I'm Still Here

by Kathryn R. Biel

  I stayed in my room, refusing all therapy. After about two days, a bunch of doctors came in to see me. None was that cute doctor who kissed my forehead that time. Although I was slightly creeped out by his familiarity with me, I was actually a little disappointed that he wasn't in the group of white coats standing before me. They were there to give me a stern lecture. Apparently, I needed to attend therapy or I'd be discharged. And since I was brain damaged and all, and couldn't communicate, they would have to send me to a nursing home. They talked to me like I was an idiot child who didn't understand English.

  Surprisingly, their pep talk did nothing to improve my mood. I started rummaging through the dresser drawers, looking for my stuff. I found my phone, but it was dead as a doornail. There was a flimsy, glittery black shirt. Well, what was left of it anyway. I must have been wearing it when I—whatever happened to me happened—because it had been cut off my body. I held it up and looked at it. It didn't look like anything I would normally wear. I wished I could remember that night.

  Before my pity party could get any larger, I heard a commotion in the hallway. "I don't care who you are or what you say. I'm going in to see Esther. I can't believe you nincompoops have left her alone all this time! Of course she's not doing well. Who gave you imbeciles medical degrees?"

  I dropped the unfamiliar shirt back in the drawer and rushed out to see Jillian. Finally, a familiar face. I practically ran (okay, it was more like a fast walk) to her. She turned to greet me, a huge smile on her face. Her arms were wide open and she took me in, embracing me and making me feel for the first time since I had woken up that it might all just be okay.

  That was until she looked at me and said, "Damn girl, you look terrible. What have they done to you?"

  Obviously, I was self-conscious about my head. As much as my hair had been my arch-nemesis, I hated that it had been shaved off. I did everything I could to avoid looking at myself. Not to mention the grotesque scar that was forming on the left side of my head. Also, I was in donated or borrowed clothing, which didn't fit right and was downright ugly. I dropped my head in response.

  "Aww, honey, I didn't mean it like that. You are so skinny and pale and these clothes are terrible. Are they yours?"

  I shook my head.

  "Where are your clothes?"

  I shrugged my shoulders.

  A horrified look crossed her face. "Esther, has anyone gone to your apartment and gotten you your stuff?"

  I shook my head again. How did I tell her there was no one here to do it? Charlie had been here at the beginning, but as soon as I figured out a way to ask her what was going on, she disappeared. I was guessing she had to go to New York to go back to work. I guess I should not have expected any less, but I was surprised that Cheryl and Dean hadn't at least stopped in once. I was pretty sure they had been to visit while I was in the first hospital, but who doesn't wait to see if their child comes out of a coma? My parents. I couldn't help but think bitterly, if it had been Aster lying in that bed, they never would have left her side.

  "Is your family here?"

  I shook my head again. Jillian put her arm around me and led me to some couches that were in a little alcove. I sat down next to her and put my head on her shoulder. I was not normally a touchy-feely kind of person, but I just needed some human contact. I needed to feel that I was not so alone and that someone in the universe cared about me.

  "Esther, do you understand what I'm saying to you?"

  I nodded. None of the doctors had asked me that. They were going under the assumption that I was functioning at a reduced mental capacity. I had so many questions to ask Jillian. I didn't know if she would have the answers, but I knew at least she would listen. If only I could speak.

  "Esther, is your memory all right?"

  I shook my head and looked around the room. I needed a way to communicate. I felt like maybe I could write down something. Before I could even gesture, Jillian pulled her ever-trusty steno notebook out of the Mary Poppins satchel that she carried around. Never would I mock her carpet bag again.

  I took the pen in my shaky right hand and willed it to write the correct words. In penmanship that made me cringe, I eeked out "Car accident last thing."

  Jillian's lips moved as she deciphered my chicken-scratch. "The car accident is the last thing you remember?"

  I nodded.

  "That was two months before all this happened. That was three months ago."

  I tightened my lips together.

  "So you don't remember O.K. then?"

  I gave her a confused look. What the hell did she mean by that? Her sentence didn't even make sense. How could I remember okay? I told her I didn't remember the two months from the car accident to the hospital at all. This was frustrating.

  "I know he's been here to see you. He's been calling me and giving me updates."

  What the hell was she talking about? I picked up the pen and scrawled "He who?"

  "O.K. Your boyfriend."

  What?!? I didn't have a boyfriend. And why did she keep saying okay? That was not a normal speech-tick that she had, like those people who say 'ahh' all the time. I wrote down, "Why do you keep saying ok?"

  I looked at the sentence and was proud. It was a complete sentence, a complete thought. Maybe I was getting better. I was so busy patting myself on the back for writing a sentence that I almost forgot to pay attention to Jillian's answer.

  "The guy you're dating—his name is O.K. It's short for something or other. He's a doctor. I know he's been here to see you, but he said you don't know who he is."

  Holy shit, that cute doctor guy is my boyfriend?!?

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  "Shut the front door!"

  "Oh my God, Esther—you just talked!" Jillian jumped up off the couch, grabbed my hands and pulled me up to a standing position. She enveloped me in a huge hug and then released me. I knew the next time I opened my mouth, only gibberish would come out, and I knew it would wipe that expectant, hopeful look off her face. I didn't want to disappoint her. She was the only one who seemed to care. Well, I guess that doctor-guy cared. Now his hovering, inappropriateness and overall creepiness made sense.

  I sat down and picked up the steno pad. "What happened to me?"

  Her happy face faded into concern. "You don't remember?"

  I shook my head.

  "I never got the full story. You were great on stage and really killed it, all three sets. Then, you went outside after and passed out. I don't know why, but when you passed out, you hit your head on the curb, and that's what caused the brain injury."

  Sets? What was she talking about? I knew about the passing out thing, but I wanted to know why I passed out. What was I doing?

  I wrote down "sets?"

  She nodded. "Yeah, you were singing at the bar."

  I looked at her like she had three heads. That made no sense. I don't sing. Well, not outside the car or the shower anyway.

  "Esther, do you remember that?"

  I shook my head again.

  She reached into her magical bag and pulled out her laptop. She adjusted her glasses and talked herself through starting it up. Her computer skills were actually pretty impressive, but her narration gave the impression that she had no idea what she was doing. After a few minutes, she pulled up You Tube and typed in "The Rusty Buckets." A few more clicks and there I was singing with some bald, tattooed guy. We sounded incredible, even on the poor quality video. She pushed the laptop to me and watched over my shoulder. I was wearing that black flimsy shirt that was in my drawer. Now I was sad that it had been cut, since I looked hot in it. Even though my hair was large, it looked fantastic and I missed it terribly. Never thought I would say that.

  Wow, I was good. I never thought I was a particularly strong singer. That had been Aster. But in that video I think I sounded better than she did, especially in her last years. I had a stage presence that was unexpected as well. I had always thought Aster was the one with the charisma. I guess no one ever looked past her
to see if I had any. But man, I did. I wondered if I would ever be able to sing again.

  "Yeah, you were fantastic. I couldn't believe you were up there. I didn't know you had it in you."

  Yeah, me neither. I was transfixed. She reached over and pulled up another video, and I watched myself, mesmerized.

  "Oh my God, Esther!"

  "What?" I said, snapping out of my reverie.

  "ESTHER! You were singing along, and then you just answered me! Oh my God, Esther, you're cured!"

  Jillian was now jumping up and down, arms flapping about. Her perfect black bob even dared to move out of place. She looked absolutely ridiculous. I started laughing. It was easy to laugh. I knew I wouldn't be able to speak, but I didn't want to disappoint her. It seemed to be my pattern. Apparently I could sing if I wasn't thinking about it. That shouldn't have surprised me. I was always singing in my car and in the shower. I think I probably sang and was not even aware of it. And it looked as though I could speak in response to something that didn't require an active thought. I could react when shocked or surprised. The act of thinking about what I wanted to say still had me tongue-tied.

  I thought long and hard about what I wanted to say. I wanted to tell Jillian that I wasn't better. I wanted to tell her not to be too excited, that I was still broken. "No."

  Jillian stopped flapping and flailing, and looked at me. "What did you say?"

  "No."

  "No what? Can you say something else?"

  "No." Jesus Christ. I now had the vocabulary of a stubborn two-year-old. I'm not sure this was any better. I shook my head. Fuck. I handed her back her laptop and stood up. This was a lot to process. I was singing in a band. I had a boyfriend who was not only pretty cute, but he was a doctor. I was bald.

  Oh God, this boyfriend guy—he's seen me all terrible looking and bald with bad clothes and stuff. I looked down at my clothes. No lie, it was a pink sweat suit. I had on white Keds that looked like something a little old lady in a nursing home would wear. My head had been cut open. I had not had makeup on my face since the accident. And I couldn't speak. Wow, I was bringing a lot to the table here. No wonder he didn't tell me who he was. I bet he was glad that I couldn't remember him. He now had an out.

  Jillian was watching me carefully. She must have seen my despair when I was trying to figure out what I looked like.

  She took on her nurturing, social-worker voice that soothed even the most irate of clients. "Oh, honey, it's not that bad."

  I gave her the best dirty look I could muster, which must not have been that good, since it made her laugh.

  "Okay, okay, it is that bad. Those clothes are terrible. We need to get you some of your clothes."

  The thought of having my own stuff made me feel infinitely better and terribly worse all at the same time. I wanted my stuff. I wanted my apartment. I wanted to be out of this hospital, but I didn't know if any of that would even be a possibility. I couldn't work. I didn't know if I would ever be able to go back to work. I would have to go on disability. I didn't have a lot of savings, and I would be destitute soon. Where would I live? What would I do? Oh my God, I was going to be a homeless street person speaking in gibberish!

  "Esther, Esther, calm down!"

  I hadn't realized I was pacing like a caged tiger. I was on the verge of a massive panic attack. I looked at Jillian, begging her with my eyes to help me.

  "Relax, we'll figure this all out. I'll help you get this straightened out, but you've got to calm down. I've been trying to see you, but they kept saying that you were not well enough for visitors. They said every time you had a visitor in the other hospital, your blood pressure would rise and they were afraid you would have a stroke. No one's really been allowed to see you, other than O.K., I guess."

  Huh. Maybe that would explain why I hadn't had any visitors. I wondered if my family had tried to visit and had been turned away. Not that I could, but I was afraid to ask. If they hadn't come, I think it would break what little remained of my spirit. I tried to focus on an ugly painting of a warped bulldog on the wall and worked on evening out my breathing.

  Jillian continued. "I'm going to go to your place and get some of your stuff, if that is all right with you."

  I nodded.

  "I'll track O.K. down and see if he has your keys. Or, I'll strong arm your super into letting me in." That made me laugh. Jillian was not quite five feet tall. I could not imagine her strong-arming anyone. But then again, I had heard her bully her way into the hospital.

  "And don't worry. People have donated their sick time, so when yours runs out, you will still get paid. We've taken up a collection too, to help you with your expenses."

  I looked at her and started to cry. I hadn't even been there that long. Only about six months. Or was it eight? I had no idea when it was. Either way, I hadn't known these people that long and their generosity was touching.

  "I'm gonna bring you your stuff and clothes and get you fixed up. All you have to do is focus on getting better. But that means you have to leave your room and do your therapies."

  How did she know I had been refusing?

  "They told me when I came in that you were depressed and were refusing to participate, and therefore you obviously were not well enough for visitors."

  I shook my head. Seeing Jillian was exactly what I needed.

  She pulled out a box of doughnuts from her bag. My eyes grew wide.

  Jillian smiled. "See, I knew it. They've been starving you, haven't they?"

  I smiled in return and took a Boston Cream. It was the best doughnut I have ever tasted. I licked my lips, enjoying the sweet thick cream. I could not remember the last time I'd had sex (did that doctor-guy and I have sex? Damn if we did and I couldn't remember!). But I'm pretty sure I was about to have an orgasm from this doughnut.

  In about thirty seconds flat, I had housed the doughnut. I was licking my fingers when I realized that I had spilled the custard down the front of my rocking grammy-pink sweat suit. Damn it, I Berted.

  Berted? What the hell did that mean? And why did I feel like it meant something sexual. Shit, why couldn't I remember?

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  "Hey Red, how's it shakin'?"

  The bald, tattooed guy from the band was walking up to me. He looked like a badass Mr. Clean, carrying a guitar. I was in a large lounge for the rehab patients, where we could all hang out when we weren't being tortured by our therapists. I was reading a book since I couldn't really make small talk with anyone. I was having trouble concentrating on the book, so I welcomed the distraction. The distraction from being distracted, that is. I put the book down. I self-consciously smoothed the fuzz on my head. My hair was growing back in, and it seemed like it was going to be curlier than ever. I was happy that Jillian had come through for me, getting me some of my own clothes and personal items. I had a little makeup on and was at least in my own yoga pants and nice t-shirt.

  I was glad I had seen the videos from the band performance, otherwise I would not have recognized this guy at all. At night, when all the rehab was done for the day, I snuck down to the lounge and watched the three videos of me singing over and over. I couldn't believe how well I sang and what great chemistry we had together.

  "Do you remember me?"

  I smiled and shook my head. I had made a little bit of progress in speech therapy during the week with Meghan, getting out a few words here and there. But it was in single-word utterances, and there was still a lot of garbage coming out of my mouth. We had figured out that I could sing along with music though. I didn't know the science behind it, but I figured it must be a different, uninjured part of my brain.

  "How's it going?"

  I shrugged and gestured helplessly. Somebody must have told him that I couldn't talk, right? I looked nervously around the room. When Jillian came to visit, she did all the talking. It was great. Mr. Clean just kind of sat there. He looked as nervous as I felt. I needed to do something to break the tension. I looked around again and then pointed to
the guitar case by his feet.

  "You wanna hear something?"

  I nodded again. He busied himself taking his guitar out, turning the knobs and adjusting it. He played a few chords and then looked at me.

  "Ready?"

  I shifted forward on my seat and leaned in. I nodded for him to continue.

  He started with one of my favorite Queen songs. It was the perfect duet for us, and without being able to understand how or why, I started singing along with Mr. Clean. He looked startled for a moment when I began singing but rolled with it and kept going. We did three songs, all of which I seemed to know. I was guessing that we had done them in our bar performance, but I couldn't be sure. For the first time since I'd woken up, I truly started to feel alive again.

  "I wanna try something new. We did this one as a warm up. Before ..." He broke off. He swallowed hard and continued, "Not really bar material but I just think it fits now."

  He strummed the opening chords and started singing. He had appropriately picked the song "Say Something" by A Great Big World. We were in tune and harmonizing, as if we had practiced this yesterday. I could not control the tears from streaming down my cheeks any more than I could control the fact that I now could sing. The song was emotional to begin with. Despite the fact that it was about a failed relationship, it had always reminded me of Aster. Looking for that explanation and then giving up when it doesn't appear. I had done that. I had given up on my sister and now my family had given up on me. The enormity of my solitude came crashing in on me as the song came to a close. My gentle tears took over and became an ugly sob.

  Mr. Clean put down his guitar and awkwardly patted me on the back as I held my face in my hands. "Sorry, Red. Bad choice for a song," he stuttered. "I, um, I'm sorry. I just, I mean, I didn't think."