Page 101 of Brain Damage

“Because he isn’t dumb.” Clark focuses his attention squarely on me. “He’s better off claiming he shot you during a burglary than admitting that it was planned for months. For second-degree attempted murder, he could get paroled in a few years. For first-degree attempted murder, it’s a minimum of ten years, maybe life in prison. I explained it to him very carefully, and I know he’ll keep his mouth shut.”

Clark and I look at each other. The room suddenly seems very quiet and very dark. The pen has fallen out of my hand, forgotten. Until Clark picks it up and holds it out to me.

“So are you going to sign or not?” he asks.

I stare at him. “Are you kidding me? You just admitted to me that you planned my murder.”

“So what?” Clark shrugs. “Nobody will believe you, Charlotte. I didn’t shoot you. They caught the guy who did it and now it’s your word against mine. There’s no evidence that I had anything to do with it. Ernie will back me up.”

“I don’t care if they believe me.” The pain in my head is fueling my anger. “The only thing I know is you’re not going to get one cent of my money. Not one cent, you asshole.”

Clark’s blue eyes darken again. I feel around with my left hand for the call button, searching desperately between folds of sheets and blankets. I want this man out of my room. The pounding in my head is so bad that I feel like my brain must be bleeding. What if my brain is actually bleeding? What if I’m going to die, right here, right now?

But no, I’m not going to die. It’s just a headache.

Where is that nurse call button?

“Can you open the door to the room, please?” I croak. “I need the nurse. I… I have a headache.”

“Charlotte, be sensible,” Clark says in that oddly calm voice. “You don’t want to end up in a nursing home. We have an arrangement.”

“Clark, I think you should leave.”

“No,” he says. He starts moving in the direction of my bed. “No, I’m not going to leave. Not until we reach an agreement. One way or another.”

72

What does Clark want from me? I have no money. I can’t work anymore. I don’t get it.

All I know is that he wants something. And he wants it very badly.

Before she left, Valerie placed a pillow under my left arm to prop it up to prevent swelling. Even though it’s hard to see on my left side, I can feel the pillow sliding out from under my arm. And then the pillow is in Clark’s hands.

No. Oh my God, no. He can’t. He wouldn’t.

“Clark…” I whisper.

He doesn’t say anything. He holds the pillow against his chest, one hand gripping either side. If I died right here, right now, would anyone wonder why? After all, I have a severe brain injury. I’m sick. My death is not out of the realm of reasonable possibility. For all I know, this headache is a sign that death is imminent.

In all honesty, it would be a bit of a relief after all I’ve been through, to just be able to just let go. I can almost feel the softness of the pillow smothering my face. My life has become difficult in so many ways. And sometimes it feels like things will never get better.

But I don’t want to go. Not this way.

I look up at Clark’s face. There’s something really scary and unfamiliar in his eyes. He’s gripping the pillow so hard that his knuckles are white. Again, he gets close enough that I can smell alcohol on his breath. He’s definitely had at least a few drinks before he came here. And it’s fueling his anger.

I can’t stop him.

“Charly?”

It’s Jamie’s voice from outside the room. Relief washes over me. Before Clark can yell at him to go away, I scream out, “Come in!”

The door cracks open and Jamie steps inside, holding his metal cane. He shuts the door behind him like he always does, but when he realizes that Clark is in the room, he blinks in surprise. “Oh, I’m so sorry,” he coughs. “I… I didn’t realize. I’ll come back later.”

“Yeah, good idea,” Clark says in a low growl.

No, Jamie! Don’t leave!

“No,” I say quickly. “Stay.”