‘You don’t have to watch them in order, you know,’ she finally says.
‘I know. Mother told me.’
‘There are discs of when you were a teenager.’
‘I still am a teenager.’
There is a pause. A deliberate pause, I suspect. ‘I suppose,’ she says. She comes around so she is in my vision. ‘Aren’t you curious?’
Curious. It’s a word I looked up this morning after Mother used it to describe Mr Bender who lives behind us on the other side of the pond. I don’t know if Lily is asking me if I am inquisitive or odd.
‘I’ve been in a coma for over a year. I guess that makes me highly unusual; odd; and strange. Yes, Lily. I am curious.’
Lily’s arms unfold and slide to her sides. Her head tilts slightly. She’s a pretty woman. She looks to be fifty when I know she must be at least sixty. Small wrinkles deepen around her eyes. The subtleties of expression still escape me.
‘You should watch them out of order. Skip straight to the last year.’
Lily leaves the room, and on Day Fifteen of being awake, I make my first independent decision. I will watch the discs in order.
Widening
There is something curious about where we live. Something curious about Lily. Something curious about Father and his nightly phone calls with Mother. And certainly something curious about me. Why can I remember the details of the French Revolution but I can’t remember if I ever had a best friend?
Day Sixteen
When I woke this morning, I had questions. I wondered where they had all been hiding. Time heals. Is this what Father meant? Or were the words that had been lost in my head simply trying to find the proper order? Besides questions, the word careful came to mind, too. Why? I’m beginning to think I must trust words when they come to me.
‘Jenna, I’m leaving,’ Mother calls from the front step. ‘Are you sure you’ll be okay?’
Mother is going to town. It is the first time I have seen her leave the house since Day One.
‘I’ll be fine,’ I tell her. ‘My nutrients are on the counter. I know how much to take.’ I can’t eat regular food yet. When I asked them why, they stumbled over each other’s words trying to explain. They finally said that after a year of being fed through a tube, my system can’t utilize regular food for a while. I never saw the tube. Maybe that’s what’s on the last disc that Lily told me to watch. Why would she want me to see that?
‘Don’t leave the house,’ Mother adds.
‘She won’t,’ Lily answers.
Mother is going to town to interview workmen. She is a certified restoration consultant. Or was. She had a business in Boston restoring brownstones. It was her specialization. She was busy. Everyone wants to restore everything. Old is in demand. Lily says she had a respected reputation. Her career is over now because of me. There are no brownstones in California. But Mother says the Cotswold cottage we live in needs lots of restoration, and now that I am feeling better, it’s time she began making it livable. One restoration is not that different from another, she says. Fixing me and the Cotswold are her new careers.
She is halfway down the narrow front walk when I ask her my first question. I know it’s not a good time for her.
‘Mother, why did we move here?’
She stops. I think I see a slight stumble. She turns around. Her eyes are wide. She doesn’t speak, so I continue. ‘When the doctors, Father, and your career are all in Boston, why are we here?’
Mother looks down for a moment so I can’t see her face, then looks up again. She smiles. One corner. Then the other. A careful smile. ‘There are lots of reasons, Jenna. I can’t discuss them all right now or I’ll miss the shuttle into town, but the main reason is that we thought it would be best for you to have a quiet place to recover. And our plan seems to be working, doesn’t it?’
Smooth. Practiced. I can hear it in the singsong of her voice. In some ways it’s almost reasonable, but I can see the holes. Having a quiet place is not as important as being close to doctors. But I nod. There is something about her eyes. Eyes don’t breathe. I know that much. But hers look breathless.
My Room
I go to my room. I don’t want to. But before she left, Mother made one last request. ‘Go to your room, Jenna. I think you might need some rest.’ I don’t need rest, and I don’t want to go, but before I know it, my feet are taking me up the stairs and I am closing my door behind me. I know it would please her.
My room is on the second floor—one of ten rooms on the upper level, along with an assortment of closets, bathrooms, nooks, and other small windowless rooms that seem to have no purpose. Mine is the only one that is clean and has furniture. The others are empty except for an occasional spider or a piece of trash left by the previous occupants. The lower floor has at least another ten rooms, and only half of those rooms are furnished. A few of the rooms are locked. I have not seen them. Mother and Lily have rooms down there. The cottage is not a cottage at all. I looked it up to be sure. I looked up Cotswold, too. It’s a sheep. So we should live in a one-room house meant for sheep. I haven’t seen any sheep here either.
My room is at the end of a long hallway. It is the largest room on the upper level, which makes the lone bed, desk, and chair seem small and awkward. The polished-wood floor reflects the pieces of furniture. It is a cold room. Not in temperature, but in temperament. It reflects nothing of the person who inhabits it. Or maybe it does.
The only color in the room is the custard-yellow coverlet on the bed. The desktop is clear except for the Netbook that Father used to communicate with the doctors. No papers. No books. No clutter. Nothing.