C.J. Carmichael - Small-Town Girl

“You and your friends danced around the family room, singing at the top of your lungs….” She carried the memory forward, speaking for the sake of her son, hoping something in her voice might reach him and pull him back.

“That Halloween you dressed up as Simba to go trick-or-treating.” Russell, sitting in a chair next to her, picked up the conversation and kept it moving. With closed eyes, Julie heard the drone of his voice, but no longer the individual words or their meanings.

She was so tired. And every day, hope was harder to grasp.

“Remember how much you love purple Life Savers? You always open the package and search…”

Her husband’s voice mingled with the tune from the tape machine. Julie leaned her head against the wall behind her. Her fingers relaxed their grip on Ben’s hand. For a moment she felt the blissful lure of oblivion.

Then something crashed to the floor. She jerked upright at the noise. The book had fallen off her lap.

“Julie?”

“I’m sorry,” she apologized to Russell. Then she realized he wasn’t looking at her, but at Ben.

“Did you see that?” Russell rushed to their son’s side. “Ben started at the loud noise. I’m sure of it.” He took the child’s flaccid hand.

“Can you hear me, Ben? Your mother and I are with you. We’ve been here all the time. You’re going to be okay, son. We love you, Ben.”

For the first time since the accident, Ben’s features rearranged themselves. The grimace could have been the result of pain or confusion; it was impossible to tell. With hope fluttering in her chest, Julie signaled for a nurse, all the while watching desperately for another sign her son was finally waking up. But nothing else happened for the next interminable hour.

First the nurse on duty, then Dr. Assad questioned Julie and Russell carefully about what they had seen. Both held out cautious hope more improvements would follow soon.

And they did. That evening Ben’s eyes fluttered. At one point he even opened them briefly. The next day he started muttering, flailing his arms. Russell kept playing music; Julie continued reading. On the fifth day of his coma, Ben finally spoke.

“I’m so tired…of that song.”

In an instant, every tightly held muscle in Julie’s body relaxed. Tears flowed down her cheeks, splashing unheeded onto her blouse. Her hands trembled as she put one on her husband’s shoulder; the other, on her son’s head.

Ben was back.

Four months later

AT THE LIVING ROOM WINDOW Julie played with the gold band of her watch, pushing it back and forth over her wrist bone. Her laptop computer sat open on the ottoman next to the armchair where she’d been editing a column for next month’s edition of West Coast Homes.

More honestly, trying to edit.

She couldn’t concentrate. It was four months today, and she knew she ought to be grateful. Ben was alive, better, and life in the Matthew residence had returned to normal. Well, sort of normal. She and Russell were back at work part-time and Ben’s rehab, as of today, was over. Soon Ben would be back in school, and their lives would resume their usual, predictable rhythms.

Normalcy. It was all she had craved since that dreadful day.

She twisted her watch again, then adjusted the blinds to the perfect angle. She fluffed the pillows on her antique love seat, then ran a hand over the polished ebony surface of the grand piano. Not so much as a flake of dust clung to her fingers.

“Should we wake him, Russell?” When Ben’s naps went over an hour, she became nervous. She’d already checked on him and he appeared fine. But she couldn’t contain her irrational fear—what if he didn’t wake up this time? Or what if he suffered a seizure. His medication was supposed to prevent them, but what if one happened anyway?

Russell surfaced from the textbook on his lap, Contemporary Literary Criticism. He removed his dark-framed glasses in order to check the time on the clock above the mantel.

A sweet memory snuck up on her. The first time they’d met, in the University of British Columbia library, she’d asked him for the time. He’d removed his glasses then, too. His mop of brownish-red hair had desperately needed a trim, and she’d longed to reach over and tug one of those curls as he’d glanced at the clock on the wall.

“It’s almost noon,” he’d said in answer to her question. Then he’d asked, “You’re English?”

“From London. Islington.” Her family had been in Canada for only a few months and already she’d found her accent an asset in drawing the attention of men. “And rather hungry at the moment.”

“May I offer tea? Cucumber sandwiches?” He’d mimicked her, but not unkindly. And as he spoke, he’d snapped shut his textbook and risen from his chair. She remembered thinking he had the warmest smile she’d ever seen.

Ah, Russell… The memory faded as quickly as it had arrived, landing her back in the living room with her husband of ten years. Ten very good years. Only, lately… Well, they’d been under a strain.

“Ben’s always tired after therapy,” Russell reminded her.

In his tone she heard the effort of strained patience. She’d always liked things just so in her house and her life. But lately, well, since the accident, she’d been unable to let anything slide. Everything had to go according to plan, like clockwork, or she couldn’t cope.

She knew her behavior drove Russell to the brink of his patience—which said a lot, because Russell was one of the most patient men she’d ever met.

But she couldn’t help herself.

“I’m so glad we’re finished with therapy.” Julie wanted to believe the nightmare was now behind them. Those two months of Ben in hospital, then these last two, where he’d received outpatient treatment. According to his neuropsychological assessment he was ready to reengage in regular life.

Russell, reading again, didn’t add any comment. She surveyed the world through the flattened slats of the wooden blinds. Late August, and the city was lush with its abundant greenery. In the distance, the ocean sparkled like a band of platinum in the setting sun.

“Dinner’s almost ready. I suppose I can just keep the chicken warm.”

“If he isn’t up in fifteen minutes, I’ll prod him a little.” Russell didn’t lift his gaze from his book this time; still, Julie heard the sigh behind his words.

Relax, Julie. He’d said the words to her so often these past months he didn’t need to utter them anymore. They rang in her ears like a mocking refrain. Because relaxing was something she’d never been good at. And now…

“I’ll check on the food.” She left the room and went down the hall to the kitchen. But there was nothing to do there, either. The counters were clean and the table set. A chicken-curry casserole warmed in the oven. The rice steamer was on hold; a garden salad waited in the fridge.

She brushed a hand over Ben’s dinner plate. Closing her eyes, she could picture him here, talking and eating at the same time, tipping his chair back on two legs, barely swallowing before putting more food into his mouth.

Habits she’d once hated, and now missed desperately. Since the accident Ben ate so carefully, struggling to control his fork, not to spill his milk.

She turned to the fridge, where for years she’d kept a calendar posted with Ben’s homework deadlines, after-school commitments, play dates with friends.

Now the only writing in the clean, white squares were the times for his scheduled rehab therapy, ending with today’s. All that loomed was the September 3 back-to-school day. Would Ben be ready to face those academic and social challenges? More important, would his friends and teachers be ready for him?