I know what the doc wants. “Aren’t you my doctor? Shouldn’t you be an advocate for me?”
“I am. I want what’s best for you. Your amnesia is rare and we know more about the far side of the moon than we do profound retrograde amnesia. You are vulnerable, and the more you learn about yourself within safe boundaries, the better your long-term success will be.”
This is one of those amnesia catch-22’s.
“Your father and I…” Claire pauses long enough to look from me to Doc Barb, then back again. “… think a slow reintroduction to society is appropriate. Nothing big; we’ll take you to a few intimate cocktail parties and small events until you’re confident on your own and comfortable talking with old friends.”
“That sounds mighty nice,” I say, but the last thing I want to do is go to some pea-pickin’ cocktail party and pretend I have amnesia. “But I don’t have old friends, and y’all are uncomfortable sittin’ around a dinner table talkin’ to me. I think the longest conversation I’ve had so far was with Old Edie when she said my hair looks like her dead dog.” I lift a hand and let it fall into my lap. “Oh, and with that guy Oliver on your terrace last night.”
Claire’s eyes round like she’s in shock. “You spoke to Oliver?”
“Oliver Hunt?” Marv sounds just as incredulous as his wife.
“He didn’t say his last name, but if he’s Meredith’s brother, that’s him.”
“And the two of you spoke?” Marv asks.
“Yes, but he said we don’t like each other.”
“Well…” Again the parents are speechless.
Doc Barb closes my thick file on her desk as she stands. Thank God the hour is over and I can… I can… I have no idea, but on the drive to Hawthorne the parents seem to believe I agreed to the four-to-six-months plan.
“I have a referral for an orthopedic surgeon,” Claire tells me on the way home. “His name is Doctor Graham and he specializes in hand and wrist reconstruction and comes highly recommended. Lee Brooks-Abrams went to him after the unfortunate Ugotta Regatta mishap.”
I look down at my hands and the sweater covering my wrists. I’ve been afraid to admit that my left ring and pinky fingers are starting to curl inward, despite physical rehab. I don’t think it’s all that noticeable yet, but I’m afraid it’s going to get worse. The parents must have been in contact with the OT I worked with at Livingston. I wonder what else they know about what happened to me all those months I thought they forgot about Edie.
“His work is miraculous. She has full use of her hand, and you can’t even see her scar unless you’re looking for it.”
The scars are an embarrassment for them. I don’t judge them because they are for me, too, and I can’t see a day when I don’t wear long sleeves to cover them up.
Marv glances up from his cell phone. “Outstanding. Graduated in the top three percent from Harvard Medical School.”
“I’ll call the doctor’s office, if you’d like.”
“Thank you,” I say, and just like that, my plans to escape Michigan are put on hold for a while yet. The parents are being pushy, but I’m not going to look a gift horse in the mouth. I’d love to have better use of my left hand, and I have to stick around a bit longer anyway. I’d like to hold a pencil and a pair of shears when I go home.
I realize I need a more realistic plan than “get out of Livingston and go home.” I can’t go anywhere without money or identification.
I’m revising the plan:
Get money.
Get ID.
Get surgery.
Get home by Christmas.
16
Thank the good Lord and baby Jesus I’m getting a new cell phone, and it’s at Marv’s suggestion, of all people. After our meeting with Dr. Barb, he shows me to an office that is so enormous, there’s room for the Resolute desk (okay, not the one in the White House, but it looks just as big and impressive), a conference table with three computers hooked to some sort of electronic hub in the middle, and a leather couch and group of chairs in front of the mahogany fireplace. The whole room has huge bookcases with sliding ladders. It smells like old books and money. If all that isn’t overwhelming enough, the chandeliers above my head are big enough to crush an elephant if they crashed to the floor.
I expect Marv to take his place behind the big desk, but we sit at the conference table instead, and he shows me how to boot up a computer and log on to the internet using a touch pad. “The world runs on technology, and it’s important for you to learn how to use the internet,” he says as he moves the cursor up toward a row of three different web browsers and overshoots them all. “These new keyboards are useless.” He slides the arrow too far down, circles back, and finally clicks the Explorer app. “I might be a bit rusty.”
Him showing me stuff I learned in grade school is painful for a lot of reasons, but I play stupid and say, “Oh,” and “Wow,” and “Gosh, look at that.” Then he pushes the keyboard in front of me, and now I have to play really stupid, like I don’t know my way around a computer or the internet. Like I don’t know how to pirate Netflix and HBO and binge-watch Stranger Things and Jane the Virgin while Momma ODs on ’80s music videos on YouTube.
I say things like, “Is that how I use this?” and “That’s amazin’.”