Reaction

by Jessica Roberts

  “My jacket,” I managed to say through the muzzy, uneasy hush. But what I meant was, ‘It’s not what it looks like’, and ‘What are you doing here?’. I’d created several scenarios of what it would be like the first time he came to my apartment, but spooning with my best friend on the couch was definitely not one of them.

  “You left it at the banquet,” he said, his eyes scanning over the room and landing on my rumpled bed in the corner.

  I heard Creed from somewhere to my left. “What’s up, man. How’s it going?”

  “Hey,” Nick eventually answered, still preoccupied with his examination.

  I would have rather had a tooth pulled than attempt to explain myself or address the situation or even talk to him at the moment. But something inside me couldn’t take the silence; even if I wouldn’t allow myself to speak what was on all of our minds. “I don’t understand,” I questioned. My mind’s eye quickly went to that night, the board professor and his wife leaving the table last; did they pick up my forgotten jacket? Give it to him later on? “How did you get my jacket if—”

  When his eyes fell on mine, my words cut out. He gazed at me with a stillness that caused my skin to crawl. The intensity of his stare wasn’t harsh or angry, but it cut me to the core. And as hard as I tried, I lacked the ability to both look away or speak.

  “My table, my guests,” he said as his eyes held me.

  If there were valid reasons before—and I knew there were as I devoured him standing there in all his cynical charm—the current reasons were even more binding. Three solid years of dreaming about Nick tethered me to him, and there was no stopping my feelings, no turning back or turning off the absolute attachment I felt for him.

  “Want to flick on the light switch over there?” Creed asked him, helping to lighten the moment.

  Nick glanced at Creed as if he’d interrupted out of turn, then returned his stare to me. “Sure,” he said, but made no effort to move.

  The last thing I wanted was for an argument to ensue. Rolling out of the sheets, I stood up—fully dressed, I made certain he noted—and strode over to the light switch, passing him in the process and making deliberate eye contact.

  True, I had been snuggling. True, I slept in Creed’s arms. And yes, I even kissed him. But none of those were reasons to warrant my guilt. And even if they were, Nick had zero right to make me feel that way. And I told him so with my eyes.

  But in that one little spot that no one was allowed, I hoped he felt a modicum of what I had been feeling over the past few weeks. And if it included acute jealousy, all the better.

  Creed eventually stood, untangling the blanket from his body and then addressing Nick with sociable regard. “How’s that big strip mall project going? It starts next week, right?”

  In that subdued way of his, Nick took his time to answer, waiting till the light switch went on and I found a spot to lean against on the opposite side of the table. And when he finally did respond, it was with calm reserve.

  But Creed continued asking probing questions and Nick persisted to answer them, brief and to the point. They carried on a conversation. And all I could do was lean against the table and watch them, back and forth, in disbelief.

  My mind was so busy attempting to assimilate what was taking place and the implications of it all, I missed their entire conversation.

  When the conversation turned quiet, and before I knew it, I found myself saying goodbye and listening to the door close.

  Absently, I watched Creed fold my bedspread, place it on my bed, and then head into the kitchen. “Are you hungry?” he asked.

  Somehow, I found my way into the chair in front of me. “What just happened?”

  Contrary to my over-thinking, it didn’t pass my notice that they were sizing each other up during their entire little chat. Nor did I miss the part when Creed mentioned something about Nick’s extraordinary loyalty to his endeavors, at which point Nick’s lips curved ever so slightly, communicating that the jab was noticed, but had not injured. Still, the fact that they bantered back and forth….

  I went through the natural sequence of thoughts in my head, finally ending with a culminating, “Are you guys friends now or something?”

  Finding a seat next to mine, he gave me a handful of red grapes while shaking his head. “The guy’s not looking for friends.”

  After Creed left I remained at the table, chewing on grapes as the possibilities loomed before me as big as my future, yet just out of grasp. And what frightened me most was settling for something less than the feast of color and life and ultimate desire that plowed over me the instant Nick stepped foot in my apartment.

  *******

  On a Tuesday I had my first visit with Dr. Adams. According to my discharge papers, monthly ongoing psychiatric evaluations were mandatory for a full year beginning on my hospital release date. I thought it kind of cool that I had to see a shrink, if only to know what people do when they visit theirs.

  It was uneventful. I took a written test, did a few physical exercises to test my dexterity and hand-eye coordination, and then talked with Dr. Adams about what I’d been up to since being released from the hospital.

  “You do know how amazing you are, right? I had a post-coma patient in this morning who had to undergo two hours of speech therapy. How does that sound for a fun time?”

  “Not so fun,” I said, smiling at how he always tried to make me feel ahead of the rest; like I was special; his own personal, praiseworthy success-story.

  “And what about your long-term memory? Are the memories coming back to you in a logical manner?”

  “Yeah,” I said, adjusting my body on the couch. I’d asked if I could lie down just to enjoy the stereotypical experience, to imitate the “I’m-visiting-my shrink” scenes in the movies. He’d gotten a kick out of my request, laughed at first, and then humored me. “I still have a hard time with my childhood, though.”

  “Which is normal, Heather. There’s a high possibility you might never recover those memories.”

  “Yeah, I know,” I told him. “I’m not too worried about it.”

  “What I’d like to know,” he went on, “is if your more current memories are working themselves out. Is there anything strange or out of the ordinary about them?”

  “There is something that I’ve been thinking about. In my reflection-dreams I remember feeling a lot of self-consciousness and anxiety at times. But I’m not sure if that’s true to reality. Could I have felt that way in my dreams, but not in real life? Do you get what I’m saying? Could I have over-exaggerated my emotions? Like coming out here to school, for example. I know I was really nervous to start college. But I think in real life I was more nervous-excited rather than nervous-fearful like I remember from the dreams. Is that possible?”

  “Very,” Doc nodded. “In fact, that is one of the symptoms of PRS comas. If you were scared and confused and insecure right after the accident, it’s likely you incorporated those feelings into many parts of your dreams.”

  “And when I first met Nick. It’s almost laughable to think about how exaggerated my feelings were about him; his touch, his voice. I should have known I was dreaming, just by how extreme my first feelings were about him.”

  “No, there’s no way you could have known. Technically, you’d lost those memories. And when your subconscious pushed them forward again, of course they’re going to be exaggerated. You have to remember, you’d already developed relationships with everyone you “met” in your dreams. Imagine how peculiar that would be to meet your best friend from a former life, for the first time in a new life. That’s sort of how it was for you.”

  “That’s so trippy. It explains a lot about how I remember myself from my dreams. The situations were accurate, but my feelings were completely embellished.”

  And that’s exactly what I’m wondering about. Has there been anything strange or different about your life recently?”

  “Like what? Is there something else I’m supposed to be looking for?
”

  “No, no, not at all. I don’t expect any complications with you. We wouldn’t consider overstated feelings in your reflection-dreams to be a complication. That is very normal. A little confusing for you, perhaps, but normal. And you’ve already shown no adverse effects physically or mentally, which are the most common complications that occur post-coma. However, recovering from a reflective coma can be different than recovering from a normal one.”

  “How so?” Done lying down, I shifted my body to sit up.

  “For one, with reflective comas a ‘reaction’ can occur. I think I mentioned something about this before. I haven’t since because it doesn’t seem relevant in your case. But I would still like you to report anything out of the ordinary, particularly with regard to reflection memories that don’t coincide with what you know now.” After considering something for a moment, his fingers drew his glasses from the chain dangling down his chest and lifted them to the bridge of his nose, the motion bringing him out of his thoughts and back in the room. “All right Heather, if that’s everything, let me fill out the paperwork, and then we’re just about done here—”

  “Wait, what is that again?”

  Dr. Adams wrote some notes on the bottom of the paper inside the folder. “The paperwork?” he asked absently.

  “A reaction. I remember talking about it, but I can’t remember what you said.”

  He turned the page over and continued to checkmark a few boxes on the backside. “Let’s see,” he said into the folder, making a few last marks. “Um, reactions.” When his eyes checked both sides of the page, he leisurely dated and signatured the bottom, secured the pen in his shirt pocket, and then finally removed his glasses again. “Reactions. Let’s see. Yes, sometimes when a patient pulls out of a reflective coma they have a difficult time separating fact and fiction where their memories are concerned. Those coma dreams that you had while you slept, the reflection-dreams? You’ve accepted them as part of your past, right?”

  With my brows furrowed, I nodded.

  “The problem arises when some of the memories from those dreams are not valid, not real, made up by your imagination. That’s what a reaction is: when you can’t let go of a false idea and pull it into your current life, creating an artificial world around you. Are you worried you might have specific memories that fall into this category?”

  I thought for a moment, deciding there were no memories from my dreams that I questioned. Or maybe it was that I didn’t want to question them. That if I did, I might find something I didn’t like. But wouldn’t I already know if something about my memories were amiss? “No, not that I can think of,” I told him, answering honestly.

  “Okay, good.”

  Before I left, he asked how my social life was faring. I failed to mention the part about kissing my lifelong friend for the first time, as well as sabotaging a relationship while attempting to steal my boyfriend back, responding instead like I usually did, positively.

  It wasn’t a lie; I was plugging along. Not quite without guilt or hope, but with something close to subdued optimism. I hadn’t given up. How could I give up on feelings so vital and active? Even if I wanted to, if I wanted to turn off my feelings for Nick and turn them on for Creed, I couldn’t. What’s worse, the wrongness of what I was feeling toward Nick was entirely irrelevant. Though I certainly wasn’t ignorant to the sin of wanting to break up an engagement, I was powerless to squelch the desire. It was a disgraceful flaw in my personality, and I didn’t like it in the least.

  Notwithstanding, and though I told myself that being apart was the best way to forget him, it was with great longing and impatience that I anticipated the next time we’d meet.

  *******

  I wasn’t proud to admit that I spied on Creed when I heard a girl at the door above mine. I actually peeked through the blinds on the high, basement front window to watch. He left with her, obviously for a date since she was dressed to impress. And of course he was dating, he was a guy after all. If I had any doubts about his Friday nights before, his skillful kisses erased every single one of them. I watched them leave—what was it with blondes? I was beginning to hate them!—and he must’ve said something funny because she went into a fit of giggles and then grabbed his shoulder like she was going to fall over.

  Typical.

  Jealousy was a complicated word. I wouldn’t have called it that, though some part of me did feel anger. I was pretty sure it was a healthy kind of aggression, though. If she messed with Creed, she’d answer to me. He deserved the best.

  I wondered what it meant that he came home an hour later, alone. Wonder was as far as I allowed my considerations to go.

  Chapter 6

  A drawn-out but productive week later, I happened upon his car. I was walking to Health class with Liz, and his big, black monster jeep—with dirt splattered all over the tires and sides—was parked in the parking lot next to the field house fitness building.

  I wondered as I had before, but aloud this time, “Do you think he has some covert job with the government where he transports secret agents up a mountain every morning?”

  “Or he has a large puddle of mud in the front of his driveway,” Liz offered.

  “Yeah,” I agreed sheepishly. “That’s sounds more realistic.”

  Liz patted my shoulder, sympathetic to my sensationalizing when it came to him. I led her around the car and walked toward the building, opening my mouth to take a deep breath and unfortunately filling my stomach with an air-full of small lively jumping beans. “Hope I don’t run into him.”

  “Well, either way, you look great.” She styled a stray lock of my hair. “Honestly girl, when you wake up you look pretty. It’s what I hate most about you.” And then she gave me a hug before taking off to her dentist appointment.

  I hugged her back and walked away, thinking that my head wouldn’t fit inside the approaching door if I believed every compliment that came from her. But I supposed that was what good friends were for. I finished my grin just before entering the building.

  As I walked past the basketball courts I quickened my strides, telling myself that if I didn’t look straight ahead, I would be punished with sprints later that night.

  To my grief and elation, I heard a conversation in the court I was passing. “I got to split, man,” some fellow said. “See ya, Richards.”

  “Yup,” Nick replied. My face turned automatically and watched him pull up with a languid fade-away shot that most likely drained right through the basket; but I couldn’t be sure since my eyes chose him instead of the ball.

  I wondered why in the unfair world he had to be so darn tall and broad shouldered. Really, was there a physique any more textbook? And his movements were smooth and relaxed, with a confidence behind them that would intimidate the best of opponents; or, at the very least, make them envious.

  Without deciding to, I leaned against a bleacher seat, keeping distant enough to go unseen but near enough to see. To stand in silence and watch him shoot three pointers for hours would have been enough. But something about the purpose behind his movements enticed me to draw closer.

  As I quietly moved through the narrow line of seats—absently counting his shots in my head—I thought about how once upon a time, a few years ago, I was able to get under his skin just enough to make him lose that stellar focus of his. Nine, I continued counting, absently moving closer. He was definitely on a roll. Privately, I wondered if he’d continue his streak if he was aware of his audience.

  SWOOSH.

  “Ten for ten,” the words dumped out of my mouth in a quick plop of surprise. Just as I was about to dive under the bleacher seats, I caught the slightest pause in his step and froze.

  But rather than turn to face me, he reset and pulled up to shoot.

  SWOOSH.

  I remained still as I watched him rebound his shot. Louder this time, and with an air of challenge in my voice, I hollered, “Eleven for eleven.”

  He finally acknowledged my presence before letting shot
number twelve ride. “You doing that on purpose?” he said toward the rim.

  SWOOSH.

  My nerves were gone, lost in the fact that my pride was done with his shooting streak. I made my way to the court and, while walking toward him, suggested, “How about getting beat in a friendly game of Pig.”

  “Don’t think so.”

  “Because you don’t want to get worked?”

  As easy as he glanced my way and gave me a once over, he turned back to the rim. “That cute little smile of yours might work on others guys—”

  A reference to the scene in my apartment?

  But when he finished with, “Save it for someone else,” the personal scratch stung a little.

  Pasting the same ‘cute little smile’ on my face and determined to keep it there just to annoy him, I countered with four words that sounded even sillier going out of my mouth than they did coming in my head. “I don’t like you.”

  How his simple chuckle could put me right in my place….

  To top it off, he had the gall to say, “I feel exactly the same about you.”

  “Oh really,” I pressed back, keeping it light. “And what have I done to you?”

  With that perpetual, careless grin he answered, “For starters, you’re a distraction.”

  “Come on, Richards, you of all people can handle a little distraction.”

  He looked directly at me for the first time. “You’re not a little one, Robbins.”

  In the expanse of an unknowing pause, he dangerously added another string to the flaxen chord that bound us. It was subtle; just a look. But I knew the look immediately: a feisty, primal look, the same one he used to give way back when, just before his mouth captured mine. The little glance, with that dark and delicious craving in his eyes, was a call to action; a direct, naked taunt. Stay, he dared, and suffer the consequences. Interesting, for such a closed person, how easily I read his thoughts. I felt a surge of pleasure spread through me, so full it was almost indecent.