A gust of wind rang in Claire’s ears. She closed her eyes to listen, and the ocean swelled inside her head, its strong briny perfume like liquid memory. She squeezed her eyes tighter, seeing herself at Monterey Bay with her eighth-grade science class, giggling at the sea otters at play in their kelp beds, secretly holding hands on the boat with a blue-eyed freckle-faced boy named Calum. She saw Nicholas wading in the tide pools on Cape Cod for hermit crabs; Nicholas running into the surf on Kaanapali at full adolescent throttle, his face tan and grinning.
The wind receded. Claire stood and walked down the short incline. The cold tide washed over her toes, and she jumped from one foot to the other until her ankles warmed to the temperature, remembering how Nicholas would mock her silly Indian dance just before leaping onto her back and sending them both headlong into the waves.
Though Nicholas had grown far more communicative as the days and weeks passed, he still experienced serious concentration problems, mood swings, and disorientation. The muscles of his left arm and leg, though not paralyzed, still failed to work properly, rendering him mobile only by wheelchair. Claire would watch helplessly during the long minutes it would take for him to assist in his own transfer from bed to wheelchair with the help of the therapist and the mechanical lift—minutes punctuated by the frustrated grunts and expletives she began to repeat silently in her own mind like a perverse cheer. She waited for him to call her “Mom,” to respond to her as if she weren’t just another nameless nurse, and she imagined how tightly he would hug her on that day. After a tense and discouraging visit by Michael at the two-week mark, punctuated by his own angry outbursts and inscrutability and complete avoidance of any of her attempts at addressing their relationship, Claire became convinced Michael would put off returning again until Nicholas showed signs of actually recognizing people. She still suspected he preferred the physical distance since it made his emotional distance easier to maintain. But she tried to reassure herself that people deal with tragedy in different ways and in different time frames, tried to maintain a clear vision as she concentrated on the daily routine.
She learned to place Nicholas’s water cup, the TV remote, anything he needed on his good side, to approach him only from the right, to remind him to wipe the left side of his mouth after eating. She held his hand when his arm or leg would seize, and she read to him and played Go Fish with him, grateful for any small smile this would elicit.
But the lingering image that had sent Claire home shaken and depressed the previous night was the same image that haunted her as she walked the shoreline. She had been watching from the rear of the therapy gym as Nicholas’s physical therapist stood several feet away from his wheelchair and served a beach ball to him. Earlier in the week he had been able to return five serves and seemed excited by his progress. There was even discussion of Nicholas playing in a group soon. “I’ll ace ’em,” he’d repeated for several hours. “I’ll ace ’em.”
What a cruel difference a few days made. The brightly striped ball floated and arced toward his knees, but Nicholas swung his arm too soon and missed swatting it back to her with his open palm. Amy moved closer and they tried several more times. Claire could see the frustration mounting on his face, and his familiar squint of determination. The ball bounced off his forehead and he flailed his arm, trying to catch it before it dropped to the floor. She smiled and nodded encouragingly at him from the back of the gym, her fingers laced tightly in prayer beneath her chin. Get this one, she chanted silently, get it, honey. Please. Then she felt an icy pain rise in her chest as Nicholas struggled and failed again to make contact with the large, inflatable ball—her boy who had played varsity hockey and lacrosse in ninth grade.
Nicholas, his face red and angry, wheeled his chair toward Amy with his right hand. Claire watched the young therapist kneel and place her hands on the frame to stop him. “No!” he screamed. “Fuuuck.” Sweat dripped from his temples and tears streamed down his cheeks as he continued yelling expletives. Claire felt a wretchedness she’d never known.
Nicholas keened and grunted as they wheeled him back to his room, the seat belt around his torso the only barrier that prevented him from hurling himself face-first onto the floor. Claire’s hands shook on the handle of the wheelchair.
“Please, do something. Please help him,” she whispered.
Amy placed her hand over Claire’s. “We’ll try again tomorrow, Nicholas,” Amy repeated in a soothing tone. “This takes a lot of practice, and some days are better than others. We’ll try again.”
“That’s it, that’s all you can do?”
“I know this is difficult to watch, Mrs. Montgomery, but it’s all part of his recovery process.” Nick dug his fingernails into the healing IV scab on his left arm until he began to bleed.
“But I want . . . to hit . . . the . . . ball,” Claire heard him gasping from just outside the door to his room. Amy and an attendant hoisted Nicholas’s thrashing body back into the bed and tried to redirect his energy. She walked over to a small cluster of chairs by the nurses’ desk and sat down to cry.
Moments later Amy tapped her on the shoulder. “Mrs. Montgomery?”
Claire startled. “Why is this happening? What should I do?”
Amy pulled up a chair next to her. “That was a natural fight-or-flight reaction to his frustration. Patients in this stage are working from some of their most basic instincts. I know it may not seem like it, but he’s gained so much strength since he started with me, and I’m confident we’re going to see a lot more improvement. He’s a fighter,” she said, standing and glancing into Nick’s room. “Look, he’s already calming down. Why don’t you just give him a few more minutes and then go in and be with him.”
When Claire returned to Nicholas’s room, she saw that his arm had been bandaged. His breath appeared calm and even, and he smiled vaguely at her as she approached the bed. She took his hand and held it.
“Where’s . . . my toothbrush?” he asked her after several minutes.
“Do you want to brush your teeth, Nicholas?”
“Where’s the . . . toothbrush. I want the toothbrush,” he said, louder.
Claire retrieved his toothbrush from the bathroom sink and placed it in his right hand. He stared at it for several seconds and then tried to raise it with a shaking hand, but it fell from his grip. His eyebrows furrowed and his breath quickened. She quickly placed it back in his palm. Nicholas lifted the toothbrush once again and began to brush the right side of his cheek. Claire guided his hand and the toothbrush back toward his mouth, but he dropped it on his chest and looked away. She moved out of view and closed her eyes.
“Where’s Mom?” he suddenly asked.
Claire spun around and saw that his gaze had returned to her face. She cupped his chin in her hand. “I’m right here, Nicholas. Your mom’s right here. Do you remember?”
“Where’s my toothbrush?”
“I’m your mom, Nicholas, can you remember now?” she asked slowly and calmly.
“I want . . . to hit the ball. Where’s the ball?”
She felt defeat spread through her stomach.
“I want to hit the . . . volleyball,” he repeated, slurring.
“Nicholas. Honey. I know this is frustrating, but you’ll get there. I promise. It’s just going to take a lot of baby steps.”
“I’m not a baaaby,” he screamed. Tears pooled in the corners of his eyes and he began punching the wall of the bed with his good hand. “Fuuckkk, I’m not a baby.”
Claire tried to hold his raging arm as he thrust her wrist against the plastic edge. “Of course you’re not a baby, Nicholas. You’re seventeen years old and you’re strong and smart and you’re going to hit the ball again. I promise you will.” You’re going to hit that damn beach ball.
Claire walked the shoreline, the rolled-up cuffs of her jeans wet around her calves, the sand under her toes pulling back out to sea with the tide. She wondered if Nicholas would experience simple joys like this again. She kicked a soggy
mound of sand and fractured shells into the surf with all the force of her body. It landed with a plop a few feet in front of her, swallowed into the retreating gray curtain.
She used to see the greatest joy of her life when she looked at Nicholas. Now she saw a reminder of her most hideous regret, and the stunted brilliance of young man trapped by a brain that might or might not have permanent deficits. The wind picked up, blowing sand and salty spray into her mouth. “Fuuuckk,” came the cry from deep within her core. She grabbed rocks and threw them one after another until her arm ached. They flew in rapid succession, skipping and sinking into the waves. Then suddenly mindful of her surroundings, Claire turned to check if anyone had witnessed her outburst. But she was still alone in the gloom, embarrassed at her self-consciousness. She bent down and rinsed the sand from her fingers.
The penetrating chill rose to her ankles, then her knees, the crash of the waves a hypnotic song. She knew no deed went unrecognized, that there were consequences for every action or inaction, even consequences for acts of omission. A wave splashed onto her face. In the grand cosmic scheme, she questioned, why wasn’t karma linear? Why was Nicholas made to suffer so greatly for her mistake? Things ricochet where we don’t expect and life just gets messy, she remembered Jackie telling her more than once. The trick was figuring out how to repair the aftermath and move forward.
Claire felt the pull of the tide around her, its soothing ebb and flow. She noticed the graze of shells against her calves and the fluid eddy of kelp and sand. The wind calmed. Her shoulders relaxed and she dangled her fingertips in the water. It no longer felt cold. It just was. She was. She closed her eyes and let her mind float with the current. She listened to the crackle of the surf and sensed her heartbeat sync to its rhythm, feeling part of something whole and sustaining. After a minute or possibly several, she opened her eyes to the world around her—a world she endeavored not to see anchored in regret over the past or an increasingly distant partner, but simply in the sunrise and sunset of each day.
As Claire finally made her way to Nicholas’s room, she bumped into one of the occupational therapists. “He’s been asking for you, Mrs. Montgomery,” the woman said with a wide smile.
“What?” Claire asked, yanking her sweater down over the rumpled sweatpants she’d found in her tote bag.
“Nicholas has been asking for his mother all morning.”
She could feel the swell of anticipation but tried to keep her hopes in check. “Well, he’s done that before, and still hasn’t made the connection.”
“He’s had a very good day today, Mrs. Montgomery.”
She rounded the corner near Nicholas’s room, bracing herself for a reunion with her son, and also for the likelihood that today would be like all the others. Either way, she would take things as they came.
When Claire walked in, Nicholas lay staring out the window, the uneven patches of his hair standing up on end like the little bean sprouts they’d once planted in a Dixie cup in the kitchen. It was growing back in a darker shade of brown. Potato-peel brown.
“Where were you?” he asked slowly, his expression conveying neither recognition nor the contrary.
Claire pulled up a chair next to his bed, trying to temper her mounting hope. “Hi, honey. I’m sorry I wasn’t here earlier.”
“Where were you?” His words sounded deliberate and practiced.
“I was at the beach. Do you remember the last time we went to the beach, Nicholas?” She took his hand in hers, but he looked at her blankly, his eyes drooping as if fighting sleep. She tried a different approach. “Do you remember me?” she asked expectantly.
“What?”
Claire cleared her throat. “Do you know who I am, Nicholas?”
He grabbed the edge of the mattress and pushed himself up to a sitting position with his right hand. Claire could see his right leg digging for traction under the blanket. “You think I’m crazy?” he said, breathing hard from the exertion. “I’m not . . . crazy.”
“No, honey, of course not. You had an accident, and it’s been difficult for you to remember things.” She blinked fast to keep her tears in check, still uncertain what Nicholas’s words really meant, still wondering if he really knew who she was.
“I’m tired,” he said, staring past her.
She nodded stoically. “Why don’t you rest, and I’ll be here when you wake up.” She kissed his forehead as he closed his eyes, and Claire retreated to the small sofa near the door and rummaged through her tote for a book to read.
“Mom?” came his drowsy voice after two chapters of The Goldfinch. “Where’s . . . where’s Dad?”
Claire bolted to the bed. “Oh my God, Nicky, I’m here. I’m your mom,” she cried, grasping his fingers and kissing them. The sweetness of the relief that washed over her was like nothing she had ever experienced. She felt dizziness and exhilaration crash together in her chest. And Nick simply looked back at her as if she were the one who had been having trouble comprehending things. On the verge of eye rolls, he looked at her like a teenager looks at a parent—and she couldn’t have been more grateful. “Your dad’s back home in Denver,” Claire explained, marveling at the mysteries of the human brain, and still having a hard time believing that the nurses’ numerous experiences with sudden recall had actually occurred with Nicholas now, too. “And he’s going to be so happy you asked for him. We love you so much, honey.”
“Okay.” Nicholas closed his eyes again and drifted off, mumbling something—a name, Claire thought, but couldn’t quite make out.
CHAPTER 14
Michael finally answered his cell after her third call. In the background Claire heard the din of voices and cutlery on plates, but at the sound of his clipped tone, she could only clear her throat.
“Is that you, Claire? What is it, has something happened?”
She took a deep breath. “Nicholas asked for you. And he remembered me.”
“What? When?”
“Today. He—”
“Wait, hold on a sec.” Claire could make out a muffled “excuse me,” and footsteps before Michael retuned to the line. “What happened?”
“He asked where you were and he called me ‘Mom.’ The doctors were right, Michael.” She related the day’s events, omitting her detour to the beach.
“Whoa, slow down, Claire. He’s recovered his memory, is that what they’re saying?”
“That’s what they believe. He’s still got retrograde amnesia from the night of—from that night. He may never remember the overdose, or even the days leading up to it. But he’s been asking for you all day.”
There was silence on the other end of the line. A long silence. And Claire braced herself for another round of the blame game. She still hadn’t figured out a way to share good news when it was really only camouflaged sad news in the bigger picture. But then she heard quiet, hiccup-like sobs.
“Thank God,” Michael finally said, several times between loud breaths.
“Are you all right?”
He exhaled loudly. “I’m fine. I’m just—” his voice cracked, “I wasn’t sure he’d ever—” he paused. “Did he say anything else? He really has no recollection of . . . of things before?”
“Not yet. He just asked where you were. And he really seemed to know me.”
“What did you tell him?”
Claire walked in small circles around the kitchen, wanting to reach through the airwaves and touch him. She imagined them hugging and sharing the relief that two parents in their position should be sharing. “I told him you were in Denver, but that you’d be here again soon.”
“I was planning on coming out next week, but I’ll be there tomorrow.”
“That’s great.” She studied a large gouge at the foot of her kitchen stool.
“Claire?”
“Yes?”
“I, uh . . . Jeez, this is such a relief. Thank you. I’ll see you both tomorrow.”
“Travel safe.”
Gone was the sandpaper quality of their
exchanges, replaced by a sense of joy and—she was almost afraid to think it—connection. For once her fears had gone unfounded. Their child was getting better and Michael had accepted it without any caveats, had even exhibited a glimmer of warmth. Were these their first small steps toward détente? She thought of the plans they could start making to participate together in some of Nicky’s therapy sessions, even outings they might take. She stared at the telephone, the conduit of such promise, and heard Michael’s familiar “whoa, slow down, Claire,” echo in her mind. The clock on the oven rolled over to the new hour with a loud, achy grinding. Maybe she was reading far too much into a three-minute telephone conversation.
Her phone rang, and she immediately clicked back on with anticipation.
“Hello, dear.”
“Oh.” Claire looked at the phone screen, shaking her head. “Hello, Mother.”
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