Left Neglected Part 12

"I see your hand!"

"Look again."

"I see your hand moving up and down."

"Notice any details about the hand?"

Details about the hand. Let's see. It was hard enough just locating and identifying it, and now she wants details. I strain as hard as I can to keep her moving hand within my field of vision, stretching my concentration so uncomfortably far into the periphery that it feels like I'm trying to describe something on the back of my own head. I'm just about to give up when I notice that the hand is wearing an emerald-cut diamond ring and Cartier watch.

"Oh my G.o.d, that's my hand!"

"Good job, Sarah."

"I see my left hand!"

I sound like Lucy announcing to everyone that she tied her shoes all by herself.

"Good. Now what time does your watch say?"

Oh yeah. The goal. I'm so close to getting that coffee now, I can taste it. Read the watch. But while I was busy congratulating myself for seeing my left hand and getting excited about my imminent reward, something awful happened. My left hand is gone. I try doing whatever it is I did before to see it again, but I hadn't followed some prescribed set of methodical steps to find it, and I can't seem to replicate the experience. It just sort of magically appeared. And then disappeared.

"I lost my hand."

"Oh no, that's okay. That happens. Your brain is gonna have a hard time sustaining attention on the left side. We'll help you to stretch it out."

"I guess I should start wearing my watch on my right wrist."

"Okay, and how will you put it on?"

I stare at my right wrist and realize the impossibility of accomplis.h.i.+ng that.

"My mother?"

"I think you should keep it on your left. This'll be a good exercise for us to use. And I know your mom is here to help you, and that's okay for now, but having her do it for you isn't a good long-term solution."

I couldn't agree more.

"But it would be nice to know the time," I say.

"How about using your cell phone?" she suggests.

I would love to use my cell phone, but I haven't used my cell phone since the crash because Bob won't give it to me. I keep begging him to bring it in for me. My calendar and email are in my phone. And all of my contacts. The same information was stored in my laptop as well, but my laptop was totaled in the accident along with the Acura. So I really need my phone.

But Bob keeps dodging me whenever I bring it up. Oh, I can't find it. Oh, I forgot it. Oh, I'll get it tomorrow. Oh, he's so transparent. He doesn't want me to spend any time focusing on work while I'm here. He thinks I should put work out of my mind and devote 100 percent of my mental energy to getting better. He also thinks that if I dabble in a little bit of work, it'll only stress me out, and I don't need any added stress right now.

While I agree with him to some extent, and I do work as hard as I can on whatever task the nurses and therapists ask me to perform, there's quite a lot of downtime here at Baldwin. I have some kind of therapy for three hours each day. And meals can also count as opportunities for learning. For example, Martha always hides my dessert on the left side of my tray (and when I can't find it, my mother, the good little enabler, retrieves it for me). So if I include meals, there's maybe another two hours. But that's it. Five hours a day. I could easily fit in some emails and phone calls without overdoing anything. A few calls a day might even reduce my stress levels.

"Bob won't give me my phone," I say, tattling on him.

Heidi walks over to my mother's chair.

"This it?" she asks, holding my cell phone in her hand.

"Yes! Where did you get it?"

"It was on the table to your left."

For the love of G.o.d. I wonder how long it's been sitting in the black hole next to me. I imagine Bob placing it there, thinking, She can use it if she can find it.

"Here," she says, handing over my long lost friend. "You didn't find the time, but you found your hand and saw your watch for a few seconds. I'm gonna go down and get you a coffee."

"Really?"

"Yup. What kind?"

"Vanilla latte. Extra large. Thank you so much."

"You got it. I could use another, too. We'll start with coffee in rehab and work our way to wine in my living room. Deal?"

"Deal."

"Okay, back in a minute."

I hear the open-and-close of the door, and I'm alone in my room. My mother's at the mall, Heidi's getting coffee, I've got my cell phone, and for a few brief moments, I was aware of my left hand. I smile. I may not be good yet, but I'd say I'm already a little better than not so good.

Now, where should I begin? I think I'll call Jessica first and catch up on what's happened since the accident. Then Richard. We'll need to come up with a strategy for how I can best work from here. Then Carson. I can't wait to hear their voices. I push the power b.u.t.ton, but nothing happens. I push it again and again. Nothing. The battery's dead.

And I have no idea where the charger is.

CHAPTER 12.

My mother has been gone forever. I can't imagine what could be taking her so long. It's a strange thing, to be wis.h.i.+ng for my mother to come back to me. I stopped throwing pennies down that well a long time ago. But here I am, sitting up in my hospital bed, saying h.e.l.lo to Jessica and Richard, trying to act normal, wis.h.i.+ng my mother would hurry up and get here. I need that d.a.m.n hat.

Jessica hands me a huge and heavy box of chocolate peanut b.u.t.ter fudge, sits down in my mother's chair, and asks how I'm doing.

In my very best everyday, no-big-deal but a.s.sured voice, I say, "Good. Much better," and thank her for the fudge.

I offer them a piece, but they both say, "No, thanks."

I dig into the box, pick out the thickest cube, and pop the whole thing into my mouth. Big mistake. Now I'm unable to start up a conversation through all that chocolate and peanut b.u.t.ter, and Jessica and Richard aren't offering anything. They're just watching me chew. The silence feels thicker and more awkward than the giant wad of fudge in my mouth. I try to chew faster.

The image of me reflected in Jessica's facial expression isn't pretty. The incision scars, the bruising, the overall baldness. I'm a horror movie, and she desperately wants to bury her face in someone's shoulder. Her good manners keep her from looking away, but there's no hiding that my appearance scares her. This is not the confident image of health and competency I was hoping to project. Where the heck is my mother with that hat? I finally swallow.

"Thanks so much for coming. I would've been in touch, but my cell phone was missing, and my laptop didn't survive the accident. If you messenger one over, I can easily work from here."

"Don't worry about work, Sarah. We'll take care of everything until you come back," says Richard.

Jessica nods, disgust and terror bleeding through her queasy smile.

"But I really need to stay on top of recruiting. It's crunch time. My inbox must be insane."

"We've rerouted all your email to Jessica and Carson. Let them handle crunch time," says Richard.

"Yeah, don't worry," says Jessica, looking about as worried as a person can look.

Of course, they had to forward all my mail. That makes sense. They didn't know how long I'd be out of commission, and the decisions pending can't wait. Time may be a petrified forest here at Baldwin, but it's a raging river rapid at Berkley.

"I know I'm not physically back in the office yet, but there's no reason why I can't work from here," I say to Richard, looking at Jessica.

Wait. I'm talking to Richard, but I'm looking at Jessica. I've just realized that I'm not seeing Richard. He must be standing to her right. My left. Fantastic. In my mind's eye, I picture Richard. He's about six foot two, salt-and-pepper hair, brown eyes, slender, almost gaunt, blue suit, red tie, wingtips. The slender part is new. From a slightly more distant memory bank, I can also pull up Richard before his divorce-fifty pounds heavier, pink fleshy face, cantaloupe-sized, middle-aged paunch, bigger suit, same red tie. I imagine the contents of his refrigerator in his bachelor apartment at the Ritz-a six-pack of Corona, a few limes, an expired quart of milk. I try to picture his skinny face and wonder if he looks half as freaked out as Jessica does.

"It's all being taken care of, Sarah," says the voice of Richard.

"What about annual reviews?"

"Carson's handling it."

"Even Asia?"

"He's got it."

"And India?"

"Yes."

"Alright, well, if he has any questions, or if he needs me for anything, tell him to call me."

"I will."

"I can at least phone in to internal meetings. Jessica, can you send me my calendar and plan to conference call me in?"

A cell phone rings. G.o.d, I miss my ring tone.

"h.e.l.lo? Yup," says Richard's voice. "Good, tell him I'll call him back in five minutes."

Following some cue from Richard I didn't see, Jessica picks up her bag from the floor and places it on her lap. The credits are rolling, the movie's over, and she's ready to get the h.e.l.l out of here.

"Sorry to have to cut this visit short, but I've got to return that call," says Richard.

"Sure, that's okay, thanks for coming. And don't worry. I'll be out of here soon."

"Good."

"But while I'm here, Jessica, can you send me a laptop and keep me updated on meetings?"

"Sarah, we miss you," says Richard. "But we want you to take your time and come back when you're a hundred percent. The sooner you get better, the sooner we can throw you back into the fire. Focus on you, don't worry about work. Everything's under control."

"I'll send you more fudge," says Jessica, like she's a parent negotiating with a child, offering some lame alternative to what the child wants but can't have.

"Is there anything else we can get for you?" asks Richard.

A computer, a cell phone charger, my calendar, some life-line to my job.

"No, thanks."

"Get better. We miss you," says Jessica as she backs away. Richard now steps into view.

"Good to see you, Sarah."

He bends down over me and leans in to give me a polite kiss on the cheek. At least, this is what I a.s.sume. I'm already committed to returning his innocent peck on the cheek when his lips are surprisingly right in front of mine, and without time to think about what I'm doing, I plant a full-mouth smooch right on his lips.

I'm sure the wide-eyed astonishment on his face matches mine. My embarra.s.sment races for an explanation. He must've been going for my left cheek, the cheek whose existence I'm only aware of in theory. This neurological logic satisfies me, but Richard is looking at me as if I've forgotten the nature of our relations.h.i.+p. Like I've gone insane.

"Okay, then, um," he says, clearing his throat. "Get well soon."

And they're both out the door.

Great. I've just terrified my a.s.sistant and s.e.xually a.s.saulted my boss.

I flip open the box of fudge and pick out another big piece. They don't want me back at all unless I've recovered 100 percent. I chew on this piece of information as I chew the piece of fudge. What if I don't recover 100 percent?

I stuff another piece of fudge into my mouth. What if I don't recover 100 percent? I eat another cube. I keep eating until I feel sick, but I still can't manage to answer the question, and I can't stop asking it, so I finish the box. Only the box still feels heavy. I shake it and hear and feel fudge b.u.mp against the side of the box. The left side. The side I have no awareness of. I shake the box again, this time like I'm trying to murder it, and a few squares stumble into view. I eat them.

What if I don't recover 100 percent?

CHAPTER 13.

Please tell me there are others," I say.

My mother has just modeled the three hats she purchased for me at the mall. She's still wearing the third one-an absurdly large Victorian tea hat covered with a heaping pile of red roses-along with a slightly deflated smile.

"What do you mean? What's wrong with this one?"