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“Hmm.” She studies my hands curiously before tossing out a teasing, “Sure you didn’t get yourself into a bar brawl?”
I barely suppress my derisive snort. “Not likely.”
“Well…” She hugs her clipboard to her chest and tips her head to the side thoughtfully. “Remember what Dr. Phillips says. The brain works in mysterious ways—”
“It protects us from traumatic memories,” I finish for her, my tone flat. Because I’ve heard this dozens of times now.
It doesn’t explain a damn thing, though. I’m getting more and more impatient as time passes and the headaches coincide with chunks of missing memory.
Sure, I’ve had more time in between episodes like these since starting this therapy, but they’re no less debilitating memory-wise.
Lara’s sympathetic smile grates on my nerves. It’s mostly because the response she offers sure as hell doesn’t give me any clue as to how I got these injuries.
“Was there anything else?”
I can’t quite pinpoint what has me hesitating to reveal that flash of disturbing memory earlier in my bathroom. Finally, I settle on, “It’s just so damn frustrating, not knowing if I’ll regain those missing chunks of memory.”
Lara pats the top of my hand. “That’s understandable. Just remember what Dr. Phillips says. Traumatic memories are often buried to save us from experiencing the trauma of reliving painful events.”
I nod, because I’ve heard it all before. It’s what every psychologist has told me over the years when I’d complained about large chunks of memory evading me.
The car accident that left me scarred consists mostly of a disjointed mess in my mind. At times, a mental glimpse will flash behind my eyes, showing me in that car and crying out for help.
But the most puzzling part is how it flickers back and forth from the image of me as a little girl to me as a grown woman. I don’t know what the hell to make of it, but my most distinctive memory of the accident is my palpable fear and the agony of my skin being on fire.
I don’t recall the orphanage I was sent to or anything recorded in the social worker’s records that described how badly I’d been bullied there. I couldn’t tell you a thing about elementary school, aside from a glimpse of memory of me sitting at a desk with my hands folded primly.
I do remember devouring books like they were fresh water and I was stranded in a desert. But most of all, I hoarded books that taught the ins and outs of car maintenance, building car engines, and restoring vehicles. That was how I discovered a passion for it.
My most vivid memories are from my high school days and working at the Otis Brothers Salvage Yard after school. Callahan Otis was an older man with a Southern drawl thick as molasses, and the last of the Otis brothers. He’d graciously taken me under his wing, mentoring me by offering me a part-time job.
Once I aged out and left the orphanage behind, I purchased the salvage yard from Mr. Otis with the trust fund I’d finally gained access to. He’d been wanting to retire and move to southwest Florida to be closer to his grandkids, and I’d made that wish a reality for him.
He didn’t realize it, but he’d made my wish a reality, too. He enabled me to not only become a business owner, but to have a job doing what I love. By being my own boss and not having to answer to anyone.
The shitty part is not having any employees to take the brunt of responsibility off my shoulders. I’d love to have someone help me stay on top of bookkeeping and inventory, but it’s just not in the cards.
It’s hard enough to find somebody who doesn’t gawk at my face, let alone a person who wouldn’t run their damn mouth the entire workday. I work better alone—in all ways. Plus, it’s proven to be even more of a wise choice after I discovered my ability.
“Okay, let’s get you set up for the sedation, and we’ll start your treatment.” Lara drags me from my thoughts, and I focus on breathing even, deep breaths.
Dr. Phillips told me not to expect an instant miracle or rapid improvement, but I’d hoped to get results faster than this.
“A little sharp pinch…” Lara warns softly, and I turn my head, squeezing my eyes closed.
“You’re doing great.” She shuffles a few items around. We’ve done this dozens of times before and I know her script by heart, but I appreciate the comfort of the routine. “You might feel a little warmth in your veins…”
That’s the last thing I remember before the wooziness takes hold and everything goes dark.
6
MAC
“Get her sedated!” a man’s voice bellows amidst the cacophony of shrill beeping and other alarms sounding.
I twist and buck my body wildly, trying to free my bound arms and legs, but when I fail, panic drenches me.
“I’m getting it now, sir!” a younger man calls out, nervousness coloring his tone.
