The Same River

by Lisa M. Reddick

  She tried to move toward the winter, but the weight of the dark water pulled her back under. She let the w’s pull her up like a net. It was so hard here.

  BARBARA

  Barbara glanced over at Dr. Sheldon for assurance. She was looking down at her charts, making notes.

  “She said ‘winter.’ Did you hear her?” Barbara was holding on to what little movement Jess had made in the last several days. Traumatic brain injury. TBI. Barbara had spent nights and mornings on her computer, trying to learn what the doctors wouldn’t tell her. Jess had experienced a stroke as a result of the damage and now was diagnosed with Broca’s aphasia, a speech disorder that resulted in her being able to speak only in short, startled sentences, as if her language were balled up inside her and only small strands could come to the surface.

  It was winter. A light, early-January snow had fallen the night before and was dripping in small rivulets off the roof just outside Jess’s window in the hospital room. Ever since Jess had arrived in the hospital, she had kept her face turned toward the natural light. Barbara knew her daughter would come back to whatever that meant for her.

  Dr. Sheldon appeared next to Barbara. “Her reactions are consistent with the results of the CT scan we did a few days ago. Now that she has become more responsive, I will order some more tests for her, including an electroencephalogram.” Barbara looked at her blankly.

  “It’s called an EEG. What we will do is attach electrodes to Jess’s scalp and get a more detailed measurement of her brain activity level. I will talk to the neurologist and find out what the schedule looks like for the next few days. Once we get a sense of her brain activity, we can begin to plan her therapy schedule.”

  Barbara stood unblinking next to Jess. “Will my daughter ever be the same, Dr. Sheldon?”

  “It’s too early to answer that. I’m so sorry. Her symptoms have stabilized, so her body is doing what it needs to do to heal from the injuries. It’s going to be a long road back for her, but we know so many ways to help patients who have had the kind of trauma she’s had.”

  Jess’s eyes flew open, and she said, “Winter! Come winter!” She looked frantically toward her mother.

  “Jess, I’m here. Oh, please don’t be afraid. It’s going to be okay.”

  The rhythmic sounds of the monitors increased in their tempo as Jess’s heart rate and breathing rate rose.

  “Dr. Sheldon, she’s so scared!”

  “It’s okay—she’s just disoriented, and the next few days will be a dance between waking and a dream state that will be kind of haunting for her. It will be up to all of us to help lend meaning to what’s happening to her.”

  “Bird coming! White bird is coming?” Jess looked wide-eyed toward the window.

  “Sweetheart, there is no bird coming. I’m your mother. You are in the hospital. You have had a terrible accident.”

  “Bird! Mother! Winter bird coming mother!” Jess closed her eyes, and the rage of the increased beeps calmed to a slower rhythm.

  JESS

  Her wheelchair felt like a kind of harness holding her up to the hospital window so she could see out to the courtyard below her room. The book in her lap, recommended by her speech therapist, was like a children’s book, with pictures and words that would help her bridge her thoughts and words to images. Now-familiar shooting pains ran up her left leg, and the vision in her right eye was still blurred and, according to her doctors, “of concern.”

  Jess wanted to get up and walk away. She had never been good at waiting, at healing, but now she had to give herself time to let her scar tissue develop gradually, so it wouldn’t be hard, protective, and unmoving. Because of the attack, she had missed winter turning into spring and it seemed to her that the trees had suddenly blossomed, the birds had arrived overnight, and the sun had leaped up into the center of the sky from the low winter place on the horizon. Just below her was a small grove of alder and maple trees that had shed their early-spring catkins and were fully leafed out and shimmering in the spring morning sun. Kids were making their way to school, laughing and charging ahead to meet up with friends. She could hear the subtle edge of their voices, the high-end murmur blending with the spring birdsong. Jess closed her eyes and shifted her weight, letting the book fall closed. Time surrounded and waited, taunting her, reminding her that there was something missing—or was it that there was suddenly something there?

  She shook her head and wheeled herself around so she could see the too-large face of the hospital clock. Another twenty minutes until her first round of physical therapy for the day. The nurses, doctors, and therapists all encouraged her, cheering her toward the finish line: full use of her leg. Right now it felt foreign to her, as if someone had popped it out like a Barbie doll’s leg and popped back in a leg belonging to the wrong doll. She rubbed her thigh, and a swirling mist of memory gathered in her mind. She was young and could hear the TV in the other room. Her Breyer horses were placed on the floor around her in her bedroom. She had one of Monica’s Barbies, which would be the rider. Her leg popped out as Jess forced her onto the wide back of the plastic horse. Jess tried to put it back. She just couldn’t get it right.

  In the last three and a half weeks, she had gotten really good at maneuvering her wheelchair, but she had to be careful—moving too quickly would cause her headaches to come back, feeling like nails driven into the side of her head, and she would stop, catch her breath, and wait for the pain and the flashing red light show in her mind to calm.

  “Hey, Jess!”

  Jess swung her chair around to see Leslie coming toward her with a wide smile. She was carrying flowers draped across her arms like loose bunny ears.

  “Oh, Les, I forgot it was you coming today!” Jess exclaimed in a slow, careful voice.

  Les put the flowers down on the nurses’ counter and kneeled in front of Jess. Her black hair had been cut boy-close, and her deep-blue eyes shone with both concern and delight. She had lost weight, Jess noticed, which was a sure sign Les was in a new relationship. The image of a priestess came to Jess’s mind: tall, regal, in a flowing gown . . .

  “Oh, sweetie, you look like shit. I know so many people must come to see you and say, ‘Oh my God, Jess, you look so much better.’ But you were practically killed, torn open and left on the riverbank like a spent salmon. Damn, I am so sorry this happened to you. I wish I could have come sooner, of course. But word has it you’ve been pretty out of it these past months.”

  “I’m glad you are here,” Jess said slowly, while wondering whether it was true or not. “It’s good to see you, Les.” Les held her hand, and Jess closed her eyes, letting the good feelings and positive images from their long friendship ride up on waves of recognition.

  Her speech lulled, and she knew that, as hard as she tried, Les would be able to see that she had been damaged, that there was a chance she would not fully recover her speech abilities. The right upper fang of the mountain lion had pierced her skull and torn her brain. She was partially paralyzed on the right side of her face, and she couldn’t tell whether her mind was okay. She tried to find a way to tell, a reference point from a time before. She looked up at Les, her eyes focusing, trying to order her words in a way that would make sense. It was as if she suddenly had to pay attention to something that was unconscious and taken for granted. A crevasse had opened up in her mind, and she was trying to rebuild the bridge from one side to the other.

  Les looked at her sadly. “I’m going to be here for a few days, Jess. I handed off one of my projects to Jamie, my assistant, and I can work from here by email and cell phone. But you have to promise me that you’ll let me know what you need from me, how I can help you.”

  “Thanks, Les. It’s so good you are here. I have a few minutes before physical therapy.” Jess looked up at the large face of the clock on the wall above her. She tried to focus on the letters—no, numbers—the idea of time forming in her mind like a small storm. “Where are you staying?”

  “Oh, I have a room at the R
iverside Hotel in town. It’s not bad—at least I hear the sounds of the Nesika blending with the freeway traffic at night.”

  “My place. Haven’t been there. You could stay?” Jess closed her eyes, picturing her front door and Miko, like a sentinel waiting for her, taking care of her little house. Thoughts of her boy wrapped around her like a cloak. She missed him so much.

  “Mom has Miko.”

  “I hope he’s okay. Wow, that would be great if I could stay at your place. Thanks, Jess. I don’t have a lot of extra money lying around these days.”

  “I can’t remember how I left it.” Jess looked down and thought hard. There were clear places—she recalled seeing Martin; the cedar trees that had been cut, the pungent, open wood; and the rough, hard edges of the fresh stumps. From there her mind slid down a ramp into disorder. There was the dam, Miko barking, Jeff’s embrace, the chords of the river, the salty, blood smell, the saliva on her skin, and the sound of a woman’s voice shouting in a strange language . . .

  “Hey, Jess, you okay?”

  “Yeah. I . . . I need some fresh air. Let’s go this way.” She wheeled herself over to the elevators and pushed the down arrow. They waited in silence and she rolled her chair quickly through the open doors and faced the back of the elevator. Les stood beside her and put her hand gently on Jess’s shoulder. Jess folded forward and began sobbing. She felt like something was breaking open now that Les was here. She reached up to her friend, and Les put the flowers in her lap and knelt down beside her. When they reached the floor, Les stood up and wheeled her chair through the too-bright hallway and out the automatic doors.

  Jess leaned back in her wheelchair and felt the soft, cool rain of early spring on her already wet face. Les stayed close and quiet near her, and Jess could sense her protectiveness and steady concern. She felt the first strand of her healing begin to cross the divide in her mind. It created a path for a current of grief and terror to ride out, and for her connection to who she had been before the attack to return.

  “When they ask me how I feel, I know they want answers. Something else going on for me, Les.” She stopped and she tried to slow her mind, breathe into it, and find the tangible strands of thinking that she was beginning to put together.

  “Something old has happened to me. From another time, but not now, not like this.” A pair of robins swooped in front of her, and as she watched their curved flight up into the welcoming branches of the alder, she shuddered, as if she were beginning to wake from a dream.

  JEFF

  Jeff had been calling Jess’s house for the past few weeks. He wasn’t sure how to reach her, since the attack had happened so soon after they had awkwardly reconnected. He had decided that leaving messages at her house was better than seeing her at the hospital or talking to her while she was still there. Imagining her body, so torn and suddenly out of her control, was something Jeff couldn’t or didn’t want to do. He had heard that Jess’s friend Leslie had come to town, and he hoped she might get a message to Jess. He had thought about Jess a lot, more than he had expected to, after their meeting and the next day at work, when they had told him where they had found Jess and how dangerously injured she was.

  The ring of his cell phone startled him. Jeff flipped it open. “Hi, it’s Jeff.”

  “Jeff, it’s me, Jess.” Her voice sounded slower, more deliberate, and Jeff steadied himself by leaning against the side of his truck.

  “Les said you called, and I wanted to talk with you.”

  “Yeah, I’ve been calling your house. I don’t know, I guess I just wanted to wait until you got home. How are you doing?”

  “I’m doing better. My brain is messed up, and my leg is trying to mend itself as best it can. But, according to the experts, with the right kind of therapy and time, I should be all right enough.” Her voice was different, but Jess was there; she would find her way back. She’s going to be fine, he thought.

  The silence held them for a moment. The twisted conflict of his feelings stuck in his throat at first, but then he told himself, She has suffered enough.

  “Do you know I tried to track the cat with Dale?”

  She didn’t respond; he felt her pull back, ready to pounce.

  “I didn’t know what to do with myself when I heard what happened to you. I wanted to see you, do something, but . . . so I called Dale and asked if I could help. Work was slow, and I thought I could be useful. It felt good to be in the forest, to be hunting.” He wanted to say, “To be helping you,” but he stopped.

  “Thanks, Jeff.” He could hear her breathing slowly and felt her taking time to sort through what she wanted to say.

  “Leslie brought my laptop and work over from the house. I know this sounds strange, but could we meet? She’s trying to get me going again. I need to get back to work.”

  Jeff had a hard time understanding her. Her words were clear but out of sync—like a new rhythm, a drumming from another time.

  Jeff felt his chest tighten. “Sure, Jess, of course I can. I just finished a meeting that will launch me into a huge project.” He stopped himself—probably not a good time to tell her that he was in charge of upgrading the Green Springs dam. “Should I come by in the morning?”

  “Yeah, that would be great. I think I have my usual physical therapy at nine thirty, so could you come by around ten thirty?”

  “That would be fine. I have a meeting in town at twelve thirty, so I’ll be coming that way anyway. It’ll be good to see you, Jess.”

  Jeff stood for a while, looking out at the drying forest. There was so much life here this time of year, something regular, rhythmic, and predictable. Yet in the center of the predictability were changes that could have irreversible and permanent effects.

  A pair of robins chased each other through the alders. He turned toward his truck and got into the front seat. He waited before leaving, watching the pair dart through the shadows like the many transitions happening in his life. Jess, on the one hand, ripped open and trying to heal, was moving back toward the strength and certainty of her life and risking everything, while the men in the meeting just now were constructing something based on laws and rules that served only a specific interest.

  The currents tugged at him as he started his truck. There were some measurements he needed to make up on the Nesika; this year’s run of winter steelhead was starting to visit some of the restored spawning areas. Mostly, he wanted to hide from what was happening—the pull of Jess, the surrender to Power-Corp—and rest in the wild cry of the full Nesika.

  JESS

  Jess closed her cell phone and placed it on the dark blue plastic tray near her bed. Staring at it, she tried to organize her thoughts and untangle them from the swirl of her feelings about Jeff. His voice had the same warmth, but there was a space between them that felt strange and hurt her. Talking with him brought to the surface memories that she could use to orient her mind, her heart, and heal more than the physical wounds from the mountain lion. In the past few days, she had been able to move on her own into and out of bed, knowing this was what the doctors and therapists were looking for in order to begin to think about a time when she could be discharged. Knowing Leslie was nearby, knowing Jeff had called the wrong place but had called, and the daily visits from her mom and various other friends had all served to push her toward the time when she would be able to go home. Her injuries were healing, her leg practically fully usable, but her brain, her mind, her ability to connect her thoughts and her speech, remained damaged. The doctors and specialists assured her that she would progress steadily and could hope for a complete recovery. Jess knew differently; she knew that even though the goal around her was for her to make it back to where she’d been, there was no going back. What had happened to her had changed her; at times, she could follow the impulse of her body to heal itself down into the dark folds of the cat’s bite in her flesh. She felt as if she needed a new name, a new identity, but the pieces of her that had existed before the attack didn’t fit with those that hadn’t
.

  At the window, she looked down into the grassy courtyard. Rhododendrons and dogwood were beginning to bloom and fill the burgeoning green branches with color and life. She knew she would get out soon and thought of the small square of ground behind her house, the green shoots pushing up between the brown, folded stems of last year’s garden. More images stirred: Miko’s soft ears, early-morning sun on her bedcovers, the scent of her bedroom, her photos, her work . . .

  She turned toward the table where Leslie had left her laptop. God, the email, she thought. How could she even begin to sort through what must be there? Her head began to hurt, and she focused on the tangle of branches through the trees outside her window. Closing her eyes, she tried to imagine what could be trying to reach her and why. She tried to locate in herself the person the emails had been sent to, who she had been before the attack. For a moment, she sensed a woman striding through her life, assured that what she was doing was the right thing. She saw that woman making sacrifices—her job, her relationship—for those very right reasons. Then the woman turned and looked at her, and Jess saw that she was leaving, handing Jess a deep uncertainty about who she was, what she was doing, and why.

  She opened her eyes, slowly lifted the screen on her laptop, and turned it on. The processor hummed, and the operating system powered on. A very cute picture of Miko illuminated the screen. Her heart ached as she imagined his brown, watery eyes and the spiral tail that could whip in circles so fast, she sometimes thought he might lift off.

  Myriad files and programs launched on-screen. She felt as if she wanted to draw lines to connect them with each other; their meaning slipped inside her mind, and she tried to hold on to it. She connected to the hospital Wi-Fi system and checked her email: 214 messages. She watched them scroll past quickly, leaned back in her chair, and closed her eyes.