Page 80 of Brain Damage

Valerie nods back at him. She looks down at me, lying in bed. “Charly, you have another hour until your next therapy. Do you want to stay in bed?”

Despite the fact that Valerie and Clark did all the work, I feel exhausted. “Yes,” I say.

“Okay,” Valerie says. “Let me take your helmet off for you.”

Valerie reaches down and undoes the strap under my chin. I feel a rush of relief as that heavy helmet lifts from my skull. I immediately reach up to scratch my head, but then remember I’m not supposed to and lower my hand again. If they see me scratching, Valerie will put the helmet back on.

I look over at Clark, who suddenly seems very pale under his tan. Actually, he is not so much pale as slightly green. “Charlotte,” he gasps. “Your head… I didn’t realize that it looked…”

“She’s missing half her skull,” Valerie says. “How did you think it looked?”

“I don’t know,” he mumbles. “I just thought…”

A few beads of sweat break out on his forehead. Then he whirls around and races in the direction of my bathroom. I hear him retching.

Valerie rolls her eyes at me. Usually she’s rolling her eyes about me to someone else, so I like the change.

“Quite a gem you’ve got there,” she comments before she spritzes her hands with alcohol and leaves the room.

Clark emerges from the bathroom a minute later, walking slightly unsteadily. He won’t even look at me. Somehow I think of when I showed Jamie my skull. He didn’t seem fazed at all. But then again, his own head was covered in staples.

“Listen, Charlotte,” Clark says. “I’ve got to go. But I’ll be back tomorrow morning.”

“You promise?” I ask him. My voice sounds tiny, like I’m five years old.

“I promise,” Clark says firmly.

Then he gives me a little awkward wave. He doesn’t try to hug me or kiss me, and it occurs to me that he hasn’t done either of those things since I got hurt. He doesn’t even seem to want to touch me unless he has to.

I watch my husband race out of the room as fast as he can go.

56

Clark is supposed to come the next morning at eight a.m., and this time he’s only ten minutes late. Valerie, fortunately, predicted this, and scheduled us for an extra fifteen minutes at the end. So really, as she explained, he’s early. Except not really.

As soon as Valerie walked into the room, I asked her if she would put my helmet on. Even though I hate that helmet, I don’t really want to be without it when Clark is here. I don’t think I could bear it if he got that look on his face again.

I’m still in bed when he arrives, which is part of the plan. Valerie is supposed to teach him how to help me get dressed. I’m not sure if “help” is exactly the right word though, considering I can’t do any of the dressing process myself. Basically, she’s teaching him how to dress me. That’s more accurate.

Clark is wearing a T-shirt and jeans, and looks incredibly fit. He doesn’t look like the sort of man who should be learning how to take care of his disabled wife. He looks like he ought to be out there on a surfboard or something with a fit blonde supermodel. Especially with the tan he’s sporting.

I’m really lucky he’s here for me.

“Okay.” Clark rubs his hands together. “What do we do?”

“We’ll get her pants and socks on while she’s in bed,” Valerie says, “then we’ll sit her up to put on her shirt.”

Right now, I’m wearing a hospital gown, which is stained with the remains of my breakfast (oatmeal). I can’t wait to get out of it. Valerie pulls back my blanket then hands my socks over to Clark to put them on. Once those are in place, Valerie starts lifting my gown up, but I stop her with my right hand.

“What’s wrong, Charly?” Valerie asks.

Somehow, I’d forgotten until this very moment that I was wearing a brief. I know—how could I forget, right? But I did. And the idea of my handsome, virile husband seeing me in what is (let’s face it) essentially a diaper is too mortifying for words. He can’t see me this way. He can’t.

Except what am I supposed to say? Clark just volunteered to do all my care after I leave here. So how can I possibly get around this?

The answer is that I can’t.

“Nothing,” I mumble.