Page 68 of Sparking Sara

“What do you mean she can see it?” I ask.

“We like our patients to acclimate back into their normal lives before leaving. Often, we will go on field trips. I think taking Sara to see her apartment would be a good first outing.”

“Really?” she asks.

“Sure, why not?” he says. “We’ll have to coordinate with your fiancé, of course.”

Sara looks over at me. “Will you come?”

I look at Donovan and he shrugs.

“I guess,” I say. “I mean, if Oliver doesn’t mind.”

Donovan helps Sara into the wheelchair. “It’s not Oliver’s decision,” he says. “It’s Sara’s.”

Donovan puts the bag of food in Sara’s lap and motions for me to step behind the wheelchair.

“You’re not coming?” I ask.

“You are capable of pushing a wheelchair, no?”

I laugh. “Of course.”

“No getting up out of your wheels, okay, honey?” he says. “Call me if you need any help. But somehow, I think you’ll be in good hands with the fireman. Have a good lunch, you two.”

I push her outside into the courtyard. It’s a sunny, temperate July day. Not too hot. Not too humid. A perfect day to eat outside. I find a table that I can push her up to, and then I pull out a chair for myself before emptying the bag.

Sara’s eyes go wide as I pull out three cheeseburgers, two fries, and a couple of milkshakes. I put her shake in front of her. “Chocolate,” I say. “Just what you ordered.”

Then I hand her a straw. I don’t bother to take it out of the wrapper. I make her do it.

She looks at the straw in her hand. “Oliver would unwrap it for me.”

“I’m not Oliver.”

Her lips turn up into a smile. “No, you’re not. You make me do everything myself.”

“Isn’t that the whole point of rehabilitation?”

“Yes,” she says, looking off into the distance. “Some people get that more than others.”

“He’s trying, Sara. Look at it from his standpoint. You’re not the same person you were before. He’s trying to get you to remember the pieces of your life together. He’s loved you for a year.”

“I don’t know him,” she says, carefully putting the straw into her milkshake.

I want to tell her she doesn’t know me, either, but I don’t. Because deep down, I feel like wedoknow each other.

“Everyone is telling me about my life,” she says. “It’s like watching a movie or reading a book. I’m being told a story. Except that I’m being asked to believe that the person in the story is me. It’s all so unbelievable. My paintings. My apartment. My travels. My”—she looks away—“fiancé.”

I nod encouragingly. I’ve never heard her speak so much. Donovan told me she’d talk when she had something to say. Apparently, she’s got a lot to say.

“The last thing I remember is going on a road trip with my friend, Lydia. We were joined at the hip. She’s my best friend. Or was,” she says sadly. “Joelle told me we had a falling out.”

I listen intently as she tells me about her friend. About her childhood. About her parents. It’s like a faucet has turned on and her life is pouring out of her.

She picks at her food. “Why does nobody else come to visit me?” she asks. “Does the place forbid it?”

“Lydia came to visit you in the hospital,” I tell her. “She’s the one who told me about your love of cheeseburgers. And the Beach Boys.”

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