Forgetting Page 3

  A large area of my head had been shaved. I’d had surgery. This was not a dream. I could feel the sutures with my fingertips. “Make it stop,” I graveled out of my throat to the calm doctor. The first words I would speak would be a prayer of mercy. Knowing the pain I was in, he kindly injected more drugs into my IV line and let me slip into that thoughtless place.

  My mother was at my side as my eyes cracked open once more to the nightmare I couldn’t change. Time must have passed because she was different. Her hair was highlighted, whereas I remembered she always wore it in a chocolate-brown hue. Her skin was sun kissed, as if she had been gardening all day, a little too pink on the cheeks. Although she had aged, she was still the most beautiful woman I knew. Dr. Alessandra Brady once had a prestigious spot as the director of Neonatology at Columbus Children’s Hospital. Her passion for working with infants ran deep, but as she grew older, she had longed to spend more time with my father in a less hectic environment.

  Right now, she was not looking at me as a patient, but it did not stop her from checking every chart and monitor in my room. She was a bit demanding on the staff as they administered my medications. She watched like a hawk, and commented on everything. After I sobbed uncontrollably at her presence, she refused to leave my side. Within five hours, she had negotiated my release and transport to North Carolina. I said very little as everything whirled around me like a tornado. Although I had awakened, I was still merely an observer to a life I did not recognize.

  Expecting to drive to an airport, I was confused when the elevator ascended to the top level of the hospital and a nurse wheeled me out to the hospital’s helipad. Dr. Gleason opened the door for my mother, and then helped move me into a seat. I knew that the doctor would be traveling with us until I was admitted to the hospital in Charlotte. We traveled a short distance to a small airport where a jet was waiting for us. Inside the cabin, it was luxurious beyond belief.

  Even the doctor whistled while boarding and gave me a wink. “I should have been a singer, not a doctor.” He said.

  Giving a confused stare, my attention was drawn to another person joining us on the flight. An extremely tall man in a black wool jacket and olive green hat bent low and walked cautiously towards me before taking the adjacent seat. His bright blue eyes were even brighter against the moisture pooling in the corners, visible even behind the thick black frames of his glasses. I attributed it to the freezing chill and thought nothing more of it. He was younger than the others, but even more serious in stature. His mouth was pulled tight and he never once took his eyes off of me. I had seen him in the hospital talking to my mother and assumed he was assisting with my transport.

  I broke the awkward connection and glanced around while being strapped into a plush leather seat and reclined back. My mother sat near me with Dr. Gleason, reviewing charts on computers and discussing my care, without explaining his comment or mentioning why we were on a private plane.

  “We cannot determine how much damage has occurred. She has the ability to be vocal, yet she’s choosing not to. It is most likely fear, as she believes it’s almost twenty years ago and she’s in Ohio. Something about that point in her life was a catalyst. Do you know what it could be?”

  “I do,” my mother whispered softly. “We moved that year. She was forced to leave her friends and the life she knew. It was really hard on her; she basically had to form a new identity. You know, we should really wait until she is asleep to discuss these things. I don’t want her to be overwhelmed any more than she already is.”

  Dr. Gleason agreed with her, and they switched to the topics of physical therapy, cognitive testing, referrals, and the best drug treatment options. The man across from me stayed vigilant, which piqued my curiosity. However, nothing made sense, so I did the only thing I could to be okay; I closed my eyes and pretended none of this was happening.

  ~ Mother Knows Best ~

  I had finally come to terms with the fact I had been in an accident and suffered a brain injury. I retained all of my motor skills and resumed the ability to walk after several weeks of physical therapy. It may have been more difficult to accept if the damage had been worse. I could not change my situation, so I tried to make the best of it. Initially, I refused to accept the diagnosis. One day, during a fit of rage, I cut off the rest of my hair. My father kept his clippers in the bathroom closet, and I found them while learning where everything was. Because I was in a wheelchair, I was unable to see most mirrors. I tried to avoid them at all cost anyway, because I was terrified by my reflection. The bleached blond locks that still hung past my shoulders looked out of place with the massive area of hair missing from the surgery. Why they had not shaved my head entirely was a mystery.

  My mother had raced in as soon as she heard the distinct buzz of the clippers, and watched the handfuls of hair that fell all around me. With tears strewn down both of our faces, she gently took the clippers out of my hand and finished what I had started. After pouring a warm bath, she helped me move into the water and sat next to me, holding my hand as more tears poured down. As if I were a child, she washed my back and feet, then behind my neck and knees. She knew I hated being so weak, as I had inherited her fierce nature.

  “Stella, I know this is hard, but trust me that it will be okay. You are home now, where I can take care of you. It will not be long before you are out in the world again, where you won’t need anyone, including me.”

  She sounded so wistful, making me question her comment. “You are my mother, I will always need you. Why would you say that?”

  She stopped rubbing the soapy sponge across my back and dipped it into the water while collecting her thoughts. “You are just a strong-willed woman. I know you will thrive soon enough.”

  I could tell by her tone that there was something behind her hesitancy. I was in no position to prod, yet in that moment, I resolved to find out exactly what kind of person I was before all of this occurred. I gave it a few days before approaching the topic. It would turn out that I would not need to bring it up; it would surface on its own. Two days later, my mother was preparing to attend a homebirth. Being a partner in a small practice gave her control in a way a hospital never could. Despite her initial reservations, she had come to know the area’s midwives and respect the decisions of the more holistic practices people preferred. Her lack of judgment made her trusted, so when she felt that more drastic measures should be taken, the townspeople were more willing to accept treatment.

  I followed her into her office as she began to work on her computer and check her supplies. As she was typing away, I mindlessly pulled items out from the bag and organized them. Talking to myself, I listed them off while gently tucking each item back in. “Gloves, fetoscope, flashlight, suturing set, oxygen, ambu bag.” Only after the zipper was pulled did I stop and realize what I had done.

  “Why are you crying, Mom?”

  My fears were put to ease as she wrapped me tightly in her arms. “You are coming back, Stella. You may not realize it, but this is huge.”

  Excitedly, she grabbed my hand and dragged me into my room to change. “You are coming with me tonight, I might need you.”

  Her SUV bounded along the rural dirt roads until we arrived at the small home a few miles outside of town. It was quiet, with the lights turned low. A petite blond woman named Frances greeted us at the door. She hugged my mother warmly, then turned to me wide eyed. I could tell she recognized me, but she didn’t approach me with the same familiarity. Readdressing my mother, her tone was dripping with concern.

  “We have a stubborn one here, he’s presenting breech and refusing to turn. I’ve already tried sifting with a rebozo and we are looking at a standing birth.”

  My mother looked to me and offered an introduction.

  “Frances, this is my daughter Stella. Stella, this is one of our midwives, Frances. She truly is gifted in what she does. I am merely here in case she needs assistance.”

  Frances smiled and quickly pulled me into a hug as I outstret
ched my hand. “I’ve heard so many wonderful things about you, Stella. It’s nice to finally meet you!”

  I hugged back, and was interrupted by a woman howling in pain. Immediately, I ran to her side and dropped to my knees. She stopped and looked spooked at my uninvited presence. Her husband was seated behind her as she was bent down on her hands and knees, breathing through the contractions. She was panting heavily, and clearly in distress. Frances and my mother both stood in the doorway, choosing not to intervene. The couple looked to them, and they offered reassurance. The experience could only be described as autopilot. Without any recollection of how I had the knowledge, a deep part of me responded without effort.

  “Let’s drop your head toward the floor and rest on your elbows. I have an idea so we can try and get this little guy to turn, okay?”

  Once again, they looked to those in the doorway and received confirmation to follow my direction.

  “I need a few bags of frozen vegetables, please.”

  Stifling a laugh, the women ran to the fridge to get my requested items. Feeling a bit of relief from the changed position, the mother, whose name I later learned was Jenny, raised a brow. “What’d need with frozen peas? I ain’t hungry, darling.”

  Her southern twang was sweet, with a touch of sarcasm. Her husband Dale rubbed her shoulders as she rocked back and forth, not even questioning what was taking place. Frances returned with the large plastic bowl of frozen bags. I grabbed one off the top, tossed it to Dale, and instructed him to help me hold them against her upper torso where the baby’s head was.

  “Babies do not like the cold, so we are going to use these to encourage him to where he needs to be. Once he flips, we will get you in the pool to finish laboring, okay?”

  “Whatever works, just get him out safely!”

  Jenny’s breathing increased as the contractions grew closer. I turned to Frances and asked how she was progressing.

  “Five centimeters. That was an hour ago. You get that baby flipped and she will most likely go pretty shortly after.”

  My mother and Frances had their arms wrapped around each other as they watched me move synergistically with the family. A large blue tub with a plastic sheet covering it rested in the corner. Once I felt the baby start to move, a resounding burst of joy rippled through my body. I cheered, “Come on, baby! You can do it! You’re almost here, move for your mama!”

  Every one shouted together in an attempt to entice the little one into changing direction. We guided Jenny’s head a little closer to the floor, and successfully encouraged the baby to turn. Immediately, Frances and my mother guided Jenny into the pool of water for the delivery. With adrenaline pumping, I raced out of the house and gripped the wood railing. More screaming and shouts of encouragement drifted through the home, pounding in my ears. A low bellowing noise hit my gut and I knew it was happening . . . a baby was being born.

  With closed eyes, I dropped to the ground and began to weep. It was so beautiful and heartbreaking in the same breath. I wanted to scream as something new was rushing out of me. I could feel her inside, the woman I had become, whose body I inhabited. She was angry and bitter, fighting to the surface, but I had to fight back. The moon was full, lighting up the surroundings in a pale grey. At the bottom of the hill ran a small creek, iridescent with moonbeams bouncing off the surface. I knew I needed to calm down, or risk a debilitating headache. I walked quietly to the creek, dipped my hands into the cool water, and let it flow across my fingertips. Then I splashed my face a few times. The babbling brook soothed my nerves and slowed my heart rate.

  I did not hear my mother walking toward me, it was only after she gently tapped my shoulder that I knew she was there.

  “I think you are ready to know a little more about who you are. Let’s go make some tea. It’s going to be a long night.”

  I took her outstretched hand and leaned into her shoulder as we said our goodbyes to the others and walked back to her truck. I could not contain the tears once my eyes fell upon the baby happily nursing at his mother’s breast. Jenny and Dale both looked to me and smiled with gratitude.

  Frances walked out with us and opened the door for me. “Welcome back, Stella. We missed you.”

  I grinned back at her and offered a warm hug before climbing in. Trying to process everything that happened in just a few hours, the questions formed a list so long I was unsure where to begin. What kind of woman knows how to deliver babies, yet is covered with tattoos? I thought I was a singer. When did I leave? Why did I leave?

  My mother was quiet as she rummaged through the cupboards for her tea strainers and coffee mugs. A kettle shrilled on the gas stove top for a moment, before she poured the steaming water over the herbs.

  Holding the piping hot mug in my hands, I breathed the lemon and ginger aroma in before adding a few delicate cubes of sugar.

  “Does everyone here know me?” I queried softly.

  She took a sip of her tea while tapping her foot against the stool in the kitchen nervously. “Yes, they do. You lived here until you went away to college. You made many friends and adjusted well once you gave everyone a chance. Working with me also helped because you were able to get to know folks a lot faster. Initially, you were angry about what you lost, but you found ways to get along before the school year started.”

  I grinned knowing that I was happy here. She said I had made a lot of friends, so I questioned if any of them were around still, as I had not talked to anyone outside of the hospital before tonight and was quite lonely.

  Her face dropped as she looked away. “Stella, honey, you stopped talking to people a while back. When you left, you vanished without a trace. If people see you and are somewhat surprised, it’s not just because of the star you became, it’s because of the person you were when you were here. No one ever expected you to see you again, myself included.”

  “Oh . . . do you know why?” I asked quietly.

  My mother shook her head and shrugged. “No one knows, Stella. We knew you weren’t taken, because you left a note in your apartment. You just said, “I can’t do this anymore, don’t look for me, it’s best to let me go. I love you.” We looked of course, but since you took off of free will and packed a suitcase, the police weren’t too keen on doing a whole lot. When you made it big, we tried to see you, but you were gone.”

  Her heart had been annihilated in my absence. I stood up and pulled her tight into my arms. For so long, she had waited for her own questions to be answered. Unfortunately, I was unable to do so. The mystery of my departure weighed heavy in the room, and I couldn’t take any more for the evening.

  “It’s probably best we don’t know, mama. I can’t imagine what would have happened to make me do something like that. I just thought I would ask. I’m getting really tired, but I have one more question if that’s alright. What did I go to school for? Obviously, it was not what I became.” I held out my arms, twisted them, and laughed at the ink I had grown to know so well.

  My mother began to glow before answering. “Honey, you were in Pre-Med. You earned a full scholarship to UNC Chapel Hill. You were close enough to home, but it kept you so busy we didn’t see you often. We were so proud of you, you did so well there.”

  We both sipped our tea solemnly for a bit. She was allowing me to absorb the information, and formulate new questions. It helped explain a little more about how I knew what to do tonight.

  “Everything is past tense. Maybe someday I can make you proud again, because I have this feeling it’s not something I did a lot of before the accident. I am not ready to know who she was, but I feel her. She lives in my bones, like a ghost haunting a house. Unwelcome, but thinks she belongs here. I suppose it makes sense, she doesn’t have anywhere else to go. After all, I’m the ghost.” I stood from the island in the kitchen and placed my mug into the sink before turning around and hugging my mother once more.

  She held me close and rubbed my back. “Baby girl, you are no ghost, this is who you were before the world failed you
and your heart became stone. I never would have wished that this is what it would take to bring you back to me, but I won’t deny the good Lord has blessed me each day you have been here. I’ve waited so long just to see your sweet face, and tell you that I love you.”

  Breaking the embrace, I stood back and held onto her hands, shaking. If I was such a cold person and all it would do was rip me away, I wasn’t sure I wanted my memory back.

  “Mama, if I go to sleep tonight and she’s here when I wake up, know I am so sorry. I hope she knows that you love her, and whatever happened to her wasn’t her fault. I know people blame God, or their parents—things outside of themselves for what’s wrong in life. But if she comes back, she needs to know she has a choice. She can keep being the person she was, or she can become the person she was always meant to be. Hopefully it will be me, but with all of the memories. If I ended up being as smart as you tell me I was, her heart must have been broken pretty bad to shut everyone and everything out. And if it’s just me that wakes up in the morning, please don’t tell me anymore. Can you do that?”

  Wiping away the tears, she nodded profusely. “Of course, Honey. I won’t tell you anything you don’t ask.”

  She kissed me goodnight, and I headed to my room. As I walked down the hall, I saw my father in the den watching a football game. He had been very reserved since I came home, nothing like I remembered him being. His emotional absence was the hardest thing to overcome. I stood in the doorway and waited for him to invite me in, which he did after muting the game.

  Sitting on the opposite couch, I said the only thing I could, “Daddy, I don’t know what I did to hurt you so you bad, other than taking off, which I know must have been so hard on you. I don’t want to know. I told mama the same thing. I know it’s not as easy for you to look past things as it is for her. Whatever happened, I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me.”