by Shari Ryan
“Thank you, and I’m sorry. I appreciate the consideration though. I do.”
Layne pierces his fork into one of the two cherry tomatoes on his salad, rolls it around in the house dressing and pops it into his mouth. “You know,” he says after stalling his bite. “If this whole thing with Battling Bands of Boston didn’t work out, I was supposed to be heading to Berkeley College in the fall to major in Music Psychology, but I’m that crazy person who is giving everything up for a dream. Do you think I’m nuts?” Who am I to call him crazy? At least he had a choice to give up one of his two dreams. I was supposed to go to college too, but instead, I’ll be trying to find an online job so I can stop depending so heavily on Mom.
“I don’t think you’re crazy. I’m sure you thought of everything. Some dreams can wait, and others can’t.”
“That’s what I’m thinking,” he says.
“Why Music Psychology?” I ask, biting a crouton off my fork.
“I’m fascinated by the human mind. I want to help people and do so with music therapy.”
He looks and talks like two different people, and I know no one should be judged based on their appearance, but I can’t help my preconceived notion of a lead singer in a band. Sex, drugs, and alcohol are what it’s all about, or so I thought. “I can see you being good at Music Psychology.” He’s passionate about what he does. I’ll give him that.
“Maybe someday,” he says. I watch him for a moment, taking mouth-sized bites of his salad, alternating every few bites for a sip of his water. Parts of his face still have a childlike appearance, but his hands look like they’ve been through hell. I tend to look at people’s hands before anything else because I think they tell a bigger story than any other part of the body. Dry hands tell me a person is probably very clean. Soft, firm skin on a hand makes me think the person is young and hasn’t done much hard labor. Calluses, they tell me there is a lot of use going on, and fine lines or wrinkles show maturity and a certain kind of seasoning. Layne isn’t old, but his hands are dry, a little chapped, and his fingertips look raw. He’s definitely a guitarist who most likely washes his hands a lot.
“I’m sorry about the music video. I know that’s why you wanted to talk tonight.”
“I wanted to go out with you tonight,” he corrects me. “It’s okay. I can think of another plan. If you change your mind or think you might be up for fighting this fear of yours, I would do what I could to help you, while also creating the sickest music video in the world.”
I’m throwing away an amazing opportunity, but I don’t think I could go through with what he’s requesting.
Ten
Current Day
Haywire. It’s the only way to describe my current state. One-second I’m here, the next, I’m ... here. Nowhere. I wondered when the lapse in my memory would cause “moments” as the doctors warned about almost a year ago. I also wondered if I would know how to speak during the “moments.” The answer is, no, I don’t know how to speak, or at least, I can’t figure out how to make a sound in the form of syllables. However, I know what words I want to say. They are just swimming around like a school of fish, too fast to be caught, traveling in a tight pact so none can fall loose.
“I’m fine.” The words come out on their own, which is unexpected since no part of me was thinking any of this is fine.
I’m not fine.
“You just spaced out, Dani.”
“No, I was—I was thinking about something. I’m okay, really.” I was thinking about fish in the sense of words floating around my body. I’m not sure he would consider that a healthy thought.
Layne wraps his hands around the back of his neck and exhales a long breath. “I should take you to the hospital. You could have had a stroke.”
A stroke.
TEN MONTHS AGO - I JUST TURNED 29 YEARS OLD
Dr. Chase called in an order for some rush tests that could be performed inside the medical center I was already at. I didn’t think those types of tests could be completed so quickly but, I it was made clear that there was a sense of urgency with whatever she was thinking about my situation. In any case, I felt far more stressed at that moment than I had when I arrived at the medical facility.
Dr. Chase sent me for an MRI, and a few other “common procedures,” before I was told to return to her office for a follow-up. Once again, I was asked to take a seat in the waiting area until Dr. Chase could see me again. I thought those types of appointments were normally scheduled out days or even months in advance, but it seemed easy to get the full workup today at Dr. Chase’s discretion and authoritative phone calls to the other departments.
Waiting on results has never been my favorite thing to do, so I preferred to get the appointment over with that day instead of having to think about it for the following few weeks. My mind would have definitely reached for the worst case and fed off those thoughts.
The nurse, Jill, reappeared in the doorway like déjà vu, holding a folder with my files in her right hand. She glanced at me before calling my name, so I stood to greet her at the door. “You didn’t think you were going to spend so much time here today, huh?” she asked, forcing another round of small talk on the way to the exam room.
“No, I didn’t. I thought I would get some pain relief at the walk-in clinic almost four hours ago.” I don’t like to whine or complain when it comes to pain, but even with just a mild throb on my right temple, I was worn down from the constant pain spanning almost two days.
“Well, good news. I can give you something for the pain and Dr. Chase is going to write up a prescription.” I wondered if it could be so simple despite the four hours to get to that point?
“So, I’m just suffering from migraines?” The hope filling my words caused the nurse’s smile to plummet. I didn’t know what she knew or didn’t know, but that wasn’t a look of agreement. It was more along the lines of she mistakenly gave me false hope and is now regretting what she said.
“Dr. Chase will be in to give you all the information about your test results. I wasn’t given that information, unfortunately.” Her words weren’t as friendly as they were a minute earlier. What she was saying was a robotic, automatic response to a patient asking the nurse for classified medical answers.
“I understand,” I told her, trying to keep a positive attitude even though I felt like I was dying inside.
“She’ll be right with you.” Just as soon as I was settled on the exam table, Jill closed me into the small room. I heard the folder she had been holding swish against the wall as she dropped it into the file holder. That sound was followed by a scurry of footsteps. I wondered if the nurses talked if they sympathized about not being able to emotionally support the patients when they knew they’re about to need comfort. I wondered if they truly didn’t know test results, or if they made assumptions based on their prior experiences. I wondered if Dr. Chase was bracing herself for what she had to come in and tell me.
Five minutes crawled by, and I had been sitting in silence without anyone passing through the hallway past the door of my exam room. There weren’t announcements booming from the intercom, or even a honking horn in the parking lot outside the window which made the knock on the door sound louder.
Dr. Chase walked in, her focus was glued to a stapled packet of paper, and she took a seat on her stool before spinning around and logging into her computer system. “Okay. Are you still hanging in there, Danielle? I know Jill is going to get you something for the pain while we talk about a few things.”
“Yeah, I’m just a little apprehensive for what you’re going to say.” My feet were dangling off the side of the table like a child sitting in a large chair. I felt like a child who was about to get scolded for sneaking a cookie before dinner, and I wished that was all I was about to encounter.
“When people experience head traumas, it can affect the brain in many different ways, and sometimes, we can’t always see what the long-term damage will be until years after the damage has been done.” I’m sure s
he was saying that so I didn’t consider my original diagnosis of being “in the clear,” as a form of malpractice.
“What are you saying?” I asked, sharply.
“It looks like there is some lasting damage to some small parts of your brain that control the ability to recall information and memories. Unfortunately, migraines can be a symptom of the damage, too. While it’s hard to give you a conclusive diagnosis at the moment, between your medical records, family history, symptoms, and neurological evaluation, you show some pretty intense signs of early onset Dementia, which I know has been in an issue on your paternal side.”
“Dementia? No, I just turned twenty-nine. That’s impossible. My aunt and grandmother weren’t diagnosed with early onset Dementia until they were in their late forties.”
“They might not have encountered trauma like you did, though, and everyone’s bodies function differently, of course. I know this sounds incredibly scary, but I assure you there are many treatments we can work with to slow the progression. We can get you glasses to help with your vision since that seems to have been impacted as well.”
I don’t think I took much in after the word, “scary.” It wasn’t just scary. I was being given a death sentence because of the brain trauma I encountered. All along, I chalked up the injury and side-effect of that night to be nothing in comparison to the nightmares I had been stuck with, but I was wrong. “I think I need a second opinion,” I tell Dr. Chase.
“Of course,” she says, immediately, almost as if she’s happy to have the burden lifted from her shoulders. “I should warn you of some complications you might encounter from the scans I saw. Most importantly, you are at a higher risk for a stroke with the damage to your brain, so we’ll want to make sure your lifestyle regiment is on a good path to keep your body in the kind of shape it needs to be. The healthier you are, the longer you can delay the side-effects.”
She was speaking clearly, but my mind was spinning so hard I couldn’t take in all the information at once. How could anyone process information like that? “Okay,” I told her. There wasn’t much else to say. I didn’t have questions yet. I wouldn’t have questions until the middle of the night when I would be sitting up, dwelling on whatever was to come next.
“There are counseling groups that might be beneficial to you,” Dr. Chase adds in, handing me a business card. “Jean Shriner is a social worker who specializes in therapy to assist a patient and even their family during the process of acceptance.”
I took the small piece of card stock and ran my fingertips over the beveled text. I thought this type of counselor was for someone dealing with a debilitating illness or death.
I thought I just had a headache.
CURRENT DAY - 29 YEARS OLD
I don’t understand how I’m able to remember such vivid details from a year ago, but at the same time, forget my husband’s name and other simple, random things. The doctor said it could all happen this way, and that there isn’t a science behind what my memory chooses to focus on or forget, but that doesn’t make this any easier to process. “I’ve been healthy and exercising, eating right,” I explain to Layne, while staring down at a piece of cake. I don’t eat well all the time though. I indulge sometimes, but I run a few mornings a week, and I feel fine.
“Dani, I know, but it’s better to be safe,” Layne says, his voice hushed and calm. It’s his way of negotiating. If he acts too sweet to say no to, he knows I will give into him. “I’m sure we’ll be in and out of there in no time with peace of mind.”
“I didn’t have a stroke.” Everyone is looking at me like I’m pathetic, and I hate this. “I didn’t. I want cake, and I want to eat it, and then I want to go home and have a normal night with my family. Okay?”
Layne’s shoulders roll forward with defeat. We hardly ever argue. Neither of us can bring ourselves to the point of making each other feel bad, so we give in to whoever needs the win more. “One more symptom and I’m throwing you over my shoulder, Dani.” Layne reaches over and brushes the side of his thumb down my cheek and across my chin.
“I don’t think you are capable of throwing me over your shoulder anymore, Layne,” I whisper my statement for only him to hear. He has been treating me like a fragile flower petal for so long that I’m missing parts of what used to make up the best parts of us. He knows it just as well as I do. What’s worse is, I fear the day he becomes lonely and needs companionship. I just hope it will be in a time when I’m completely unaware of what’s happening around me. It’s an awful thought, but I’ve had too much time to consider all impending things.
“Well, don’t tempt me, miss,” he whispers back. It’s cute banter, but he doesn’t mean anything by his words.
“I can’t live like this anymore,” I choke.
Again, all eyes are on me, gaping mouths, gasps, and shock. I don’t understand how everyone can be so surprised to hear me say any of this. I can’t do this anymore, and everyone should understand why.
Eleven
Twelve Years Ago
I WAS 18 YEARS OLD
Layne pushes his sleeve up to his wrist, checking the time on his black leather-braided watch. “Are you in a rush to get Aly home, to sleep? I know how important timed routines are at this age.”
I’m caught off guard by his question because I figured the night was over when he began walking me to my car. “Um,” I stall, wondering if he’ll fill in the blanks.
He points over my shoulder, and I turn to see where he’s looking. “I was wondering if Aly might like a ride on the carousel?”
She squeals from the car-seat I hoped she’d be falling asleep in by now, but there’s too much excitement. Plus, it’s like she knows what we’re saying. I’ve noticed Aly has been doing this a lot lately, but I think she is responding to the tone of someone’s voice or it could just be the sound of her name that’s making her react. “It sounds like she agrees,” I say, placing the car-seat down on the pavement for a moment so I can unlock the car. “I’m just going to take her out and leave the seat in the car. It’ll be easier.” Once I remove Aly from the buckles, I hoist her up onto my hip and lift the car-seat with my other hand.
“You have life all figured out, huh?” Layne asks.
“What do you mean?” I slide the car-seat’s handlebar down my forearm, freeing my hand to push the car door open.
“You seem like you’ve been doing this mom thing for years.” I swing the seat into the car and close the door.
“I’ve just learned to get around, I guess. The idea of being a single mom scared me, and I refused to give in to that particular fear.” As I’m stating my achievement, I realize I’m making it sound like I’ve given into my fear of heights for a lesser reason.
“I’m intrigued by you, Dani.”
We walk side-by-side as Aly tries to reach for Layne. She’s a little flirt at one, and I’m not sure if I should be worried. “I’m sure there are lots of teen moms getting by just fine. I wouldn’t say I’m anything too out of the ordinary, or intriguing, for that matter.”
“Is Aly’s dad in the picture?” I was expecting this question, as I usually do, but at the same time, hoping I found the one person who didn’t care to ask about Aly’s dad. It’s human nature to wonder these things, and yet it hasn’t felt natural to respond to the simple question.
“No, thankfully, he’s nowhere near the picture.”
TWO YEARS AGO - I WAS ONLY 16 YEARS OLD
My hometown was supposed to be safe. Street fairs were common, and I had been going since I was a little girl. I had never been approached by someone the way I was that night. In the moment of irreparable despair, I had forgotten how to defend myself, how to fight. A hand cupped around my mouth so tightly, airflow wasn’t regular, and my heels were the only part of my body touching the pavement. I couldn’t understand how no one saw the scene, or the look in a sixteen year old’s eyes as she’d been dragged away against her will. The people who didn’t see are lucky because I know if I had seen what was happening,
I would never be able to erase it all.
In the moments leading up to when he would be finding a place to stop, clear and free of any possibility of being spotted, I thought about how I shouldn’t have worn a skirt that night.
I didn’t know who the person was—the one who was dragging me away from the crowd. I didn’t know if he knew who I was, how old I was, how innocent I was.
I wasn’t asking for attention.
I was watching two mimes act out “A Bad Romance” by Lady Gaga, and like any sixteen-year-old, I was so engaged that I lost track of my surroundings and must have stepped away from Lexi. I didn’t know where Lexi was at that time. I wasn’t sure if she knew I was gone, or that I had been taken.
I might have had enough time to find a way out of that man’s hold, but my mind was blank, taken over with the worst possible thoughts. I thought I was supposed to have my entire life ahead of me. I always followed the rules, studied hard, and hardly ever went out with friends. What else could I think other than … why me?
The street we’d moved to was dark, so dark, and I could only see a spattering of sparkles in the small puddles left over from a quick rain storm that passed by earlier that day. There wasn’t a street light or headlights to offer any spacial awareness. Therefore, I could only focus on the tight grip of the man’s hands, the smell of rotting alcohol penetrating my nose. The sounds of cheers and excitement from the fair were close enough to hear, but far enough away that no one would hear my screams if I were able to make a noise. My skin was cold and damp from sweat and the sea fog, but my hands were hot from squeezing my fingernails into my palms.
The man didn’t say anything when he released his dry, grimy hand from my mouth, and for a moment I had hoped he would let me go. Except his free hand squeezed my wrist and almost effortlessly pulled me down to the uneven pavement. I screamed, shrieked, and kicked, hitting nothing but air.