Page 8 of The Fates We Tame
Marco is twenty-eight and down in Atlantic City, so I don’t see him as often. Enzo is twenty-six and is in Sicily. He came straight over when I was first injured but has had to go back to return to work. We’ve video chatted since, but it’s a little stilted and awkward.
I don’t remember any of them. Not a single memory, even the days immediately after I came out of the coma. It’s all a blur.
None of them know why I was in the car either.
All I have is what I know of them now. They’re all older than me. I’m the baby.
Friends came to visit in the beginning, but over time, I’ve become an obligation. I’m lucky if I see more than a couple of friends a month now. Instead, my friends are here. Dr. Polunin. Raheel, my massage therapist. Lori, who pushes me to my physical limits. Patients who have come and gone.
We’re an unusual collection of misfits unified by one thing: the rehabilitation of the brain.
When I reach the group room, several people are sitting around the table. There’s Jamie. He arrived two weeks ago after three months in the hospital because he smashed up his car too. I’m slightly envious that he remembers his accident. He’d owned the supercar his father had bought him for his twenty-first birthday for approximately seven hours when he spun out on the highway. The paralysis affects both legs and his lower torso, and he’s still in the raging anger phase we all go through. I wave, and he tips his chin.
Belle-Odette is a New York maven who tripped over the leads of her five Chihuahuas. The pavement and her skull had a disagreement when she landed, and she now finds it impossible to remember anything new. There’s a fifty-fifty chance she’llremember my name today, but she can tell you everything about her dogs, which get brought over here in a black town car three times a week to see her.
I was the same as her when I was brought here after being discharged from the hospital. In the early stages of emergence from a coma, most people have issues writing new memories. Which is really tough if you can’t remember any part of your life before, like I can’t.
“Morning, Sophia.” Erin, the language pathologist, points to a seat next to the only man who doesn’t look like he belongs here.
“Morning, Theo,” I say, recalling his name from our conversation by the pool two days ago. I saw him in the dining area yesterday with two people I’m guessing were his parents.
He glances up at me, his gaze…speculative. “Morning, Sparrow.”
I suppose I shouldn’t feel quite so melty that I have a nickname. It’s probably because it’s a genuine interaction I remember and the fact his face is so damn gruff and attractive, he belongs on one of those fancy cologne ads.
Theo is unlike any other man I know, which, let’s face it, is not an extensive list, seeing I only have my family and the men here as reference. But he has the powerful combination of size and self-assurance.
It certainly helps that he’s got sharp cheekbones that cast shadows.
I don’t know what he does for work. I don’t know why he has all the tattoos up his arms and over his back. He scares almost everyone else here with his presence. No one sits on either side of him, as if keeping their distance.
But I like his eyes. Maybe it’s the fact he still has two of them.
I chuckle at my inner dialogue.
“Should we break out of here and go on a road trip to Vegas to see if our brain injuries turned either of us into a card shark?” I ask him.
He huffs a laugh but continues to look at the table in front of him. “Not sure that’s how it works.”
“Sophia, not everyone uses humor as a coping mechanism,” Erin says. “You know this. Perhaps try to consider other people’s feelings and read the room.”
“Sorry,” I say, not entirely sorry at all. A girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do to figure out how to move on with her life with no discernible—or memorable—skills and mobility issues. If humor is it, then so be it.
A travel mug with a handle sits to his left side. He hasn’t told me why he’s here, but I can see he has trouble with his left arm as he reaches for it and uses it. The cup shakes, and he transfers it to his right hand.
“Ready for another riveting installment of regurgitating last week’s news?” I ask.
He glances my way. “Can’t…wait.”
Oh, and he still spaces his words out, as if the next word hasn’t appeared in his mind yet. My issue was I’d just skip words all together. It wasn’t that I couldn’t find them. I just didn’t know they existed or that grammatically I needed to use them.
“Okay,” Erin says. “Let’s make a start. As a reminder, this session is about helping you all with general communication in social settings. Pick any news article from the piles scattered around the table. I want you to read one, and then I want you to pick out the key facts of the article. Then we’re going to work on sharing those details with the group.”
Belle-Odette stands suddenly.
“Can you sit down please, Belle?” Erin asks.
“The dogs. Feeding with…” The next few words are mumbled.
