Across the room, my mother slumps in relief. “Oh, thank God.”
“But she has a long road of recovery ahead. We were able to relieve the swelling on her brain with an emergency craniotomy, but it’s possible she may experience lingering adverse effects.”
I automatically finger the thick bandage behind my ear.
“What kind of adverse effects?” asks Mom.
“Possible trouble with coordination, short-term memory loss. We won’t know until we run further tests. And with two cracked ribs and a fractured tibia, I’m recommending she be moved to a rehabilitation center…”
I close my eyes while the doctor explains my recovery plan. The back of my neck tingles, and a memory lumbers to the surface. “Wait,” I say, opening my eyes. “I do remember something. Before driving home after the bar exam, I had dinner with Devin.”
Mom frowns at me. “Who’s Devin, honey?”
I blink. “You know, Devin Bloom. The guy I’ve been seeing.”
“You didn’t tell me you were seeing someone.”
“I did, you’ve just been working too hard,” I mumble. “So wait, he hasn’t come to visit me?” Disappointment swells in my chest like a cresting wave.
“No one’s been here except me, your stepdad, and your brothers. They came by yesterday after you were moved out of the ICU. And Brie, of course. She jumped in the car and drove up as soon as she heard about your accident.”
Maybe the hospital only allowed family to visit? No, that couldn’t be, because Brie’s here and she’s not family. Wait. Maybe Devin didn’t even know I was in an accident. Panic constricts my lungs. I look around automatically for my phone, but it’s not on the nightstand. “Where’s my phone? I need to call Devin and tell him I’m okay. He must be worried sick.”
Mom frowns. “Your phone was destroyed in the accident.”
The door opens and Brie returns, holding two cups of coffee. She passes one to my mom and takes a sip from the other.
“Brie, can I borrow your phone? I need to call Devin.”
She splutters. “Huh? Who now?”
I let out an exasperated huff. What the hell is wrong with everyone? “Come on, Brie. Devin, my boyfriend. We talk every week, so I know I’ve told you all about him.” At her blank stare, I continue. “We met at a bar in April, hit it off, and we’ve been dating ever since? He grew up in Cleveland and he helps run his family’s business? You haven’t met him yet, but I’m sure you’ve seen pictures. He’s six two, dark brown hair, brown eyes. You know—Devin Bloom.”
Brie’s cheeks pale as she slowly sets her coffee on the nightstand. The doctor looks between me, Brie, and my mother, opens her laptop, and begins typing. Dread slithers into the pit of my stomach, coalescing into a writhing ball.
Brie stares at me with wide, confused eyes. “Who the hell is Devin Bloom?”
Life with a head injury is nothing like the movies.
A bandit gets conked on the forehead with an iron and, minutes later, shakes it off and continues his scheme to burglarize a young boy’s booby-trapped home. No, fool, you should be in the hospital with a blow to the head like that! Or a woman runs into a metal pole only to wake up in a world where every gorgeous man wants her. Ha, I wish. Film characters fall off subway platforms, step on rakes, and absorb knockout punches, banging their skulls so often you could stitch the scenes together and make the concussion noises play “The Star-Spangled Banner.” Then they simply pick themselves up and continue with their lives like nothing happened. In reality, a head injury is a hell of a lot more life-altering—and in my case—strange.
Crawling across the crumb-strewn back seat of my mom’s minivan, I scoop out the cardboard box I’ve carefully stashed on the floor. Cassidy Closet is printed neatly in big, innocent letters. As I wiggle back through the open door, I glance out the window and catch sight of a trash can sitting on the curb.
Guilt needles my stomach. I should have thrown away what’s inside this box months ago. Not the various knickknacks or get-well cards from my law school classmates—I mean the other thing. But I haven’t been able to bring myself to do it for reasons I don’t want to explore.
Rolling my neck, I stand and lift the box out of the car.
“Where do you want this?” one of the movers calls from the double-parked moving truck. Broad-shouldered and bald, he’s pulling my dresser on a red dolly behind him. I blink at his T-shirt, which features an eight-bit kitten riding a rainbow and the words Call me Mr. Cat Daddy scrawled beneath it.