hit her when she called me
trailer trash.” I shrugged.
Doctor Williams shook her head. “Come
on, I’ll walk you to the lab.”
We walked shoulder to shoulder down
the white corridor that reeked of rubbing alcohol, towards the
buildings lab to get my blood drawn. She made me pee in a cup once
a month. Drug testing to make sure I was on my meds and nothing
else, because once I tried some crank at a party and totally
freaked out. I also got my blood tested once a month—something
having to do with chemical imbalances.
“Miss Patel?”
“What?”
“Have you experienced any more blank
spaces?”
I shook my head, “Not for a long
time,” and turned into the tiny glass-walled office that was the
source of the sharp scent.
Blank spaces were an accepted part of
my life, like my memory problems; a side effect of the accident.
Doctor Williams was the dutiful physician who helped me pinpoint
the lost time and got me started on trying to keep track of it. She
was keenly interested, which made me want to hide it.
She instructed me, the
second I noticed a lapse, to make notes—what time it is versus what time
it was last time
I checked, or if anything was different in my surroundings: if
anything was moved or missing in my room, if I changed my
clothes—and bring the notes to my sessions for her to look at and
decide whether my meds needed adjusting.
That right there—her solution—created
another problem for me.
I didn’t like when they messed with my
meds. It always threw me for a loop when they changed-up the
cocktail or made me stop one pill to replace it with something else
that didn’t work, but with worse side-effects. Like standing on the
edge of the sidewalk, trying to cross the street, and feeling like
the four inch curb was a mile high. It’s a real shit situation not
being the captain of your own mind.
Another issue: it wasn’t so easy to
find the “blank spots” she mentioned. I mean, how was I supposed to
know I was missing time if the day didn’t disappear? How was I
supposed to know I needed to look for something out of place when
nothing appeared jumbled? It’s not like I ever woke up with a knife
in my hand or anything. My brain would just check out from time to
time. The only time I’d ever noticed anything was when I found
myself somewhere I didn’t remember going—which hardly ever
happened.
On my long walk home from my
appointment that day, I figured that Doctor Williams was probably
busying herself making phone calls. All the blatant lies involved
in my elaborate story probably had her in a tailspin.
Of course there was no group of
friends. No slumber party. No birthday shared with
anyone.
I did mention my foster brother,
Austen, but he was never a turd like I told Doctor Williams. When
he took the time to talk with me, he was usually very nice.
Austen’s mom, my Foster, her name was Deanna, not Chanel—Doctor
knew that, too. I made it up because her real name was so tough to
remember. It was unremarkable and never stuck with me the way her
soft face or generosity did. She always smelled really good,
though, so I called her a perfume.
The first day I came under
the care of that particular foster parent, the child services
worker assigned to drop me off introduced me to my
‘ new family .’ She
actually said, ‘ meet your new
family! ’ and I was so blown by how she
casually tossed the word around, that when The Foster introduced
herself, I couldn’t retain. I just kept thinking: if she was
my family , she
wouldn’t be here.
At first, it made no difference
whether I knew her name or not. I didn’t care. I was sure she was
just like everybody else and would be done with me after a few
months. But she turned out to be different. She was a little
cooky—constantly locking away the kitchen knives and scissors since
before I got there because her son, Austen, was a sleepwalker or
some crazy shit like that—but she was genuinely nice to me. And I
couldn’t bring myself to
trailer trash.” I shrugged.
Doctor Williams shook her head. “Come
on, I’ll walk you to the lab.”
We walked shoulder to shoulder down
the white corridor that reeked of rubbing alcohol, towards the
buildings lab to get my blood drawn. She made me pee in a cup once
a month. Drug testing to make sure I was on my meds and nothing
else, because once I tried some crank at a party and totally
freaked out. I also got my blood tested once a month—something
having to do with chemical imbalances.
“Miss Patel?”
“What?”
“Have you experienced any more blank
spaces?”
I shook my head, “Not for a long
time,” and turned into the tiny glass-walled office that was the
source of the sharp scent.
Blank spaces were an accepted part of
my life, like my memory problems; a side effect of the accident.
Doctor Williams was the dutiful physician who helped me pinpoint
the lost time and got me started on trying to keep track of it. She
was keenly interested, which made me want to hide it.
She instructed me, the
second I noticed a lapse, to make notes—what time it is versus what time
it was last time
I checked, or if anything was different in my surroundings: if
anything was moved or missing in my room, if I changed my
clothes—and bring the notes to my sessions for her to look at and
decide whether my meds needed adjusting.
That right there—her solution—created
another problem for me.
I didn’t like when they messed with my
meds. It always threw me for a loop when they changed-up the
cocktail or made me stop one pill to replace it with something else
that didn’t work, but with worse side-effects. Like standing on the
edge of the sidewalk, trying to cross the street, and feeling like
the four inch curb was a mile high. It’s a real shit situation not
being the captain of your own mind.
Another issue: it wasn’t so easy to
find the “blank spots” she mentioned. I mean, how was I supposed to
know I was missing time if the day didn’t disappear? How was I
supposed to know I needed to look for something out of place when
nothing appeared jumbled? It’s not like I ever woke up with a knife
in my hand or anything. My brain would just check out from time to
time. The only time I’d ever noticed anything was when I found
myself somewhere I didn’t remember going—which hardly ever
happened.
On my long walk home from my
appointment that day, I figured that Doctor Williams was probably
busying herself making phone calls. All the blatant lies involved
in my elaborate story probably had her in a tailspin.
Of course there was no group of
friends. No slumber party. No birthday shared with
anyone.
I did mention my foster brother,
Austen, but he was never a turd like I told Doctor Williams. When
he took the time to talk with me, he was usually very nice.
Austen’s mom, my Foster, her name was Deanna, not Chanel—Doctor
knew that, too. I made it up because her real name was so tough to
remember. It was unremarkable and never stuck with me the way her
soft face or generosity did. She always smelled really good,
though, so I called her a perfume.
The first day I came under
the care of that particular foster parent, the child services
worker assigned to drop me off introduced me to my
‘ new family .’ She
actually said, ‘ meet your new
family! ’ and I was so blown by how she
casually tossed the word around, that when The Foster introduced
herself, I couldn’t retain. I just kept thinking: if she was
my family , she
wouldn’t be here.
At first, it made no difference
whether I knew her name or not. I didn’t care. I was sure she was
just like everybody else and would be done with me after a few
months. But she turned out to be different. She was a little
cooky—constantly locking away the kitchen knives and scissors since
before I got there because her son, Austen, was a sleepwalker or
some crazy shit like that—but she was genuinely nice to me. And I
couldn’t bring myself to
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