Faith sat stiff in her new wheelchair feeling a little light-headed—literally, in that her head was no longer encased in the protective helmet that had covered her vulnerable skull since the shooting.
A middle-aged woman with blonde hair pulled back in a French knot and tortoise-shell reading glasses parked on top of her head came from around her desk to greet her. “Faith, you may not remember meeting me earlier. I’m Dr. Vivian Henbest—Dr. Viv is what most of my patients call me.” She extended her hand and pointed to a seating area meant to replicate a cozy living room in the corner of her large office. “Let’s talk over here, shall we?”
The attendant who had escorted Faith from her room upstairs guided the wheelchair and positioned her facing a traditional-styled sofa covered in ivory material. The sofa was accented with pillows in shades of blue, one in brown leather. A large rattan trunk served as a coffee table.
“Thank you,” the doctor said, dismissing the guy who had wheeled Faith down. She placed a file on top of a stack of magazines on the table and sat.
The attendant locked her wheels in place. “No problem, Dr. Viv.”
“I’m afraid I didn’t get lunch, so please indulge me for a few minutes.” The doctor pulled an energy bar from her flowing jacket pocket and unwrapped it. “I’m so delighted you are at this point in such a relatively short period of time, given your injuries.” She took a bite and chewed.
“Relative to what?” Faith replied, wondering how anyone could characterize the amount of time she’d laid in that hospital bed as anything but what it was—lengthy. As far as she could tell, the horizon that stretched in front of her would be filled with nothing but the same.
The thought depressed her.
“Good point,” Dr. Viv said as she finished up the snack bar and wiped her hands on a used napkin she’d fished from the same pocket. “Like I mentioned, my face is likely not one you recognize, although I’ve been immersed in your care since your arrival. Along with Dr. Wimberly, your surgeon, and Dr. Craig Adamson, who is managing your rehabilitation, I am the third leg of your managing team. I’m a neuropsychologist, which is a fancy word for someone who specializes in the relationship of the nervous system and the cognitive function of the brain. My role will be to help you journey back to emotional health.”
“I need a quack?” Immediately, she wished she’d tempered her choice of words. It seemed that since her TBI—traumatic brain injury—certain thoughts could pop inside her brain and out of her mouth. No filters.
Dr. Viv didn’t seem offended. “Well, some of my colleagues might challenge the term quack, but if it walks like a duck and talks like a duck . . .” She smiled and shrugged.
Well, at least this woman didn’t take herself too seriously. Dr. Viv had a friendly face despite her severe jawline and thin lips. She wasn’t exactly pretty—more studious. Faith wasn’t a huge fan of the whole Soho look, but the doctor pulled it off pretty well. And clearly, she’d done something right to attain a position of this impressive level.
Dr. Viv pulled Faith’s file from off the table and opened it. She slid her glasses onto her nose and read through the contents briefly before looking up. “So, Dr. Wimberly and the team just recently replaced your skull flap. Must seem nice to go without that helmet, huh?”
Faith nodded.
“And you’ve been put through a battery of tests this week to assess your cognitive and motor skills.”
Again, Faith nodded. She had in fact spent the week trapped in lengthy sessions with bright-eyed people in white coats.
“Okay, Faith, listen carefully to this list: Kentucky, Idaho, China, Wyoming. Which term in this list doesn’t belong? Or this one: chair, book, fork, people.”
She answered the first correctly on her initial try. Admittedly the second stumped her for several moments. Finally, her brain kicked in and the answer became apparent. “People,” she responded.
“Can you tell me why?”
“Unlike the rest in the list, people is plural.”
From the sofa, Dr. Viv gave her an encouraging smile. “Based on the test results, you are very fortunate. Your level of cognitive impairment is minimal.” She glanced at Faith’s limp hand. “You’ve suffered some obvious physical consequences, but the team believes proper rehabilitation, coupled with simple reduction of swelling and brain tissue healing, will eventually restore a good level of function on that left side.”
Dr. Viv pressed her glasses back on top of her head. “The main thing to remember is that your recovery is a process and requires a lot of patience on your part. Sometimes the unseen injuries end up being the most impactful. There are very real physical components to the psychological elements of the trauma you suffered—some the medical community understands fully, and frankly, some we do not. Brain chemicals play a huge role in our moods, our ability to cope and feel joy. Electrical activity is also a major component that the scientific community is still seeking to explain. That’s where I come in. I will be the one who will assess how your TBI has injured your emotions and ability to feel.”
Faith tried to adjust herself in the chair. “Yeah, I get that. But it seems to me I don’t have any choice but to cope with what happened. There isn’t much way to change things, now is there?”
“No,” Dr. Viv admitted. “But we can help you maneuver how you think about all the changes imposed on your life. This room will be a safe place to voice what’s happening on that critical emotional level.”
Good gravy, Faith thought. That was all she needed on top of everything else thrust upon her. She couldn’t even go to the bathroom by herself, couldn’t bathe or brush her teeth without assistance. Now she had to satisfy this woman’s need to get inside her head (no pun intended) and try to unscramble how all that made her feel? How did she think a woman who had been anchor of Faith on Air would feel about sitting here in a wheelchair with her head wrapped in a thick white bandage? Clearly, it was unadulterated and immense joy to know her limbs on the left side dangled like cooked spaghetti noodles.
“Oh, okay—yeah, that’s great,” she lied. The way she figured, the more she pretended to cooperate, the sooner the highly intelligent mind doctor might move on to someone else.
If she played this game right, Dr. Viv with her little half glasses would soon bore and turn to some poor kid who’d gotten in a severe motorcycle accident without a helmet, or a wife whose husband sought to control her with a Smith & Wesson 39 held to her head.
Dr. Viv studied her for several moments. “Faith, we’re going to be spending a lot of time together over the coming weeks. I always like to start the process with a very baseline question.” She leaned forward slightly. “Are you glad you survived the shooting?”
Faith scowled. What kind of question was that? “Yes, of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”
Dr. Viv leaned back and casually placed her arm on the sofa back. “That’s a good question. Why would someone in your exact situation be prone to answer that question differently?”
Faith lifted her chin, knowing where the doctor was going with this. “Well, let’s see. Yeah, I can see where someone could be in a dark place, mentally speaking, after having their entire life ripped out from under them.”
“What’s been the hardest thing—for you?”
“It’s all hard.” Faith’s unstable emotions failed her again. She wanted to appear stoic. Instead her eyes filled. “Look at me. I’m broken.”
“Faith? What’s the hardest thing?”
This was where she needed to say being separated from the people she loved. Or maybe the doctor would buy it if she claimed being the news instead of reporting it.
She opened her mouth, ready to spout her pretense, but something inside her caught.
Time now had a new meaning—before and after.
Her life was now filled with antiseptic and medical odors. Stiff hospital mattresses and scratchy pillowcases. Plastic chairs and chipped Formica tables filled with stupid little puzzles meant to stimulate her arm recovery.
She hated the way tears would form at the drop of a hat. How she was reduced to bathing when someone told her she could, eating when someone delivered a tray, and worse, using the toilet with someone standing outside the door in case she fell.
Her legs—she wanted to shave her legs. Tweeze her brows. Paint her nails.
She longed to make it through one night without lying awake listening to distant footsteps and beeping and crackly voices over the intercom.
She hated feeling helpless.
Her jaw set. She took a deep breath and ventured a look in the doctor’s direction. “I—I guess it’s the fact that I’m not even me anymore.”