What If (If Only.... #2)(73)

I let the mug warm my hands, my body still recovering from the time I spent outside last night.

“What am I going to find?” I ask, my throat tightening as reality sets in. All I’ve wanted is to know Maggie the way I let her know me. But what if she’s right? What if what I find changes how I feel?

“You already found her, honey, the real Maggie. What’s in there is only the missing pieces. That’s all.”

And that’s enough.

I move through the living room, smiling at the pillows lined up on the floor, extending from either side of the couch. Miles and Paige’s beds. I would have thought I’d be jealous to see something like this, pillows on a floor an indication of how much more of her they’ve always been able to see. Instead I’m filled with a kind of warmth, of knowing even without three sisters looking out for her, Maggie has her family.

A narrow hallway boasts two small doors. The one on my right opens to a bathroom much like the one I was in at Paige’s place. The other opens to what must be Maggie’s bedroom. Blackout shades block the morning sun, so I flip on the light.

The first thing I see is a wall covered by a giant bulletin board. I step closer, looking at one of the many photos pinned to the board, reading the caption: Douche-bag customer who never tips. I laugh, hearing her voice in my head. The next one is of an older man, smiling proudly with one of Maggie’s beverages in his hand. This one reads: George: loves my latte art.

I smile at that one, having heard her talk about George and Jeanie. There are more like this, all of the captions some sort of reminder about the people in each photo. Soon I find myself looking for my own image, some sort of evidence to give me hope. When I find the one she took that first day, all it says is Griffin/Fancy Pants. Not much to go on there.

My eyes move next to a section of the board sporting not photographs but articles—one on the benefits of art therapy, another on surviving traumatic brain injury, the lasting and sometimes chronic aftereffects of brain surgery.

Sticky notes adorn the board as well, adding follow-up text to a photo’s caption or a reminder of something she doesn’t want to forget about one of the articles. I flash back to that night at Royal Grounds, the trainee’s notes behind the counter.

Maggie. We could have figured this out.

I want to believe we would have found a way if she would have told me. What evidence did I ever give her, though, that I was capable of handling this when I was so good at showing her I could barely handle myself? When I turn toward her bed, I see the first glimmer of hope. On her nightstand are the only pictures without explanations, one of me from that night at my apartment. Our best night. And next to them is a sketch—Maggie and me at a table in the coffee shop, her hands resting on a mug and one of mine raking through my hair. I laugh. She knows me so well. The two people in the sketch laugh, too, a happy version of us in a scene that hasn’t happened—yet. Maggie’s wall of wishes. All I can do is hope that this is one she still wants to come true.

Then I glance at her desk, and that’s where I find it—a worn red box of Uno cards.

…

Maggie

My heel taps the floor of the car, and Miles places a hand on my knee to steady me.

“Tell me again what the neurologist said,” he demands, a stupid, goofy grin plastered across his face, the same one I’m wearing, too.

“He said my scan shows no clots. And when I told him about my class-load and my work-load and my grades, he said there’s no reason I can’t take a full schedule next year.”

“Aaaand…” Miles knows this. He sat there when the doctor relayed the information to me, but it doesn’t take away from the excitement of repeating those words again.

“He also said I can drive. Any medical provisions have been removed, and I can take the driving test and get a new license any time I want…which means never.” Because my doctor would have okayed me to drive a year ago, but all I think about is what would happen if I zoned out in traffic. Or worse. What if I develop another clot, and it bursts while I’m in a vehicle?

Miles reads my silence, like he always does. “Enough with the What ifs, okay? What if zombies attacked right now?”

I punch his shoulder, with love of course. “There are survival kits and guides for that. It’s not the same.”

But I can’t help the perma-grin on my face. Something about making it this far, about surviving the past two-plus years… I look at Miles, think about Paige trying to set me straight last night, and everything clicks into place. I’m not the person I was before I got sick, but I’m also not the girl lying in a hospital bed, relearning how to live. I can do so much now that I couldn’t a year ago, and maybe—hopefully—a year from now, I’ll be able to do more.

“I’ve been thinking, and maybe, just maybe everything that happened last night could have happened to anyone. People get lost, right?”

Miles lets out a long sigh.

“Yes, sweetheart. It could have happened anyway.”

I squeeze his hand. “And I’ve experienced the headaches long enough to know that staying up all night or…or hell, drinking—I know better. I can avoid so many of my symptoms if I pay better attention to myself. I’m an idiot. I let him distract me.”

Miles shakes his head. “No, honey. You fell in love with him.”