by Lowe, T. I.
Her next attempt was just last week. It felt almost like an intervention. She brought our pastor to visit with me. His words made sense. You know, the whole such is life. You have to move on… Lean on God… Remember He won’t put any more on you than you can handle… His reassuring words reminded me of what Mother Teresa was quoted as saying and I completely agree—I just wish He didn’t trust me so much. Because the weight of my parents’ split and then the accident feels like too much for me to bear.
He kept saying, “Time will heal you.”
I have to trust him, because really, what other choice do I have.
Chapter Four
Six months of therapy and all I have to show for it is a slower speech and a gnarly new hairdo. I’ve been going through a bit of a bitter stage with this whole mess. I get frustrated easily and tend to throw things.
And there’s this other thing that I don’t want to admit. I’m seeing things. Well, more accurately, I’m seeing a young woman. First she showed up in my hospital room, always standing in the background watching me with a pleasant smile. I told no one about her then, because I couldn’t speak. Now that my speech has all but straightened out, I still don’t. I worry my brain didn’t heal properly in a spot and I’ve conjured this whole thing up. Even odder is the fact that she was bald the first time I spotted her and now her hair seems to be gradually growing at the same rate as mine. Creepy, right?
I’ve been back home with my dad for the past four months. It’s just the two of us in this palatial estate on Kiawah Island. Although my mom only made it three in this ridiculously large house, it felt like a home. I only feel like a guest now and I’m always uncomfortable in the confines of the vast walls.
Tonight we are finishing up some Japanese takeout, when I work up enough nerve to voice my concerns. We are both perched on stools at the creamy granite kitchen island because the dining room is too uncomfortably big. I drop my chopsticks on my plate and say, “Dad?”
He wipes his mouth with his cloth napkin and looks over at me. “Yes, sweetheart.”
“Are hallucinations a common side effect to my type of brain injury?” When he hesitates in answering me, I notice his warm eyes swimming in tears.
He clears his throat and places his hand on top of mine. “Willow, you should have never survived with the injury you sustained. It is by the miraculous grace of God, you are still alive and I thank Him daily for this gift.” He pulls me close for a hug and I let him.
Once he regains composure, I ask, “What about the hallucinations?”
He chuckles at this as though it’s insignificant in the whole scheme of things. Maybe it is, but I still need to know.
“Yes, sweetheart. It’s perfectly normal. Your brain is still healing from the trauma. Do the hallucinations scare you?”
“No. I just see things every now and then that I know shouldn’t be there.” I shrug it off.
“It’s a good sign that you can discern the hallucinations from reality. You let me know if they become worrisome and we’ll get it checked out.” Dad pulls me in for another hug. I look over his shoulder and see her sitting on the kitchen counter, barefoot as always in her beautiful white gown. She offers a small smile, but I look away and try to pretend she’s not there.
I spent last summer in a coma, then trying to overcome the aftereffects during what should have been the beginning of my junior year of college. I’m a semester behind now and have to decide within the next few weeks if I’m strong enough to start the spring semester. I want to resume normal, but my dad is hesitant. He and mom agree I should wait until next fall to return to school. She said her job in raising me was done last summer, so her opinion holds no weight in the decision any longer. Being an entire year behind seems too overwhelming. I’m already overwhelmed with some changes I want to make with my major. I’ve not worked up enough bravado to share these changes with my dad just yet.
I’m in my room worrying about all of this when I feel a headache nudging. It’s creeping up the left side and I know I’m about to be debilitated by it. I rub my scar through my short hair. I have a black pixie hairstyle going on now and I’m warming to the idea of short hair. All I have to do is run some gel through it and a quick blast of the hair dryer and I’m good to go. It’s still hard to hide the scar though so I think it needs to grow out some more. I’ve made other changes to my appearance as well. In a fit of rage, I tossed all of my makeup. Dramatic, I know. I don’t want to mimic my mom anymore. I want to discover who Willow Carter truly is supposed to be, and I feel like I can’t do that hiding behind the makeup. I need to just be raw and me.
I lie back on my bed and ask the empty room, “What should I do?”
“We both know it’s time for you to get back to school and choose to follow your passion.”
I sit up in shock and have to clutch my pounding head. I squint around the room to find her. She’s perched on my windowsill, knees pulled up with her arms wrapped around them. She always looks like such a tranquil apparition, but with her first word spoken, she just became real. Her voice sounds like a peaceful song, yet it freaks me out.
I close my eyes and whisper as I lay back down, “You’re not real.” I feel the bed dip slightly and then a hand finds mine. My entire body jumps at the touch as I reopen my eyes. She’s smiling down at me.
“You and I both know I’m real.”
I get off the bed to get away from her. Standing on one side of the four poster bed, I guardedly watch her sit cross-legged on top of it. She seems to be floating just above the comforter. “Who are you?” I continue to whisper.
“You may call me Hope.”
I look at her more carefully and it’s eerie at how closely she favors me, yet does not. Where my hair is raven black, her hair is stark white. My gold eyes are opposite of her silver eyes. Yet we look identical even down to the wild short hairdo. I wonder if she has a scar marring her scalp. I glance at her left arm and see hers does not bear the scars mine does from where the doctors surgically hemmed it back together with pins. Her skin is flawless and appears almost translucent. My fingers itch out of curiosity to test the texture, but I keep my hands to myself. “Why do you look like me?”
“I’m a reflection of you.”
“You’re a hallucination my broke brain has conjured up,” I mutter as I try to massage the throb in my head away. My hallucination climbs off my bed and places her hand over the scar on my head. As she does this, I feel the throb slip away, the same as it used to feel when they gave me morphine. Hope brushes her fingers through my short hair in a maternal gesture before dropping her hand. “I’m an angel of God. He sent me for you that stormy night, but then He changed His mind.”
“What?” I ask, taking a confused step back. “Angels aren’t real.” As I stutter this out, beautiful vast feathers appear in a glittering flash. The iridescent shimmering wings undulate with life from her back and I am in awe of their splendor. Her white gown flows around her in the same shimmering glamour now. I blink several times, but the image holds.
“Do you believe in God?” she asks, and I nod. “Do you believe in His word, the Bible?” I nod again. “Then you should understand the Bible makes direct reference to angels one hundred and eight times in the Old Testament and one hundred sixty-five times in the New Testament. There are thousands upon thousands of us created by our Father. I assure you I am real.”
“Why did God change His mind?” I ask with tears threatening.
“He wants greatness from you, my child, and He wants you to share that greatness with others.”
Feeling completely spent by this craziness, I collapse on the edge of the bed. My mind flips back over the faint memories of the past year. I’m still here and my mom is still gone with no signs of returning. I feel no greatness within me. Just defeat. “Please leave me alone,” I whisper through tears. I keep my eyes firmly closed and ease under the covers of my bed. If I don’t acknowledge her, maybe she will simply go away. I try to conjure up the emphatic voice I
found my only comfort in that dreadful night and focus on it until sleep finds me. Even though it’s a foggy remembrance, I latch on to it with hopes it’ll become clearer over time.
“Hold on… Please… Hold on…” The deep tone of his voice bellows out through the haze of my memory.
I’m trying, I want to reassure him…
~~~~~
Waking up to a new day, my mind feels disoriented as most mornings. I hesitate to open my eyes. When I do, I find the room vacant except for me. Relieved at this, I head to my shower.
Today is Sunday and I get the entire day with my dad. Before the fateful events of last summer, the typical routine began with church. Then he would spend the rest of the day at his private office near the Medical University where he would work on some Medical Journal article or whatever else he was writing at the moment. My dad has coauthored several books on the medical wonder and advancement of the brain. Since the accident, he seems to have had a wakeup call and spends the entire day with me now. We always go out to eat after church services, and do whatever else strikes our fancy afterwards. It’s usually something low key because the stimulation of the large crowds all day tends to overwhelm me. He’s always mindful of what my poor mind can and cannot handle nowadays.
We go to a nondenominational church off the island. The congregation is so numerous, we don’t really know our fellow members. There is an array of ethnic groups here, too, and I figure that is why my parents chose this church family since they were an interracial couple. Dad says a church brand doesn’t matter as long as they have the fundamentals right—preach from the whole Bible and believe Jesus is our Savior. Done and done here at this vast church.
After service, Dad takes me to a little yet pricy bistro that only seats a select few in its small, classy space. Our salads have just arrived and I’m having a hard time mustering up an appetite. I need to tell him about some decisions I’ve finally made.
“What’s on your mind, sweetheart?” Dad asks.
“Nothing,” I whisper, suddenly chickening out. With a wave of my hand in dismissal, Dad straightens his tie and goes back to eating his salad.
He is ever so polished and poised. I used to neatly fit right into this description as well. Now with everything changing drastically, so have I. My hair now goes every which way as opposed to the former sleek do, and my face is free of any high-end cosmetics I used to paint on daily. My pristine yet terribly uncomfortable designer outfits have been replaced with comfort. Gone are the pinching skinny jeans and odd asymmetrical blouses in scratchy material. They have been replaced with well-worn jeans in relaxed fit, flowing tops with a bohemian flair, and super-soft cotton T-shirts.
As the hushed harmony of conversation and the tinkling of silverware meeting dishes echo around the dining area, I nervously pull the faded jean jacket a little closer over my chest as I study the red bandana pattern of my maxi dress. Taking a deep breath, I look up and gaze around the ritzy bistro. Even though my attire no longer resembles those seated in nearby tables, no embarrassment can be found on my part. I used to stay in a constant state of discomfort when I was Dr. and Mrs. William Carters’ prim and proper daughter. Our pretentious façade has crumbled to total disrepair, allowing me the freedom of being Willow Carter, college junior on her way to figuring out her path in life and not simply doing what everyone expects. Today I claim my dreams publicly.
I take a sip of my water, hoping it will help to beckon my voice to come forward. I’m about to shatter my dad’s dreams for me and I’m scared to death.
“I’ve decided I’m ready to go back to school.”
Dad looks up from his salad. “If you’re sure. I’ll make arrangements to go with you tomorrow to take care of getting you registered.”
“I’ve already taken care of it,” I say and watch a perplexed look cross over his face.
“Oh,” is all he says. I’ve never made a decision that didn’t include him.
“I’m twenty years old, Dad. I think it’s time I start doing things for myself.”
“I understand. It’s just…” He trails off, and then picks back up. “Sweetheart, you’ve had a really tough year.”
I interrupt him quietly, “I know. That’s why I feel it’s time to move on.”
“Okay,” he agrees too quickly, wanting to appease me in the mixed company of others. We have already become enough talk in this wealthy group and I understand he wants to draw no more attention. “What classes do you plan on taking this semester? I hope you start out with a light load. Maybe only one science this time.”
“Intro to Photography, Photography 101, and Art History,” I tick off.
“Are you short on elective credits?”
“No. I’m short on my major credits.” I pause to work up some more bravado. “I’ve changed my major.” I say no more and go back to picking at my salad.
Dad places his fork down, realizing his dream for me will not be coming true. Or maybe he’s hopeful it’s just on pause. “Willow—”
“The medical field has never been my dream, Dad. It has always been you and mom’s dream for me.”
He thinks this through for a moment before nodding his head in agreement. With what, I’m not sure. “Take this spring semester and enjoy those classes. It’ll give you a break from all of the tougher science classes. We can reevaluate this decision before the fall semester.”
I let him hope and nod my head in agreement. At least I get to pursue my dream for now.
Chapter Five
The semester begins in only a few short weeks, and terror shoots through me when I think about driving. I have not driven since the accident, and soon I will be commuting to school, which is a forty minute drive from the island. What was I thinking? Oh yeah… I have a broke brain. Guess I wasn’t.
Dad had a BMW X6 delivered last week. It’s a sleek black SUV that screams money and class—something I’m ready to rid myself of. I don’t like labels, and brands such as this one slap them on regardless of my feelings. I had a sweet little BMW sedan before, but now we both are in agreement that I need bulk in my next vehicle. We are just not in agreement as to which type of make or model. After a long conversation, where I kept expressing my appreciation but declining the luxury vehicle, Dad finally relented and had the BMW returned. A Nissan Xterra showed up the next day in none other than Night Armor gray—perfect, isn’t it? It’s nice and brand new of course, and suits me better than the other one.
Dad has driven me around in it for a few days, but today he put his foot down and we are sitting in the driveway with me behind the wheel. “You can’t let the accident keep crippling you, Willow.” I look over at him and nod my head in agreement. He’s taken his tie and dress coat off, which is about as casual as he gets.
I rub my sweaty palms on my faded jeans before placing them back on the steering wheel. I put the SUV into drive and ease out of the gated driveway, but put it in reverse and back up before the wheels have a chance to meet the road. I see Hope flash in the review mirror all of a sudden. She is sitting in the seat behind me, with her normal smile in place.
“Let’s get this show on the road!” she says in excitement, causing me to abruptly slam on the brakes.
“Really?” I balk at her silliness without thinking.
“Really what?” Dad asks from the passenger seat while he readjusts his seatbelt after I probably just gave him whiplash.
“Nothing,” I mutter and try again, my heart pounding in my chest. I take a right out of the drive and try to steer clear of any intersections. I keep dodging down side roads to accomplish this.
“You might as well hang up college, if you don’t put this fear down. Accidents happen. It’s time you get over it,” Hope says close to my ear as she leans over the console to flip through the radio stations.
“It’s best to concentrate on the road, Willow, and not the radio,” Dad reprimands right after her comment.
I glare at Hope and snap, “Get off my back.”
“Young lady
.” This is all my dad has to say. He thinks I just sassed him.
I may be a young adult, but I still hold a lot of respect for my dad and would never speak to him this way. I wasn’t actually, but how do I explain my sassing was directed towards an angel of God and not him? Good gracious. I’m a hot mess and a headache is starting to blur my vision.
Overwhelmed, I ease to the shoulder of the road and put the SUV in park. A few beats pass while I take in several calming breaths.
“Dad… My gracious. I just don’t know where that came from. I think I was talking to myself. I promise not to you.” My fingers instinctually seek the scar on my scalp, making my dad cringe. Feeling guilty for making him feel guilty, I drop my hand quickly. It’s a habit I’ve started, when headaches start ebbing—rubbing the scar. I don’t want guilt and pity to develop from it.
“You need me to drive us home?” he asks quietly. His dark eyes look so weary and instantly make me feel exhausted with this whole situation.
I unfasten my seatbelt and mumble, “Please.”
We switch spots and Dad drives us home in silence. Once the SUV is safely stowed in the garage, I head to my room with Hope on my heels.
I close the door and swing around to address her. “It’s time you leave me be before everybody thinks I’ve gone mad.” I spit the words out between gritted teeth.
This isn’t the first outburst I’ve had with Hope. A few weeks back, my Aunt Frostie drove in from Georgia to spend a couple of days with me. She took me to register for the semester. Dad probably wouldn’t be too happy if he knew his sister was the one to help me with changing my major over to photography. As I was discussing the class possibilities with my advisor, Hope was in my ear giving her two cents. The more she is around, the more she speaks like me—and the more she voices her opinions like a twenty-year-old would. She constantly wants to guide every decision I make or avoid making. I guess this is what guardian angels are supposed to do, but it’s still annoying.