by N. K. Smith
It was like walking on that thing when I was in gymnastics class. “That thing” was so vague, even though my mental image of it was sharp. I couldn’t think of the term.
“What’sth the thingggggg that gymnasts warlk on?” I asked when we got to the curb. I hated that I still messed up words.
“A mat?”
“No,” I said, shaking my head. It was frustrating trying to lead someone to a word I should’ve known. “The lorng, thin thingggg. It’sth high urp.”
“Balance beam?”
I let out a relieved sigh. “Yesth. Barlance beam.” I gritted my teeth. “Baaaaaaalance beam.”
“That’s good.”
I smiled. Little things like correcting pronunciation had become huge deals, worthy of everyone’s pride and praise. They were big accomplishments to me, too.
“You thinking about the Olympics in 2012?”
I shook my head and looked back at the house. No, I could barely make it three feet without needing to hold onto something, so doing backflips was out. He was just trying to lighten the mood. I felt depressed that I still could barely feel my right leg.
Plus, there were certain toes, on both feet, I could no longer feel. No one would tell me if I’d ever regain feeling in them, but being diagnosed as a diabetic young, I’d always known the disease posed a threat to my extremities.
With the remembered word in mind, I could go on with my thoughts. Walking now was like walking on the balance beam when I was younger. If my feet weren’t in just the right place, I’d be flat on my face in no time.
I was tired of falling down.
My dad threaded my arm through his and placed my hand on his forearm. My shoulder was touching his elbow. This was how I was going to make it up the steps to the porch, and how I would get inside the house to sit down on the couch. With my father’s help - something I’d never asked for in my whole life.
The steps looked daunting.
I was thankful to have his arm for support.
I looked to my left and saw nothing but leaves on the ground. The same to the right. “Where’sth Elliott?”
“In school, remember?”
I sighed. Right. Elliott goes to school five days a week. School. Elliott was in school. I tried to retain this information, but my short-term memory was so very lacking.
It seemed to take forever to get to the front door. Tom was incredibly patient.
When we got there, I felt nervous. What if there were people inside? What if he’d changed everything while I was in the hospital? What if Helen was in there? What if...?
“What is it, Bunny?”
“What’sth in there?”
Again, he smiled that patient smile and shook his head. “Nothing but our things.” He patted my hand in reassurance. They told me and Tom things might be scary or hesitation might be a lasting effect because of the area of the brain the stroke had affected. Ever since I woke up, my brain just wasn’t the same. It was frustrating. People would tell me something and I’d repeat it in my mind, sometimes out loud, but a few minutes later I couldn’t remember it. I knew we’d had a conversation, but I couldn’t say what it was about.
As soon as we stepped over the threshold, he let me go first and I had to balance myself for about thirty seconds while he moved around me.
The left side of my face smiled.
I felt like I was home. His extra boots on the tiled floor and the way he carelessly threw his keys onto the little table felt good.
Home.
I liked it.
“Is the living room okay? I thought you might want to rest before tackling the steps up to your room.” He threaded my arm through his again.
“Isth Elliott going to come over?”
“He’ll be here in a few hours, but don’t forget you have therapy later.”
“Stho I can werk better?” I asked as he led me to the couch.
“No.” He set me in his recliner and looked down at me. “Not physical therapy, Soph. You had that earlier. Tonight is therapy to help you get over the things that have happened to you.”
As patient as he’d been, he seemed slightly put out that he had to go over this, presumably, again.
“I’m soooorry...” I had a choice to call him by his name, or call him dad. He was very tense and I wanted him to know that I understood all of it. While it scared the crap out of me, I knew why I had to go. “... Dad.”
He squatted down in front of me and for a brief second, I tensed, but knew he wouldn’t hurt me. “Why?”
I looked away because the emotion behind his eyes was raw and made me feel incredibly uncomfortable. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know—?”
“Because I was hurt and I hurt you, too.” I was thankful that it all came out right.
“I know you’ve never meant any of it. Besides, all I want for you is to get better. You’re working so hard. I’m proud.”
I felt the blush of embarrassment, but it was nice to hear someone say they were proud of me. I lived for moments like these now.
He sat back on his heels, stood up, and I looked at him again. “Yo, Soph, what do you want for lunch?”
“Isth Elliott coming over?”
There was a knock on the door and my dad went to answer it. I tried to smile when I saw Elliott, but I knew it was only with the left side of my face. Having practiced in a mirror, I knew that my right side just hung there.
I loved him.
I remembered all of the different ways I had hurt him. I’d hurt him badly, but he was still the first thing I saw when I woke from what I now knew was a coma. One minute I was looking at clouds and the next I was gasping for air and freaking out because he looked shocked and panicked, yet so oddly relieved.
“Elliott!” I practiced his name over and over with my speech pathologist. It was the one word I cared about the most, so it was the one word I wanted to pronounce correctly every time.
“Hhhhhhi,” he returned with the shy smile that had owned me since the first time I saw it.
He sat down on the couch and I bit my lip. I wanted to sit next to him. Tom had walked away after closing the front door and I didn’t want to have to ask Elliott to help me out of my dad’s chair.
He held a piece of paper in his hands, but didn’t mention it. He started telling me about his school day.
I loved his voice.
He got an “A” on his analysis of Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein and said “Gulf of Tonkin” in front of his entire History class without stuttering. It was impressive.
“That’s grape.” I frowned. I’d wanted to say “great.” I hated how challenging it was to talk anymore. I worked and worked but sometimes things just came out wrong. I was doing better, but it required so much concentration.
“I-it’s o-okay.”
I looked up at him. “What isth?”
Elliott just smiled at me, which let me know that I should’ve known, but my stupid brain had already forgotten.
“N-n-nothing. Is your fffffather c-c-cooking?”
I nodded. No one thought I was ready for that yet.
“I hhhhhave to g-g-give you ssssomething.”
He pushed the folded paper toward me. “There are th-things I wwwant you to kn-know. I’m sssorry I w-waited so long.”
I hated when he apologized. I just wanted to start over with him, but I didn’t know if that was possible.
I took the paper with my left hand and smiled, hoping he’d realize that it was actually an “I love you.” I remembered that I had practiced that phrase, too, so I tried it out. The sounds were slow in coming.
“I... love... you, Elliott.” My voice sounded innocent, and I felt innocent as well.
He smiled back at me, but he looked nervous. I turned my eyes to th
e paper. He had written me a letter. “I w-wr-wrote it w-when I w-was in the hhhhospital.”
It started so formally that I wondered if I wanted to read it.
I smiled. That was a great way to start it. I loved him, too.
Even though I hadn’t been a virgin in many, many years, I blushed. Elliott and I hadn’t even kissed since before we broke up.
As hard as it was to believe, I hadn’t thought about sex in a really long time. I glanced up at Elliott, but he was looking away, picking nervously at the seam of the couch.
This hurt.
I wanted to be his girlfriend. I wanted to be loved by him. I wanted him to touch the scar on my neck. I wanted to look into his eyes as we lay together in his bed.
But he was just my friend now.
From the corner of my eye, I saw him holding his hand out to me. I turned away because I felt overwhelmed and the sight of him didn’t help.
“SSSophie?” He took my fisted left hand and straightened the fingers. I didn’t look at what he pressed into my hand, but my fingers tightened once more, this time around the hard object.
“I llllllove you, Sophie.”
That was what he said, but he wasn’t my boyfriend anymore. This was one of the things I had to confront.
I wanted to be away so I could cry like the stroke-addled baby I was. I wanted to gain the physical distance his letter implied emotionally. He was abandoning me like I always knew he would.
With great effort, I hoisted myself out of the chair.
“Sophie, I’ll hhhhhelp you.”
I shook my head even as my body wobbled and my right leg threatened to give out. I could let him help me, but he’d just be gone tomorrow. I bit my lip in frustration because I couldn’t remember where the hell I was going.
My doctors explained how I had to be careful about right-sided neglect, because I couldn’t sense my right side and I could wind up bumping into objects. This time, the object I neglected was the TV tray Tom had set by me.
My cane was knocked from my hands. My water crashed to the carpet. The plastic cup gave a small bounce, but I did not. I stumbled and fell hard to the floor.
Elliott was by me immediately, as one hand swept back my hair; his thumb stroked my scar. I pinched my eyes shut because the tears kept coming. I hated my body. I had forgotten what a fully functioning body felt like. I couldn’t even get up out of a chair like a regular person! I couldn’t even exit an uncomfortable room without looking like a dependent toddler, tear-streaked cheeks and all.
“Don’t b-be mad, Sophie. I lllllove you,” he whispered and although I wanted to see his expression, my eyes remained shut.
“Dinner’s...” Tom’s voice broke the silence. I looked up at him. He focused on me, then Elliott, then the spilled water, and then me again. “Everything okay?”
Did he have the slightest clue how difficult that question was to answer?
I blinked and tried to remember what the hell had happened. All I knew was that I felt sad about something that just happened between Elliott and me. I felt the object in my hand and finally I looked at it.
It was Elliott’s green rock. He must’ve gotten it from my room when I was in the hospital. I didn’t know why, but it gave me hope. Elliott was giving me the rock I’d once taken. I felt like as long as I had it, I had a piece of him, too.
And it was enough.
Tom was holding one of my hands and Robin was holding open the heavy glass door. I roughly scratched my head and my dad tugged me gently. “Come on, Bunny, it’ll be fine.”
I was nervously shifting my weight from one foot to the other. If it wasn’t for my father’s support, I would have lost my balance for sure.
“But I won’t know anybody.” I looked around. My fingers tightened on my dad’s. “Why didn’t Elliott carme with usth?” I tried to ignore that my words were nearly unintelligible.
“Remember?” Robin said. “He’s in school today.”
Right. Elliott went to school. I committed it to memory... at least I hoped I did.
Not that it was unique, but tears slipped from my eyes. They’d told me just moments ago that I was here for rehabilitation, not just for my body but for my mind and emotions as well. I wasn’t really scared of that. I wasn’t trying to get out of it. I was just... I just felt like...
I was just worried about it. What was on the other side of that door? How would it affect me? I’d never been here before. The intense worry confused me. I didn’t think I was like this before. Was I?
“It’s only for two hours. No one’s abandoning you here.” Robin gave me an encouraging look.
“But what if... what if I get hurt?”
“No one will hurt you,” she replied.
“But what if...”
“Sophie, you have to do this. You know you do.” I looked at Tom. His mouth was set in a determined line and his eyes were as intense as I’d ever seen them. “You’re my daughter. You’re strong enough to do this and soon we’ll all be proud of your accomplishments. I love you, Bunny. You can do this.”
I swallowed hard and looked back at the door. I stopped pulling back and leaned forward. My dad told me he loved me all the time now and I wanted to believe that I could do this. Thankfully the impulses my brain sent to my right foot were acknowledged and I didn’t fall on my face.
I could feel the forced air from the building and it stopped me. “What if Elliott doesthn’t talk to me annnmore? What if he doesthn’t...?” I choked back a sob.
Robin touched my arm. “Elliott loves you.”
I took a step forward, knowing that the only thing I could do was trust in these people.
Two more steps and I was inside the building.
I wanted to make them all proud.
“Sophie, this is Dr. Stone. She’s going to take over where you and I left off.”
I looked at Robin in confusion. I thought she was... Did she mean that she didn’t want to be my therapist anymore? “But you sthaid... I thought you...?”
“I’m not abandoning you, just like I’ve told you before. Dr. Stone is a psychiatrist and has a specialty...”
I shook my head. “But I don’t know her.”
“I know, but she’s going to help you. While we made progress, I think it’s time to let someone else get to know you. That’s why you’re here.”
It sounded like she was dumping me. “You don’t warnt to help me annmore?”
“Of course I want to help you, but I’d like to do it as your friend.” She reached out and ran a hand over my hair, smoothing it. I’d seen mothers do that for their daughters at the park when I was little.
It felt nice.
Robin left after she told me I’d come to this building three times a week, for individual and group therapy, and speech therapy. Now I was alone with Dr. Stone. She had soft features and looked more like a young woman than someone who could be called a doctor. She smiled at me.
“You’re very lucky to have survived all that you have.”I felt as though I should have been angry, but all I could muster was a shrug. “I don’t fearrrl lucky.”
“What do you feel?”
I answered as honestly as I could. “I don’t know.”
The next session we talked about coping mechanisms. I told her about looking for spiders and imperfections in the paint or walls. I told her about drugs and alcohol and sex.
Near the end of the session, she asked me to tell her what had happened to me as a child.
“But you already know.”
“I know what I’ve read in a file, but you’ve told me nothing about your experience except how you were able to take your mind away from it. I’d like to hear what happened in your own words, Sophie.”
People said my name a lot here, like they were trying to get me to accept that I was
Sophie. Dr. Stone would say it a lot during our sessions, like she was trying to link how I felt to who I was.
I was Sophie and Sophie looked for spiders when Sophie was being raped.
I looked for spiders when I was being raped.
That would be hard to say, so I thought of something else to talk about that would satisfy us both. “My mom was mean to me.”
This seemed like too much. Couldn’t I just focus on healing my body?
“How was she mean?”
It was the details that exhausted me. I had hundreds of stories and memories to share. I didn’t want to speak them aloud; I didn’t want to even think about them. Thinking about hot peppers on my tongue, fists to my face, hands twisting in my hair, immovable walls, and glass coffee tables made me feel sick.
The more I went to therapy, all of them - speech, emotional, physical - the better I became at it all. My words were clearer, my stance and gait were improving and for the most part, it became easier to verbalize what I’d never said before. I realized that it wasn’t a secret that my mother’s boyfriend raped me. Dr. Stone said I would feel better once I said those things out loud. I didn’t think I would, but I knew I had to.
“The rocks dug into my back and then when... when they... when they flipped me over, the rocks cut my face and chest.”
I tried hard not to look at Shannon as she spoke. What she was saying was horrible and vile and made me feel angry and sick.
“There was a puddle next to me and I kept thinking that if they shifted me just right, my face would be in it. My mother used to tell me that a person could drown in even an inch of water. I just wanted to drown.”
“That’s why you jumped from the rocks, isn’t it? You fixated on that desire to drown,” the therapist said. Shannon came here after being pulled out of the Potomac. She had jumped from high up. Rock climbers like my father had seen her. Rescue workers like my father had pulled her out.