Blink Once (20 page)

“I just don’t understand why he isn’t happier, when we’re all happy for him,” Mom complained to the doctor. “It’s like he doesn’t understand how lucky he is.”

“He’s a teenager. This is a difficult thing to live through, even for an adult. His life was already in transition, and now this on top of it. He will come through it, you’ll see.”

For the first few days, I still talked about and asked about Olivia. Was it possible that she had been okay when I was there and then fallen into a coma later, after I left? The answer was no. Could she have also been in the lightest state of coma, stage five, like me, and that maybe we were more aware than people thought we were? Again, no. The more I asked about her, the more insane I seemed. Mom finally called the hospital and got the answers I thought I wanted. She found out that Olivia Kemple had been in a stage one coma for two years. There was no way I could have known her, could have talked to her. It was impossible. Yet I knew it had happened. And I had to find a way to get in touch with her, wherever she was. It was as simple as that.

When they brought in a psychologist, I knew I was in trouble. They even interrupted my walking time on the treadmill for a meeting with her. In our first meeting, she asked a lot of pointed questions about my time in the hospital, and what I remembered. When we got around to Olivia, I tried to hold back. I knew that everyone thought I had imagined our entire relationship. That it didn’t happen, that it was a dream. And until I could prove them wrong, talking about Olivia just made me sound crazy. Maybe I was. But then I gave up. Because if I couldn’t tell a
psychologist, who else could I talk to about it? Maybe she knew something I didn’t. Maybe she had some explanation for how this could have happened. How I fell in love with a girl I’d never met.

“There was a girl in the room next door to you,” the doctor started. “What was her name?”

“Olivia.” The moment I said her name, I finally couldn’t hold it back, so I spilled the whole story. Everything. How we met, how mean Olivia was at first, how she helped me communicate and write. The midnight walks, the TV room, the things she showed me on the computer. How angry Olivia was when I left. The doctor listened intently without questioning or interrupting. She never said, “That couldn’t happen.”

When I was done, I looked down at my feet, and the stupid Velcro braces they put on my legs to help me walk. “I don’t want to be here, I want to be back there, with her, if that makes sense.”

“It does make sense, West. It makes perfect sense. This is hard work, a lot is expected of you. This is the real world. You’ve been through something awful and traumatic, and you’re very lucky to be alive. Now comes the work of putting your life back to together. It won’t be like it was before, will it?”

I felt tears come into my eyes. She was right. I got what I wanted—what I thought I wanted—but now I didn’t
want it, or it hadn’t come true the way I thought it was going to. I had wanted everything to go back the way it was. But there wasn’t any getting back there now. That life was gone. This was my life now.

“I’ll tell you what I think might have happened, and then we can work through how to get on the same page, okay? I think when you were in the hospital, you found yourself in such an unbelievable situation, such awful circumstances that you created another reality, a fantasy life that you could escape into. You needed a friend, someone who could understand what that was like. And then Olivia appeared.” She stopped talking for a minute and just looked at me, to be sure her words were soaking in. They were. “Being with Olivia helped you, didn’t it? She helped you.” The doctor looked down at the pad on her lap. “You said she was your only true friend, the only one who understood what it was like for you. Is that right?”

I nodded. What she said did sound right—but it also sounded crazy. Because that would mean I invented Olivia. That she wasn’t real. That everything that happened between us was fantasy, pretend. And
that
I couldn’t believe.

“Tell me, West, did you have any dreams while you were in the hospital—dreams that were separate from your time spent with Olivia? When you would consider yourself asleep—things that you would say
weren’t
real?”

I had to think for a minute, then it came back to me,
suddenly. The dream of the man attacking a girl. I told the doctor about the series of dreams about the girl, about the man hurting her. About me turning into him. “I had this dream over and over again—it was the same man, always. I can still see his face.”

She nodded. “It wouldn’t surprise me to learn that the man you dreamed about was a real person—maybe an orderly at the hospital, a male nurse or even a doctor. Someone whose face you saw and pulled into your thoughts.” She paused for me to think about it, but I couldn’t remember ever seeing this guy at the hospital. “Think about the dream. A woman is being attacked. What does that mean?”

I thought about it. “She’s being hurt, she’s being forced….” I didn’t know what answer the doctor was looking for.

“Yes, she’s being hurt and forced. She can’t stop her attacker. She’s powerless. A lot of the procedures that were done on you while you were in a coma were invasive—they hurt, but you were powerless to stop them, weren’t you?”

I remembered the dream more clearly. “Actually, I was always there watching, but I was tied down, I couldn’t help her. My hands were … I was powerless. Even when she was screaming for help, crying …”

“I’d like you to think about the procedures that were done on you—including this most recent one. How much you felt like you were not in control of your own body, how
much other people controlled you, did things to you when you couldn’t stop them, and how that felt. Sometimes you were aware of it—a nurse giving you a shot, manipulating your body….”

As she spoke the images came back to me. Someone leaning over me, checking my pupils, rolling my bed, shifting me, changing my IV. Constantly being touched, monitored, probed, tubes going in and out of me.

“Think about that in terms of your dream, and think about who this ‘man’ might be, and we’ll pick up there tomorrow, okay?”

After she left, my head was spinning. I went back on the treadmill and walked an extra mile, just thinking about everything she had said. Was there an explanation? Was it as easy as that—a fantasy world of my own invention? A girl who did exist, a patient at the hospital, but whom I’d never met. A girl who was in a stage one coma. I had just heard her name, from the room next door, and I pretended she was beautiful, pretended that she was my friend. Invented a girl to go with the name. My imaginary friend. My imaginary girlfriend.

But every time I started to think that maybe it could have happened that way, I would see Olivia’s face, her white robe cinched tight around her small waist, those big dark eyes. That time when she put on lip gloss, when her hair was down. I could see her so clearly, feel her breath on my face,
her kiss on my lips, I knew she was real. I couldn’t have invented her. I didn’t make her up.

The next time the psychologist came, I tried to be open to her theories, especially about the dreams. There had to be some explanation. “We thought the room might be haunted, but I think your idea makes more sense,” I told her.

“Who’s we—you mean you and Olivia?” the doctor asked.

I nodded.

“So you talked to Olivia about the dreams, and she helped you with those, too?” When I said yes, I saw her write something down on the pad of paper she kept on her lap. Without looking up, she went on. “I want you to know that you can continue to talk about Olivia with me and you don’t have to be uncomfortable. You understand that, right?”

“Yeah,” I said. “I’ll be honest with you, I want to believe that you’re right about her. Part of me thinks you could be, but the other part of me just can’t believe it. I just can’t let her go,” I explained.

“Let’s take a look at what you said—‘I just can’t let her go’—that’s important. If it’s true that Olivia was a friend that you invented to help you through a rough time, why do you think it would be hard for you to ‘let her go’—especially now that you’re doing so much better?”

I thought about it for moment before answering. “Because I fell in love with her? I made her promises?”

The doctor couldn’t hide her disappointment in my answer. “Maybe because you’re worried the hard times aren’t over. And it’s going to be difficult to return to your old life, isn’t it? You’ve told me before that you almost wished you were back there, at the hospital, rather than facing the life that’s in front of you, isn’t that right?” When I nodded she went on. “Maybe it’s easier to keep that friend for a little bit longer, just in case. When you’re ready to let go of Olivia, you’ll know.”

I didn’t think I’d ever be ready to let go of Olivia, of the idea of Olivia, even if she was right. But I hoped for something to happen soon, some kind of realization—one way or the other—before everyone around me started to believe I was insane. Including me.

After two weeks of exercises every day, I finally felt I was getting somewhere, like I was moving forward. I had pretty good upper-body strength; I could lift things over ten pounds and hold a pen for fifteen minutes. Typing was still hard, especially the little buttons on my phone—getting them just right took a long time, so when I sent a text to Mike or Allie, it was usually full of misspellings. Probably made me seem like my brain damage was worse than it actually was.

My mind was coming back too, but the doctors said that would be slower. It took a while for the tissue there to regenerate, and I had done some damage when I crashed. Mostly it was short-term memory issues—I would leave the room and walk down the hall, then forget where I was going and why.

“Well, now we’re alike,” Mom joked. “That happens to me at least once a day. I’ll even pick up the phone, then forget who I was going to call.” Hearing this made me feel a little bit better. Sure, it happened to everyone. But it didn’t used to happen to me, and I didn’t like the confused feeling I got when I was unsure of what was going on. I tried to use my mental imagery to focus myself, to help my concentration. But that was like a joke—I would lie in bed and try to picture myself being back home, or back at school, to propel myself into a brighter, better future where this was all behind me. But thoughts of Olivia and the other hospital would weave their way in.

Whenever I thought of Olivia or something reminded me of her—which was about twenty times a day—I tried to block it out. “When those thoughts come into your mind, try to gently replace them with something positive,” the psychologist had told me. “Something else. Like what sort of activities did you used to enjoy?”

“Mostly biking,” I told her honestly. “But I won’t be doing that anymore.”

“Anything else, any hobbies …” When she saw me shaking my head, she went on. “How about swimming?”

When she mentioned swimming, my mind went to the bluffs, overlooking the lake. Allie and I used to go there last summer with a bunch of people from school. Picturing that might be good, but I’d have to block out Allie. And then I
remembered a dream, I was sitting with a girl on the bluffs. We’re on a blanket. Her hand on my back. “Tell me again,” she says… .

And just like that, I was back to Olivia all over again.

“I don’t think swimming is gonna work,” I told the doctor.

“Well, you’ll find something, a positive thought to ‘change the channel’ to—does that make sense? It doesn’t have to be the same thing every time, and it can be a vague thought, like something about your future—college or what you’d like to eventually do as a career someday. Thinking about things like that might be a good way to move on from the past, and to move forward.” She smiled at me so I smiled back to show her I understood what she was saying, but I had already zoned out. I did that a lot lately. Nothing could hold my attention for long. Except thinking about Olivia. For some reason, that was the one thing my mind couldn’t let go.

By the middle of my third week at the center, they were talking about transferring me to outpatient. I would only come in four days a week to continue my exercises, but I could live at home again. I was able to get around okay with the leg braces and the special crutches they gave me that hooked onto the top of my arms with a cuff. I almost didn’t even need them anymore.

“Your team thinks that it would be okay for us to go
out on a little field trip, maybe out to lunch or to get an ice cream,” Mom told me one day when she was visiting. “What do you think?”

I hadn’t been anywhere in almost four months, and I wondered whether I was ready to go out in public half crippled. But I said yes, and the next day, Mom arrived to take me out to lunch in town. Navigating into the car with the crutches and leg braces was pretty funny, but once we got to the restaurant, even that was easier. Mom drove about ten miles an hour on the way there. “Mom, I’m not going to break,” I had to remind her.

“I know, I know,” she said, but I could tell she was nervous having me out of the center.

At the restaurant, it seemed like no one looked twice at us as we stood at the hostess stand. “Two for lunch,” Mom said, and they led us to a table where we could look out over the mountains.

“Snow’s starting to melt,” Mom pointed out. She was right—up at the tops of the mountains, patches of white were disappearing. It was almost April already. School would be out soon, then summer. The lake, hanging out with friends. I wasn’t ready to face any of it.

“I was thinking on the way back that we might take a detour,” Mom said mischievously. “What would you think of going by Wilson to say hello to all the doctors and nurses there? They would love to see how great you’re doing now.”

The name of the place made me feel funny—not quite scared, but nervous, anxious. “Do you think it would be okay—I mean, aren’t we supposed to get back to rehab?”

“We have the whole afternoon. I told them I was taking you for a haircut, too, but I know you’d rather do anything than that!”

She was right.

After lunch, I stood outside while she pulled the car around and then we headed for Wilson, about twenty minutes away from the rehabilitation center. Mom talked the whole time about how she had some company come out to the house to get it all set up for me next week. Bars in the shower so I could hold myself up, some exercise equipment in the den so I could keep up with my physical therapy on weekends. She was pretty excited about it. I thought about my room, and how long it had been since I had seen it. I was sure it would be the same, but I was returning to it so different. So much had happened since I last slept in that bed. I felt like another person. Another version of West.