you, but I will, if you’ll let me? I can’t lose you. Please don’t push me away.” I plead for her forgiveness, for her love.
“I’d never push you away, honey. It’s just hard to know what to do now. I have to get used to you being home again, and to Cassie not being home. I think, perhaps, I’ve been emulating you on a small scale, ignoring what is for what I wish was. I’m the first to admit I haven’t handled losing Cassie very well, and the thought that I might have lost you, too, is a lot to carry, but I have you now and I don’t ever want to lose you again. Whatever you need from me I’ll do my best to offer, just be patient with me. I’m trying, I swear I am, but it’s a slow process.”
“You’re preaching to the choir.” I joke. “I know all about having to be patient and having to take your time to heal, it’s something I wish I’d understood before my breakdown, maybe I could’ve prevented these last six months. Maybe we can help each other? I’ll be patient with you if you do the same for me?”
“Deal,” she says while smiling.
“Mom? Can I ask you a question? There’s something that has been bothering me since I woke up in the hospital, but I haven’t had a chance to ask the one person who would know, and that’s you.”
“Of course, honey.”
“Do you know a boy named Alex who works at the café on Main Street?”
“I don’t. Who is he?”
“Well, in my other life I had a thing for him—no need getting into details about the slut I’d been that night, or hadn’t been? This is getting too confusing—and I’m wondering how he fit into my thoughts.”
“Hmm, you said you knew him from a café?”
I nod.
“But you don’t drink coffee. You hate it in fact, so I don’t know how you would know him since I can’t imagine why you would frequent a coffee shop,” she says almost as perplexed as me.
So I never went to the coffee shop, I never knew a boy named Alex, I never slept with a boy named Alex. Why did I create a world in which I did all of those things?
“I’m sorry, Jess. I can tell that’s not the answer you were hoping for, but unless you have a secret addiction to coffee that I’m unaware of then I don’t see how that’s possible.”
“It’s okay, mom. I’m actually quite happy that those memories aren’t real. That was a bad time for me in that life. I’d rather be able to say no part of it could’ve been real.” I admit honestly.
“Okay, well, I’m glad I could help then,” she says teasingly. “Now, maybe you could help me?”
“I’ll try,” I say not knowing what I could possibly help her with.
“Your seventeenth birthday is coming up soon, and I’d like to throw you a party. Would you be okay with that? It won’t be a huge party, but I really want to do this for you. I need to do something happy and fun for a change,” she sighs.
“Of course you can, mom,” I say enthusiastically even though that’s far from how I feel. A party? I’ll have to socialize with people who I thought had abandoned me. This is going to be so hard, but after all I’ve put her through I can’t deny her this if it’s something she thinks will help her.
“Thank you,” she says simply. “Why don’t we get some sleep? It’s late, and I think we could both use the rest.”
It’s the same sentiment Bruce had, and while I still doubt I’ll sleep even a little, mom looks exhausted, so I concede.
There’s light filtering in through my dark purple curtains; I guess I didn’t shut them all the way. Wait a minute! Where’s the light coming from?
My alarm clock on my nightstand reads 10:09 in the morning. Wow, I guess I was tired after all. Sitting with my legs hanging off the bed I reach for my phone. Where’s my phone? I always leave it on the nightstand. I fumble around inside the drawer, finding nothing but junk. Jumping off the bed I rummage through my desk drawers; nothing. Maybe it slid under my bed? Nope, not there, I discover after crawling on my hands and knees during my search.
Okay, where was the last place I had it? I ask myself. Where? Whe
re? Think, Jess, think. I can’t remember. My thoughts are bouncing between a life I never lived and the one I left behind. How am I supposed to know what is and is not real? How will I know what I did or did not say or do?
I’ve been cognizant in the hospital for weeks or I guess days if Bruce is right, and at no point during that time did I have a phone, so why am I searching for it now. Why have I jumped back to the life I had been living despite the fact I haven’t been living it in the very recent past?
Feeling frustrated I make my way to the kitchen knowing mom will be up with coffee ready. Just as predicted, she’s sitting at the kitchen island with a cup of steaming coffee in front of her.
“Good morning,” I say as I get myself a cup of coffee.
When she doesn’t respond I look over my shoulder to see if something’s wrong. Her cup is stalled mid-way to her lips, which are pressed firmly together, her brows furrowed in confusion. What’s her problem?
“What’s wrong, mom?” I ask confused.
“What are you doing?” She questions.
“Pouring a cup of coffee,” I say slowly, unsure why she’s asking.
“You don’t drink coffee, though,” she replies.
“What are you talking about? Of course I drink coffee. I have for years.” My voice wavers. I remember what she said last night about how I hate coffee. “I never drank coffee in this life, did I?” I question, although I already know the answer.
Shaking her head, she slowly lowers her cup as if any sudden movement will startle me. Maybe it will. Maybe that’s what I need, for my brain to get the sense startled into it. This comes back to my question from earlier, how will I know what is from this life as opposed to the other life?
While in thought I take a sip of coffee, contemplating what I should do. Maybe I should talk to the shrink, maybe I really should continue seeing him like he suggested? I’d laughed in his face when he suggested that before I was released, but that was before I knew I really am crazy.
Another sip has me hunched over the kitchen sink spitting out the hot liquid from my mouth. “Ugh! That’s terrible!” I declare. “Who drinks that stuff? It tastes like ass,” I say while gargling a glass of tap water I just emptied into my mouth.
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