Crash & Burn (Tessa Leoni, #3)(11)
According to Annie, one scent came out of the vehicle. One scent trailed up to the road. They circled her around the wreck. They brought her to the fast-flowing stream.
Annie grew increasingly sullen and resentful. She’d done her job.
One scent. One trail. One person, who mysteriously disappeared in the middle of the paved road.
That was Annie’s story, and she was sticking to it.
“Houston,” Wyatt declared shortly after 10 A.M., “we have a problem.”
Chapter 5
WHAT DID YOU dream of when you were little? Did you plan on growing up to be an astronaut or a ballerina or maybe even a superhero with a red cape and the ability to leap tall buildings in a single bound? Maybe you were going to be a lawyer like your mother or a fireman like your father. Or perhaps you couldn’t identify with your family at all. You mostly dreamed about getting the hell out and never looking back.
But you dreamed.
Everyone dreams. Little boys, little girls, ghetto-born, white-picket raised. Everyone aspires to be someone, do something.
I should have dreams, I think, but for the life of me, I can’t remember what they are.
The doctor is in the room. She stands near the door, talking to the man who claims to be my husband. Their heads are together and they speak in hushed tones, like lovers, I think, but don’t know why.
“Before the accident, was she sleeping any better?” the doctor asks.
“No, few hours a night at best.”
“How about her headaches?”
“Still bad. She doesn’t say anything anymore. I just find her lying on the sofa, an ice pack across her forehead.”
“Mood?”
The man gives a short bark of laughter. “On a good day, merely depressed. On a bad day, fit to kill.”
The doctor nods. Her name tag reads DR. SARE CELIK. She is beautiful, with dark coloring and exotic features. I wonder once again about her relationship with my husband. “Emotional lability is a common side effect of post-concussive syndrome,” she is explaining. “Often for loved ones, it’s the most difficult. How about her memory? Short-term recollections better?”
“When she first regained consciousness, she claimed not to recognize me at all.”
Dr. Celik arches a brow, finally appearing surprised. She flips through a chart in her hand. “Needless to say, I ordered a head CT, not to mention an emergency MRI upon admittance. Both came back clear, but given her past history of TBIs, I’ll order follow-ups in the next twenty-four hours. How did she handle the situation? Agitation? Rage? Tears?”
“Nothing. It was like . . . She claimed to not know I was her husband, yet the news didn’t surprise her.”
“She’d been drinking before the accident.”
My husband flushes guiltily, as if somehow this is his fault. “I thought I got all the bottles out of the house,” he mutters.
“Please remember what I told you before: Alcohol directly impedes the brain’s ability to heal. Meaning for someone with her condition, any alcoholic drink at all is counterproductive to her recovery.”
“I know.”
“Is this the first incident?”
He hesitates and even I know that means it isn’t.
Dr. Celik regards him sternly. “There is a strong corollary between brain injuries and alcohol misuse, particularly in patients with a history of alcohol dependency. And given not one, but three concussions in a matter of months, your wife is vulnerable. Even a single glass of wine will affect her more strongly in the short term, while putting her at long-term risk for substance abuse.”
“I know.”
“This latest accident will most certainly set her back. It’s not uncommon to see an almost exponential effect from multiple TBIs in a short time frame. I’m not surprised her amnesia has returned. Most likely, she’ll also experience intense headaches, difficulty focusing, severe exhaustion. She may also report sensitivity to light or some other heightened sensation—smell, sound, sight. Conversely, she might describe feeling as if she’s ‘under water’—can’t quite make the world come into focus. Of course, such episodes may spike her anxiety and lead to increased mood swings.”
“Great.” The man’s voice is grim.
“I would keep the household quiet. Establish a daily routine, stick to it.”
“Sure. Just because she doesn’t remember me is no reason for her not to do as I say.”
The doctor continues as if he hasn’t spoken: “You should expect her to tire easily. I would limit screen time—no video games, iPad usage, even TV shows and movies. Let her brain rest. Oh, and no driving.”
“So . . . quiet home life, in bed by ten.”
The doctor gives him a stern frown. In response, the man/my husband runs his hand through his rumpled hair.
I feel a whisper of memory. Standing in another room at another time.
Please, Nicky, let’s not fight. Not again.
I realize I must have loved this man once. It’s the only way to explain how much his presence hurts me now.
Dr. Celik is still talking about my ongoing needs, follow-up care. She’s obviously familiar with my case. Multiple TBIs, she’d said. I feel like I should know what that means, but the letters won’t stay still in my head. They flip upside down, backward, a dizzying display of alphabet acrobatics. I give up. My head hurts, the familiar sensation of a migraine building behind my temples.