by Lara Avery
Bryce wished she could lift her arm to wave. They were sandbags, heavy at her sides.
The door swung open, letting in a sliver of fluorescent light from the hospital hallway. The beam of light widened into an arc across the floor as Dr. Warren paused at the entrance. Then she closed the door, muffling the noise of the hallway and leaving Bryce alone in the dark.
raham, Bryce. 3B. Neurology Wing. Vanderbilt Medical Center. Nashville, Tennessee. Third window from the right, if you’re looking up at the glassy blue side of the building. Third from the left if you’re looking out from that particular room, counting each window. Which Bryce was doing. Thirty-two, so far. Graham, Bryce. 3B. Heart rate normal. Blood pressure normal. Eyesight—blocked by a hopping cicada, trying to pass through the pane. Bryce followed the fluttering insect with her nose against the glass, making little pools of mist with her breath.
You don’t want to get in here anyway, little guy. The cicada finally landed, inches from her cheek. Its long, bean-sized body looked like it was covered in armor. Its wings were like lace. Slowly, slowly, she picked up her hand from where it rested on the sill and brought it to the window. As her fingertips got closer, the glass got hotter. Not hot in a way that burned her, but warm and bright at the same time. She withdrew, wondering. Suddenly, the glass was liquid, melting away with light at the edges, and there was a hole big enough to reach through. The cicada stayed where it was, frozen like a bug in amber.
She put her hand toward the glowing gap and curled her fingers around the insect. She had it! Bryce brought the cicada back through, feeling its wings flap against her palm. She held it close to her face.
A flash of heat, and a blink, and it was gone. There was no melting or glowing. She was leaning against the window under the fluorescent buzz of room 3B, clutching at nothing.
“Weird,” she said aloud. She looked around to see if anyone was watching, and then she tried it again, moving her fingers slowly toward the glass, but they hit the cool pane with a thud.
Bryce turned her wheelchair away from the window. She had been awake for a few weeks now, and as time went on, it became clear: something felt different, and not just about her; a filter colored everything. It was like at the optometrist’s office when he flipped lenses in front of her eyes through a machine and asked her which one was clearer. Number one, or number two, he would say, but there were no blurry circles now. Each circle was clearer than the one before, crisp with the most precise details.
It was probably cabin fever. Anyone would start seeing things when their sights were limited to beige linoleum and cheesy paintings of waterfalls and castles. Bryce was surprised she hadn’t started talking to herself. Apart from her family, she hadn’t had all that many visitors. She had wanted to see Gabby and Greg immediately, but she got a visit from Elena, Gabby’s mom instead. Elena told her Gabby and Greg were backpacking with a group of their friends around Europe since graduating from Stanford. Why Stanford? Bryce had wanted to ask. Vanderbilt had offered them all scholarships. They hadn’t even been thinking of West Coast schools before the accident. Now they were across an entire ocean. She wondered idly if there were any places to go cliff-diving in Europe. She had always wanted to do that.
There was a knock on the door. “Come in,” Bryce said as her nurse, Jane, held open the door for an older man in a sport jacket. He was either a reporter or a doctor. She had already lost track of how many magazines and medical journals had interviewed her. She had told her parents to approve everyone who asked for an interview because the Grahams often got paid for the stories, and even though Bryce’s parents refused to talk about it, she knew her treatment must be costing them a fortune. Her mom’s design business had taken off in the last year, and her dad was still coaching at Vanderbilt, but it couldn’t be enough.
Bryce ran her hands nervously through her hair in case he was going to take a photo, trying to remember who he was.
“You okay then, corncake?” Jane asked as she backed out the door.
“Well, um—” Bryce started, but Jane’s Garfield-printed scrubs were already disappearing out the door.
“Hello there, Ms. Graham. My name is Dr. Felding.” She shook his warm, dry hand. He was barrel-chested and balding. He looked like a coach, Bryce thought. “I’m the head of research for neurology at Cornell.”
Bryce just smiled thinly, tuning him out. She had already answered a million questions from researchers at Columbia and Johns Hopkins. At this point, doctors across the country knew her brain better than she did. Apparently not only was her waking up after five years a miracle, her ability to talk and scoot around made her some sort of medical phenomenon.
Bryce had a hard time feeling miraculous when most of the conversations she had in the past month revolved around who was going to cut her toenails or walk her to physical therapy twice a day. She envied Sydney, breezing in and out for her obligatory five minutes a day at the hospital, wearing short skirts, smelling like the outside. Bryce did not feel like a miracle. She felt like a freak of nature. She felt bored.
The doctor was still talking. “…so I was hoping we could schedule a further evaluation at our facility, once you’re up for travel.”
Bryce just shrugged. “We’ll see,” she said, gesturing to her wheelchair, as if it might make the decision for her.
“So, Bryce.” He took a seat on the chair next to her, taking out a notepad. “What was it like to wake up?”
“Like being dipped in a bucket of ice water,” she began. This was her go-to response.
“Could you hear and see right away, then?”
Bryce recalled the lights pooling above her, the sounds of machines kicking in. “I could. It took a little bit—”
“Unbelievable,” Dr. Felding interrupted in awe. “According to your charts, you are recovering more rapidly than any other documented case. And your journal mentions that you’ve even stood up a couple of times?”
“You have my journal?” Bryce’s stomach twisted. It was just a notebook in her now scratchy, second-grade handwriting that Dr. Warren told her to keep, so she could remember new skills that came each day, or side effects of certain medicines. But still. It was hers.
Bryce tried to glance behind the doctor, hoping Jane might come back.
Dr. Felding waved a hand. “Just a copy.”
“Excuse me,” a young man’s voice said from the doorway.
Bryce’s eyes were drawn to a pair of worn New Balance sneakers. The shoes were attached to a pair of khakis, followed by an untucked button-down shirt. They belonged to a handsome, dark-haired young man. The doctor’s coat he wore seemed out of place.
He said sternly, “Are you authorized to be in here?”
“Hi. Liam Felding, Cornell University.” Dr. Felding stood up and took the young man’s hand. “I’m just asking Bryce a few questions.”
“That’s nice,” the guy said dismissively, crossing his arms. “But visiting hours are over. She needs to eat lunch.”
“The receptionist said until three o’clock,” Dr. Felding protested.
“Blood relations only during lunch,” he replied. Bryce thought she could see a hint of a smile on his face, but she wasn’t sure.
“But—” Dr. Felding began.
“Are you her uncle?”
“No, but—”
“Her distant cousin?”
“No.” Dr. Felding stood awkwardly.
“Kindly leave until she finishes lunch.”
“How long will lunch last?”
The young man shrugged. “Could be forever, who knows?” This time, he glanced at Bryce, his eyes glinting.
Dr. Felding stared. The guy in the doctor’s coat stared back. Finally, Dr. Felding closed his notepad and left.
“Thanks,” Bryce said, as soon as he was out of earshot.
“I’m Carter.” He crossed over to her; she took his outstretched hand. His eyes were a familiar blue-gray. Bryce felt the room drop away around her. They could have been shaking hands anywher
e. In a park, in an elevator. Had they met before?
“Bryce,” she said, and they let go.
“Bryce Graham, I am aware.” He smiled. Then he said slowly, “I have to say, it’s a trip to see you up and about.” He turned to retrieve a tray from a cart outside the door.
“I never know how to respond when people say things like that,” Bryce said to his back.
“It’s just nice to hear your voice, I guess, after watching you for so long.” He attached a tray of chicken nuggets and mashed potatoes and peas to the chair’s arms. “That sounded creepy,” he finished, crossing his arms decidedly, as if stating a medical fact.
“It did, yeah.” Bryce nodded and matched his tone. She had to laugh.
“I’m sorry. I’m a med student at Vanderbilt.” He gestured behind him, as if the school was there. “I’ve been volunteering here since I was an undergrad—I see a lot of patients come and go. And sleep.” He cleared his throat. “Anyway. I’m happy for you.”
“Thank you,” Bryce said.
Carter gestured to the tray. “Jane said, and I quote, ‘Tell her if she doesn’t clean her plate in fifteen minutes I will tan her hide.’ So I would get on that.”
He took a paper checklist out of his back pocket and put a mark next to her name, flipping the pen back behind his ear when he was done. Bryce took a bite and struggled to think of something to say. “So what year are you in med school?”
“Just my second year.” He came back toward her. He tapped the folded paper on the back of her chair. “Can you keep a secret?”
Bryce nodded.
“I’m not actually supposed to be wearing a white coat.”
Bryce pointed at him, her mouth full of food. “I knew it!”
He shrugged, and smiled. “Yeah, you don’t get a coat here until you do a residency. But I saw you were on your own, and…well, I thought the doctor might not listen to me in my current ensemble,” he glanced down at his khakis and untucked shirt, “as professional as it is. And then the supply closet was open.…”
Bryce found herself grinning. “Now that I’m keeping your secret you have to do something for me,” she said, sticking rows of peas on her fork.
“What’s that?”
She gave him a tentative look. “You wouldn’t happen to have your laptop with you, would you?”
As time had passed and Bryce had begun adjusting to the big things, she started wondering about the little ones—what had happened to her Facebook when she went under? She had five years’ worth of ESPN and SpringBoard posts to catch up on. She’d thought about asking Sydney to sneak in her phone, but the rare times Syd visited she was usually fighting with their parents, anyway.
“I do have my laptop.” Carter looked at her, deliberating. “But they restrict anyone with high risk of brain overstimulation from computers. All the flashing and visual stimuli can give you a killer headache.”
“Damn,” Bryce muttered. She was getting antsy to do something besides stare out the window, counting tiles and imagining magical bugs.
“Wait there,” Carter said suddenly. He turned on his heel and disappeared from the room.
“I’ll try not to go anywhere,” Bryce called sarcastically.
He returned minutes later, plopping what had to be a foot-high stack of magazines on the bed.
“Courtesy of the waiting room recycling bin,” he said with a flourish.
Most of them were from the past few years. Dates she’d slept through slipped past her on the top corners, underneath them names and photos she didn’t recognize. The glossy, blocky font seemed to invite her personally to discover THE BEST MOVIES OF THE YEAR, WHY NOW IS THE HOTTEST TIME FOR FASHION, and the CUTEST CELEBRITY BABIES. It was almost like Gabby were right there gossiping with her, catching her up on what she’d missed.
“Looks like you’re going to be occupied for a while,” Carter said.
“Yeah,” Bryce said. “Thank you…so much.”
“No worries,” he said, backing out into the hallway.
“See you tomorrow?” she asked, suddenly. “I mean, in case I need you to scare away some more neurologists, or something?”
“Sure.” He nodded and then he was gone.
She dipped her finger in mashed potatoes, and started to flip through the highlights of the last few years. Skirts getting shorter, then longer; computers smaller and flatter; starlets moving in and out of the spotlight; athletes getting caught with steroids and mistresses. Bryce was secretly glad Carter didn’t include anything with actual global events. If the world was just made up of shallow celebrities and makeup tips, nothing had changed in five years. Everyone, everything, had just been waiting for Bryce to wake up.
s our car wheelchair accessible?”
Bryce sat between her parents in Dr. Warren’s dusty, fake plant–filled office. She wore jeans and a tank top, as she had for the past week, to make it very clear that she would no longer be needing a hospital gown. She would no longer need to take her clothes on and off for stethoscopes, wires taped to her chest, and fMRI scans. It had been two months since she had opened her eyes in April, and she was ready to go home.
Bryce’s mother rubbed her daughter’s back absently as she looked at one of Bryce’s used copies of OK! The thrill of old magazines had faded fast, and Bryce had moved on to crossword puzzles. She greeted Carter every day with the challenge to find a three-letter word for fasten metal teeth or to fill in the blank of 1970s Scorsese thriller, ___ Driver. Because his head was filled with the Latin names for diseases, Carter was pretty miserable at pop culture. Bryce wasn’t great either, but thanks to her dad’s various collections, she was a whiz at most movies and music made before 1980.
Her mom looked up at Bryce’s question and sighed. “No, it’s not. It’s just an SUV.” After a moment, she said sweetly, “When it’s time, we’ll get one of those vans for you.”
Bryce wanted to scream, It is time! but instead settled on, “I won’t need a wheelchair soon.”
Her father looked at his watch and made a noise of approval on the other side of her. Bryce could smell his aftershave. “Thatta girl. Did you read those articles about core strength I printed for you?”
“Yeah,” Bryce said excitedly. “I’ve been doing the medicine ball twists, they’ve got me sore, but that’s always a good thing, you know?”
He moved to the edge of his generic waiting room chair, like he was poolside at a meet. “I bought this DVD, too, about plyometrics. Maybe you can use the bars. Work on your quick-twitch muscles.”
In the first couple of weeks, Bryce and her dad had been hard-pressed to find things to talk about. While her mother fussed over things like getting Bryce a proper haircut, her dad just stared around the room. But then he attended one of her physical therapy sessions, and by the end of the forty-five minutes, he was informing the trainer about the best way to strengthen Bryce’s genetically weak ankles. Maybe the world thought Bryce’s insanely fast recovery was a miracle, but Bryce liked to think it was also the work of Coach Mike Graham.
Dr. Warren entered, her short gray hair in sweaty clumps, her white coat folded over her arm. “It’s hot out there,” she said.
Bryce cracked her knuckles and gave a small smile. “I wouldn’t know.”
“Sorry,” the doctor said, nodding hello to Bryce’s parents and settling behind the desk. “It’s been a while. How are you?”
Bryce moved her wheelchair back so she could stretch out her legs on the carpet.
“Bryce?” Bryce’s mother touched her elbow lightly.
“I’m great.” Bryce gestured to her straight legs. “I feel like I’ve been doing pretty good.”
“You’ve been doing excellently. Your patterns are relatively normal, save a few glitches.”
Her father jumped in with pride in his voice. “She was standing up and sitting down at her evening session yesterday. No help from anyone. She even took a step on her own.”
“I think I’m going to walk without assistance pretty so
on,” Bryce said.
Dr. Warren raised her thin eyebrows. “That’s a lofty goal.”
“I agree,” her mother said, her eyes meeting Bryce’s dad’s. Bryce’s mother turned coolly to Dr. Warren. “I think my husband forgets that she isn’t his little workhorse anymore.”
“It’s her goal, not mine,” he said quietly. “She wouldn’t rest if I asked her to.”
“He’s right,” Bryce let out. She felt her mother stiffen beside her, but she had to say it.
Her mother tucked her blond shaggy hair behind her ears and folded her hands over her khaki Bermuda shorts. “Dr. Warren, I think I am completely justified in wanting to keep my daughter’s recovery slow and steady. There are risks, are there not?”
Bryce rolled her eyes.
“There are risks, yes. We’ll get to them momentarily.…” Dr. Warren said, shuffling the contents of Bryce’s file. Then she looked up. “Tell me, Bryce. How’s your memory?”
Bryce’s heart began to beat faster, and she felt her face get hot. Her mother’s gaze hit her from her left, her father’s eyes from her right.
“Bryce, how is your memory?” Dr. Warren asked again.
“F-fine,” she stammered.
Her memory was more than fine. Her vision was, too, but Bryce didn’t know how to talk about that. It had to just be a side effect from her eyes being closed for so long. She looked at a planted tree in a corner of the office, noticing each vein crisscrossing the dark leaves. She could trace the green veins back, through the flesh of the leaf, to where the branch split the bark open. She shouldn’t be able to see it like that all the way from her chair, as if the tree were under a microscope. Bryce tore her eyes away, focusing instead on the doctor, but it was no use. The wooden patterns on Dr. Warren’s desk were impossibly clear. She should tell them. But what if they thought something else was wrong? Her mouth went dry.
Dr. Warren furrowed her brow and leaned forward again. “Bryce, you’re giving real short answers here. I don’t want to have to keep telling you this, but it is very, very important you tell me every detail of your progress.”