Page 3 of Return to Us
Going to get food early, though, might be the safest way to ease myself out.
My therapist has been trying to encourage me to take one small step, and in the back of my mind, I hear Dr. Warvel saying, “Take the hand outstretched when you’re weak and let it lend you strength.”
I gnaw on my thumbnail, take two deep breaths, and reply.
Me: Sure, but you’ll have to pick me up. You know, TBI and all means no driving.
Until the fainting, debilitating migraines, and periods of confusion go away, I’m not allowed to drive, ride a bike, or do anything that could throw my equilibrium off. Yet another awesome side effect of my plane crash.
Delia: Be there in fifteen.
More like ten if I know her driving. I head back inside and throw on a sweatshirt, brush my hair and teeth, and sigh as I see my reflection in the mirror. The dreams may make me feel as if it were just yesterday, but all my visible injuries have healed.
There are no more bruises on my face, and the scar from where they had to drain the fluid from my brain is still healing but hidden beneath my hair. My ribs are still healing, but again, that isn’t something you would look at me and know. To anyone on the street, I look like the same Jessica Walker who was ready to take the world by storm.
Inside, however, I’m something else.
I’m broken.
I can’t always speak correctly, I can’t drive, and I will probably never be able to fly again due to the air pressure changes.
Being here is a different sort of pressure. The kind that gives me a whole other thing to be anxious about, the boy I left. The man he’s become and the people who made me feel small, all of them are still here and probably salivating over the chance to be cruel.
“She’s not good enough. She’ll never fit in to do more than scrub the floors. You’ll see, she’ll never amount to anything and will end up just like her mother.”
I hear the words, the voice of a woman so disgusted with the idea of being in my presence, playing in my head like a lyric that won’t be forgotten.
There’s a knock on the bathroom door. I open it to see my mother. “Oh,” she says looking startled. “I didn’t know you were awake.”
“Had another nightmare.”
She gives me a sad smile. “I thought they ended.”
“No, I wish.”
“Where are you going this early?” she asks as she looks over my outfit.
“Delia is calling in. Eating.” I stop myself, knowing the words aren’t right, and take a few seconds. This is what I can’t handle. My brain says: Delia is coming over so we can go get breakfast, but my mouth says something else. My mother doesn’t say a word, she allows me the time I need to collect myself and try again. “Delia is taking me to breakfast.”
“Is that a good idea? To go out and see the people in town?”
And here is where I want to rail against the world. For the last fourteen years, I’ve been on my own. The day I left for college, I learned how to survive on my own and be worth—something. I’ve spent my time taking care of myself, proving that I don’t need anyone to make it.
More than that, I’m getting better each day. I’m trying to do more so that I can stop living in this prison and get back to the life I want. “Mom . . .”
She raises her hands. “I know, I know, you’re grown now and don’t need me to worry over you. I just don’t want to see you struggle, honey. That’s all. I know how the people here are, and there’s a lot of gossip around you returning.”
I exit the bathroom and lean against the wall. “I have to try.”
“Yes. You do.” There’s defeat in each word, but there’s also a bit of pride. “Did you take your medicine?”
I swear she just said I didn’t need her to worry.
“Yes.”
If I don’t, I’ll be curled in a ball, begging for someone to put me out of my misery.
“Then I guess have a good time.”
