Page 24 of Brain Damage

Clark swiftly steps between Mr. Barry and me. Despite the fact that he isn’t as tall or burly as Mr. Barry, he’s easily as physically fit. “Dr. McKenna healed your wife,” he says. “So you have absolutely no grounds for a lawsuit against her. Making these public accusations against her is outright slander, for which she could sue you.”

Mr. Barry’s eyes widen, and then Clark lowers his voice a notch, “Of course, if what you’re threatening is not a lawsuit and rather some other sort of payback, then we’d have to get the police involved in the matter.” He raises his eyebrows. “Should we call the police?”

I have to hand it to Clark. Mr. Barry looks pretty freaked out.

“No,” he mumbles. “Don’t call the police.”

Mr. Barry allows Margo to quietly escort him out of the waiting room without leveling any further threats at me. And now I’m alone with Clark (and the handful of patients who got to witness the show).

“Are you okay?” Clark asks me. An adorable crease forms between his eyebrows.

“Fine,” I lie.

Clark takes me by the arm, and somehow he locates the one examining room that doesn’t already have a patient stuffed into it. He instructs me to sit down, and so we sit together until I stop shaking. Clark doesn’t say anything, just sits there, holding my hand. We’re as silent as we were on our date, but it’s a different kind of silence. The nice kind.

“What are you doing here?” I finally ask him.

Clark smiles crookedly. “I came to apologize, actually. I was a jerk last week when we met for our date, and I’ve been beating myself up about it. I just wanted to say sorry.”

“Oh,” I mumble. “Um, well, that’s okay.”

I reach for his hand, and he winces. That’s when I look down and see that the scratch marks from Kitty have turned an angry red color that’s spread all over the back of his hand. I hadn’t realized Kitty scratched him so badly—no wonder he reacted that way.

“Clark!” I gasp. “Have you been to a doctor about this?”

He shrugs. “Nah. It’s just a scratch.”

“It’s not just a scratch!” I say. “It’s clearly infected. You need antibiotics.” Clark shrugs again and I shake my head. “If I write you a prescription, will you take it?”

Clark thinks for a minute. “If you write me a prescription, does that mean you’re my doctor again?” He gazes at me with those blue, blue eyes. “Because I’d really like another chance at a date with you.”

I hesitate for only a second. “I’d like that too.”

16

AFTER

I keep having this dream. Again and again.

In my dream, I am walking down a long hallway then come across a door. The door to my apartment. I fit my key into the lock, and open the door. And someone is waiting for me.

Then: a gunshot.

I’m lying on the floor, bleeding, dying. I feel myself choking on blood. I cry out for help. Please help me.

Then I hear the footsteps coming from the void that’s on my left. Everything on the right is so clear: my bookcase, the television… but the left is a blank space.

And even though it’s a dream, I feel the hot breath on my neck, and the whispered words. Only this time I can hear the words clearly:

You deserve this.

I wake up in my bed—my hospital bed—and I’m shaking. I’m drenched with sweat. It takes me a few moments to reassure myself that I’m safe now. I’m not lying on the floor of my apartment, dying. I’m alive and safe in a hospital.

And then I see that a strange man is standing in my room.

Unfamiliar visitors are not completely unusual around here. Actually, it’s entirely possible that I have met him before, maybe many times before, and I just don’t remember him. I know, at least, that he’s not my husband. I assume he works here, based on his blue scrubs and ID badge hanging off his chest pocket. But there’s something ominous about him.

I squint at the ID badge and read off his name: “Chris.”