“Do you think that’s all it was?” I ask him. “Do you think I unconsciously memorized all this while I was planning our vacation and somehow imagined it when I was on the vent?”
“I think there’s a lot of stuff we don’t know about the way the brain works,” Rodney says carefully. “But I also think there’s a lot of stuff we don’t know about how the world works.” He raises his brows. “Oh,” he adds. “And get yourself a shrink.”
Since the days in rehab bleed into each other, I mark time by progress. I stop using a death grip on the bars and instead graze my palm over them while I take steps. I graduate to using Alice the Walker, keeping my own balance and pushing it forward. Maggie helps by giving me verbal progress reports: “Yesterday I had to help you and you lost your balance three times, but today you’re doing it all by yourself. Yesterday I was right next to you, today I’m within shouting distance.” Vee brings me puzzles, word searches, and a deck of cards. I start by sorting cards by suit and color and number, and then move on to playing solitaire. She has me tie my own sneakers and braid my own hair. She makes me pull beads out of putty to finesse my fine motor skills, and by the next afternoon, when I text on my phone my fingers are flying the way they used to. She brings me to a fake kitchen, where I use my walker to move from dishwasher to cabinet, putting away plastic glasses and dishes.
On the twelfth day of rehab, I maneuver Alice into the bathroom, assess my balance, tug down my sweatpants, and pee on an actual toilet. I get to my feet, straighten my clothing, wash my hands.
When I step out into my room, Maggie and Vee are cheering.
There is a checklist of things I must be able to accomplish before I can leave rehab. Can I brush my hair? Can I walk with a device? Can I dial my phone? Can I go to the bathroom? Can I shower? Can I balance? Can I do light meal prep? Can I walk up and down steps?
On the day I’m discharged, Finn comes to take me home. “How did you get the day off?” I ask.
He shrugs. “What were they gonna do? Fire me?”
It’s true, they need him too much right now to risk him leaving for good. Which reminds me I will be alone in the apartment when he goes back. Which makes me terrified.
Even though I’ve been able to walk for a few days—even trading up from Alice for a quad cane—the protocol for rehab is that I be wheeled out. I’ve packed my limited stash of clothing and toiletries and the travel guides in a small duffel. “Your chariot,” Finn says, with a flourish, and I gently lower myself into the sling seat. I put on the blue surgical mask I’ve been given, and Finn sets the duffel on my lap.
Maggie comes rushing into the room. “I’d hug you if I could do it from six feet away,” she says.
“You’ve been up in my face for weeks,” I point out.
“But that was when you were a patient,” she says. “I brought you a gift.” She pulls out what she’s hidden behind her back—a shiny new quad cane for me to take home. “Candis,” she says, and I burst out laughing. Candis Cayne.
“Perfect.”
“So much cooler than Citizen.”
“For sure,” I tell Maggie. “I’m going to miss you.”
“Ah, fuck it,” she says, and she gives me a quick, fierce hug. “I’m gonna miss you more.”
She opens the door to my room and Finn pushes me into the hall.
It is lined with people.
They are all masked and gowned, with their hair restrained in surgical caps. And they are all staring at me.
Someone starts clapping.
Someone else joins in.
There is a rolling wave of applause as Finn wheels me past. I see tears in some of the eyes of the staff and I think: They’re not doing this for me. They are doing it for themselves, because they need hope.
I feel my cheeks heat underneath my mask, with embarrassment, with unease. I am reentering a society that has moved one month ahead without me, a place where every emotion is now hidden—a casualty of safety.
I keep my eyes straight ahead. I am the world’s loneliest soldier, limping back from war.
Getting home is an adventure. After I settle into the Uber, Finn squirts hand sanitizer into my palms and his, too. We lower the windows for ventilation even though it’s only fifty degrees out, because he’s read studies about aerosol transmission and viral droplets. Driving is eerie; the city is a ghost town. Stores are shuttered and the streets are so empty that we make record time. New York City is usually teeming with people—businessmen, tourists, dreamers. I wonder if they’re locked in the high-rises or if, like Rodney, they’ve just given up and left town. I think about the Empire State Building and Central Park and Radio City, the iconic locations that stand resolute and lonely. I used to get so frustrated when the subways were packed solid or when Times Square was swarming with sightseers. I didn’t realize how much I actually loved the congestion of Manhattan until I saw the alternative.