A Danger to Herself and Others(56)

This is what I’m able to absorb when Mr. Clark speaks:

First, he introduces himself as Agnes’s attorney. Technically I guess he’s her parents’ attorney, but it’s hard to remember that because he begins by saying he’s here to speak for Agnes since she cannot yet speak for herself. He describes Agnes’s life before the accident.

Straight-A student.

Dutiful daughter.

Loving big sister.

Faithful girlfriend.

He shows us the Get Well Soon cards her sisters made. “Her sisters are back in North Dakota,” he says, “and this has been an enormous hardship on Agnes’s parents. They’ve gone into debt flying back and forth between California and home, dividing their time between their three daughters. It’s not yet clear how much care Agnes will need going forward, what level of brain function she will retain.”

He continues, “Even after Agnes is well enough to leave the hospital, she will have years of physical therapy, speech therapy, and occupational therapy ahead of her. And even if Agnes is able to walk and speak as she did before the fall, she may still be different in ways the doctors can’t predict. A brain injury may affect countless aspects of a patient’s life.”

Mr. Clark lists possible long-term consequences: memory loss, trouble with concentration, loss of stamina, chronic pain, blurred vision, seizures, trouble sleeping, increased or decreased appetite, mood swings.

“To name only a few possible side effects of her injuries,” he says.

Then he adds, “But let’s reflect on what Agnes Smith has already been through: After the incident, Agnes was in a coma for two weeks. The doctors didn’t know if she would ever wake up.”

Then,

“A neurosurgeon had to drill burr holes in her skull to relieve the pressure on her brain.”

Then,

“When she finally woke, she appeared to have lost all verbal function.”

Then,

“Eventually, she was able to communicate through blinks and grunts.”

Then,

“She needs assistance to leave the bed to perform her bodily functions.”

And finally,

“Two weeks ago, after vigorous therapy, Agnes finally said the first word she’s managed since the accident.” He pauses. “Mama.”

A choked sob escapes Mrs. Smith. Mr. Smith stares at me.

I look at my hands. No one told me Agnes woke up before.

Maybe Agnes’s father sees the differences between his daughter and me: I’m able to walk and talk and use the bathroom.

But I can’t help seeing all that Agnes and I have in common: we’ve both been trapped in a hospital since August.

Maybe they moved her to a room in the hospital that’s green, just like mine.

Like me, surely any hint of her summer tan has long since disappeared. Then again, Agnes had one of those complexions that never got much color, skin that burned even when she covered herself with sunscreen. I wonder if it’s possible for her to be even paler than she was when I knew her. Do the freckles behind her right ear and on the back of her right hand stand out more, or have they faded? Has her white-blond hair turned yellow, or is it even whiter after all this time indoors?

I reach up and twist a few strands of my hair through my fingers, wondering whether it’s changed color too.

Like me, Agnes can’t get up and go to the bathroom when she wants.

Neither of us can pick up the phone to call our parents or our friends or even our attorneys when we want to call them.

Neither of us can send text messages and emails.

Neither of us started our senior year of high school on time.

Both of us have brains that work differently than other people’s.

Both of our brains have been diagnosed by the doctors in charge of our care. Agnes’s diagnosis (a traumatic brain injury) has an abbreviation: TBI.

I think we might have more in common now than we did the day we met.

Mr. Clark says that weeks before the incident—I notice he never refers to it as an accident, he says incident, fall, event, injury—Agnes called her parents and expressed concern about her roommate’s state of mind.

Mr. Clark holds out his hand, and Mrs. Smith drops a cell phone into it.

“I’d like to play this message that Agnes left on her mother’s voicemail, dated July fourteenth.”

Agnes’s voice fills the room. Beneath the table I cross and uncross my legs. This room is every bit as air conditioned as the rooms in the institute, but I’m warm. I press my thighs together and feel the sweat on my legs.

Please tell Matt I said hi and that I miss him. I started to tell Hannah about him the other day, but she doesn’t like to talk about boys. I think she’s self-conscious because she’s never had a boyfriend. She seemed angry that I even mentioned my boyfriend.

I cross my legs again, hooking my right foot behind my left ankle. I wasn’t angry about Matt. I didn’t know about Matt. When Agnes mentioned her boyfriend, I didn’t want to hear it because I thought she was talking about Jonah.

Mr. Clark taps the phone. “And another message Agnes left for Mrs. Smith, this one dated July thirty-first.”

Hi, Mama, it’s me. It happened again today. Hannah was talking to herself, and this time she was talking about me. It’s nothing, right? Lots of people talk to themselves. Don’t worry about me. The girls down the hall say she’s just strange.