He glances at the phone. “Old. Definitely old. My rehab nurse let me mess around on hers a few times.”
“Awesome,” I say, trying to sound more like a friend than a doctor as I bring out a pair of white earbuds and hand them over to him along with the smart phone. “Then you know how to access the iTunes app. I’ve already put a few songs on there for you…”
“You did?” he asks, his whole face lighting up.
“I did,” I answer, finding his happiness too infectious not to smile back. “And if you want more music, all you have to do is download it. I pre-loaded a gift card on there.”
He touches the device reverently, as if it’s a bar of gold and not just the first device I randomly grabbed out of the box of old special phones under my bed.
“Thank you,” he says. He hits me with that blue gaze again, tugging on me with that killer smile of his. “I can’t wait to listen to all the music you like.”
My heart skips a beat, and I have to remind myself about all sorts of things. All sorts of things a medical professional shouldn’t have to remind herself about during the last weeks of her residency.
You’re only here to help, I hiss inwardly as out loud I use my authoritative doctor voice to tell him, “If you hear anything on there that jogs your memory, make sure to let your team know.”
“Okay,” he agrees easily enough. But then he nods his head toward the seat I abandoned in order to hand him his gift. “You going to finish the rest of that sandwich or what?”
“Actually, no I’m not,” I answer. “I’m not that hungry.” Because there’s a whole swarm of butterflies where my empty stomach used to be. “And I have a lot of paperwork to do downstairs. Plus, I have some calls to make...”
I shift from foot to foot and say, “So, yeah…I should get going. I’ll, um…see you at rehearsal next Monday. Maybe. I mean, if you come down. Not that you have to—I mean, you’re on Lofstrands so I don’t expect anything of you. But if you do come down to see the kids, I’ll see you then. That’s all I meant.”
You know, I actually used to be cool. Really, really cool. Before I came to West Virginia. Before this exact moment. I’d even gotten rid of my glasses a few months before coming out here, thanks to Lasik. But I fight the urge to tell him that, and instead gather my things, dumping the rest of the uneaten sandwich into the nearest trash bin as I pull my “V”irkin bag over one arm.
But when I turn to say one last goodbye, I find him watching me with the stillness of a predator. One who lets a beat or two pass before saying, “Cane.”
“Excuse me?”
“The boot’s coming off and they’re giving me a cane tomorrow. No more special crutches.”
“That’s great news!” I say, clutching and unclutching the rolled handles of my mock-croc handbag. “So I guess I’ll see you Monday.”
“Yeah, I guess you will,” he answers.
I start to head out, so happy my skin is on the deeper side of brown, because if I was the same color as the John Doe, I’d be visibly red all over.
However, his voice stops me just as I’m about to open the door. “But, Doc, just so you know…”
He pauses, obviously waiting for me to turn back around and face him like a civilized human. So I do, even though “level-headed doctor” only feels like a part I’m playing at this point.
And his gaze once again completely and utterly catches mine as he says, “Cute as they are, it ain’t the kids I’m coming down there to see.”
Chapter 4
So yeah, he said that. He said that to me. The pediatric resident with a bad habit of being reduced to an incoherent babbling fool whenever he pins me with those beautiful blue eyes of his.
I spend a lot of time…a serious lot of time…trying to pretend he didn’t say it. And by Monday, I think I’ve finally got a hold of myself.
I ignore his presence at my rehearsal that morning. Treating him like all the other people in the hospital who come to watch the ever-changing makeshift choir of children sing.
And yes, I go to see him again on my lunch hour that day, because I doubled up all of my lunches when I was making my weekly meals Sunday night. But that’s only because the hospital food is truly and wretchedly awful. And also because bringing him lunch gives me an excuse to casually work with him on his memory exercises.
In any case, I decide not to think too much about how he looks happy, but not at all surprised, when I knock on his door.
“What are you watching?” I ask when I see the black family full-out yelling at each other on his television.
“Dunno, fell asleep watching the news and this was on when I woke up. I think it’s called Rapper’s Wives or something like that. All I know is they fight a lot and say a lot of bitchy stuff behind each other’s backs.”
“Rap Star Wives,” I correct with a wry smile. I grab the remote connected to his bed and switch it off. “And trust me, there are way better shows for somebody with a TBI to watch. That show will rot your brain faster than fast.”
“Shows like Devil Riders?” he asks. “Cuz a message keeps popping up at the bottom of the screen to say it’ll be on next.”
“Shows like Jeopardy,” I answer.
“Do they yell at each other and get into a lot of fights on that show, too?”
I laugh and hand him a bento box with today’s lunch.
While eating the tofu and quinoa dish, we talk a little more. He tells me the few things he knows about himself. It’s a disturbingly short list that includes “likes Lynyrd Skynyrd” and “knows how to ride a motorcycle” and he was “maybe not surprised” about “them neuro evaluation scores.”
He tells me “the head doctor” advised him to watch TV—see what sparked his memory. But he doesn’t like it much—that feeling is old. So far he prefers radio. He switched over to the country station this weekend and found he really liked that kind of music. Especially a singer called Colin Fairgood.
“No surprise there,” I tell him. “That guy seriously crosses over. I mean, he’s even done a song with C-Mello—that guy you were watching on Rap Star Wives.”
“Is he on that playlist you gave me?” John asks.
“No,” I answer. “But I do actually like his stuff. Especially his second album. Here, let me download it for you…”
He hands me his phone and after I download C-Mello’s career making album onto it, I scroll to look at John Doe’s “recently played” list. Almost everything on the playlist I gave him is there. “Is any of this old?”
He shakes his head. “No, it’s all pretty new.”
Maybe not so surprising. There’s some Top 40 mixed in, but mostly it’s a wide range of pop, rap, and indie songs I’ve come to love throughout the years. Some of them well-known, some of them not so much.
But I have to ask, “Even Eminem is new to you?”
“That’s the ‘Lose Yourself’ guy, right?”
I nod without adding that nine out of ten of the white boys I knew back in California loved his tracks when I was a kid.
He frowns hard before answering again. “No, you’re right, he ain’t completely new. But it’s kind of hard to explain. I feel like maybe I heard him and didn’t like him, but now I do. Does that make sense?”
“It does,” I answer, before taking a thoughtful bite of my tofu and quinoa—a dish John had declared “really new” after his first fork full.
But he must like it, because he ends up finishing every bite. Or maybe he just likes you, a small, secretly thrilled voice inside my head suggests.
Seriously, I have got to start dating as soon as I hit Seattle this summer. In California there’d been plenty of guys, but out here in West Virginia—not so much. Partly because of my patent inability to trust any man’s attraction to me, and partly because it’s West Virginia and real hospital life is not a Shonda Rhimes show. Whatever the case, I’ve obviously been in a drought state for way too long if I’m getting all sorts of secret thrills from the prospect of being liked by someone w
ith a TBI.
“Okay, let’s work through a few of these cognitive exercises I brought with me before I have to go back downstairs,” I say, bringing my iPad out of my bag.
His lazy gaze flickers from warm and engaged to disappointed. “So you ain’t really here just to visit this time either?”
“No, I…” I stop and take the time to put together my thoughts before answering. “Look, I know this has got to be unbelievably hard for you. The accident, the head trauma, and then the amnesia on top of it. I’m not trying to be your doctor. I hope you understand as a third-year peds resident, I’m technically not even qualified to oversee your care. But if you had someone with you—like a family member—your team would suggest they do all sorts of things to keep your mind sharp and help you get to a better place.”
I hold up the iPad. “Starting with these cognitive exercises to help you with your memory. So I guess you could say that’s what I’m trying to do here. Until you leave the hospital, I’ll be your family. At least until your real family gets here.”
He shifts on the bed, messes with his now boot-free leg. “My family…” he repeats.
And I get that I’m toeing a dangerous line. That I’m about a few seconds away from stepping all the way over it, but I find myself saying, “Yeah, your family. That’s what I’m trying to be for you. At least until you remember yours.”
His eyes raise to meet mine, and for once they don’t look lazy with amusement. “Alright,” he says. “If that’s the case, then I’ll do whatever you want me to, Doc.”
Good Lord, why did he have to put it like that? My body heats as images of him doing things—very bad things that a patient should definitely not be doing with a doctor—flash through my mind. And suddenly the mood in the room doesn’t feel very familial at all.
Cheeks flushed, I clear my throat and force myself back to the cognitive treatment plan. “Okay then, let’s start with a few math problems…”
Our first informal cognitive rehab session goes pretty well. And by the end of it, I know the IQ test they gave him wasn’t a one-off. He has a solid grasp of math, and a much bigger vocabulary than I would have (perhaps unfairly) assumed due to his deep southern accent combined with his generous usage of the word “ain’t.” He also has great recall, and even managed to draw a map of the eighth floor in his journal for me.
By the time we’re through, I can see why he set off a few red flags with psych. Other than his persistent amnesia, he scored way above average on all the informal cognitive tests I gave him. Which means it’s most likely not his traumatic brain injury keeping him from remembering things, but something else entirely.
I leave the iPad with him and tell him to keep doing the brain exercises on it. “Especially the word associations,” I say as I gather up my “V”irkin. “See what comes up.”
“Hey, Doc,” he says as I’m about to leave. Then he once more waits until I turn all the way back around to finish his thought. “Thank you,” he tells me, his tone and eyes sincere.
“Sure,” I answer, feigning like I’m not completely locked onto his gaze with a casual smile and a shrug. “Really, it’s nothing. It’s a nice change of pace for me after dealing with kids all day.”
But he doesn’t release me from his gaze. “Yeah, well…it ain’t nothing to me,” he says. “I want you to know that. Understand it. You’re a real nice woman, and that’s new to me. So thank you.”
“You don’t know a lot of nice women?” I ask, stepping forward. Because I’m curious, I tell myself. Not because he’s drawing me toward him with a term I don’t think 99% of the straight guys I’ve met would ever use to label me. He thinks I’m nice.
“No,” he answers bluntly. The word falls into the space between us like a confession. “I don’t think I do. I mean, everyone on the floor has been real kind. But I don’t mean nice like hospital staff. I mean nice like you. I’m pretty sure I don’t know anybody else like you. You’re new. ”
I’m new. And he thinks I’m nice.
I rush out of there with the aortic nerve in my stomach full on pounding. Not sure if I should come back to visit a man who makes me feel like I’m waiting for the results of my Pediatrics Board Certifications to download on my computer screen.
Yet here I am again on Tuesday, walking in with two bowls of three-bean avocado salad, and already afraid of what will happen when I leave at the end of the hour.
But this time when I hand him his reusable container, he says, “Tell me how you got into this whole doctoring business. I’ve been trying to figure it out on this iPad, but I don’t see how you could be a Senior Pediatrics Resident.”
My heart freezes. Apparently he’s been using the iPad I gave him for more than the brain teaser apps. Did he Google my name? Does he know…?
But then he says, “From what I can figure, you ain’t anywhere near thirty, and it says here you have to do four years of college, four years of med school, then a three year residency on top of that. So you should be thirty, right? But if I had to guess, I’d guess you’re no more than twenty-five.”
“You’re exactly right. I’ll be twenty-six in July,” I say with a relieved laugh. Then I peek at him to ask, “And how old do you think you might be?”
He shakes his head. “I dunno. Can’t tell from looking at myself in the mirror on account of me being all broken up. Also, I get to feeling older than I look sometimes. Does that make sense?”
I nod, thinking of the months after Chanel’s death. How silly every other person my age seemed at my arts college. At least until I met my best friend, Sola, a Guatemalan Dream Act student who actually had real shit on her plate.
“Yes, that makes sense,” I tell him. “And as for my age, I came out here from California to attend the University of West Virginia on a special combined Bachelor/Med degree scholarship program for Regional Hospitals. It’s unusual because not only did I graduate in four years with a combined degree, I was required to do my residency at this particular hospital as part of a state grant I received to complete my education. So here I am at the age of twenty-five. Does that make sense?”
He half-winces, before admitting, “Kind of. Go back to the part where you came all the way across the country to work here... ”
We end up talking for the whole hour as opposed to doing the word association tree I’d planned. He wants to know what I had to do in med school. Why I chose peds—especially pediatric oncology—because “ain’t that a little sad for you, Doc?”
Then he listens intently as I explain how many doctors, including myself, feel called to their particular specialties. I don’t tell him about Chanel. I still can’t talk about her, even after all these years.
But I do tell him how I put in a semester at a performing arts college called ValArts, before I was accepted into UWV’s seven-year combined medical degree and residency program. How I’d planned to go into musical theater for a while, until I dropped everything in order to take this once in a lifetime opportunity to get my education half-paid for and be of help in a field close to my heart. How, yes, it can be more than a little sad, but also more than a little triumphant, when things work out for my patients.
His questions are so direct and precise, I have to ask, “Does any of this seem familiar to you? Like maybe it’s a profession you’re familiar with?”
“No,” he answers. Then he thinks about it and says it again, “No.”
He still doesn’t sound all that sure about his answer, so I ask, “Does becoming a medical professional sound like something you’d want to do? Like maybe something you considered doing before?”
He thinks about it again. “More like something I’ve gotta do. I don’t know how else to explain it.”
His gaze goes to the window and he glares at the parking lot below. “This is hard,” he mutters.
I can only imagine, and I struggle to come up with some encouraging words. Kid patients are easy in their own way. I’m allowed to both ignore their tears and bribe them with the promise
of ice cream.
But I put in my rotations in med school before breaking off into my specialty. So I already know: adults are much harder. I feel frustrated with my uncharacteristic lack of a good comeback.
I’m actually really good with words, I want to tell him in that moment. But there’s something about you. You take my words away.
But obviously, I can’t say that. I’m a doctor who shouldn’t be here. And he’s a patient struggling with a TBI and what might very well be some type of psychosis.
“You mind getting out of here?” he says, his eyes still on the parking lot. “I’m kind of done visiting right now.”
I remind myself of all the things I read while researching his type of amnesia. About how amnesia patients, for understandable reasons, often get agitated. How they can easily become depressed. That TBI does, in fact, stand for Traumatic Brain Injury.
I’ve been trying, but still can’t imagine, what it must be like to wake up one day with no memory whatsoever of who you are. I still can’t wrap my head around what it would be like to have to piece my life back together with the small amount of information John has. Or having to sort everything I encounter into “old,” “new,” and “confusing.”
God, this John Doe makes my heart ache. And in the moment right after he asks me to leave, I want to do all sorts of unprofessional things. Like go over to the bed and hug him, crooning everything will be all right, even though I can’t possibly know that.
But I remember lying to Chanel in the exact same way, and I clamp my lips shut, refusing to do it again. Also, my lunch hour is already five minutes past over…
“Sure,” I say. “See you…later.”
I don’t say tomorrow, because I’m not brave enough to in the moment.
He doesn’t answer. Just continues to stare out of the window.
So I’m forced to leave him stewing in his frustration. Which makes me feel the opposite of my good intentions. Like I’ve made things worse for him, instead of better. Tuesday started off great, and ended up sort of depressing. As I gather my things and go, I seriously don’t know if I’ll be back on Wednesday.
His to Own: 50 Loving States, Arkansas Page 50