Part 9 (1/2)
”What if I told you there was a chocolate bar on your plate?” he asks, smiling.
I've got to hand it to him for trying. Chocolate is definitely the right bait to use with me. But I don't need an incentive. I'm highly motivated. It's not that I'm not trying to see what he sees.
”I don't see it.”
Maybe I can feel it. I wipe the clean, white plate with the palm of my hand. There's nothing there. Not one kernel of rice, not one morsel of chocolate.
”Try turning your head to the left.”
I stare at the plate.
”I don't know how to do that. I don't know how to get to where you're asking me to go. It's not a place I can turn to or look at. It's like if you told me to turn and look at the middle of my back. I believe the middle of my back exists, but I have no idea how to see it.”
He writes this down and nods while he writes.
”Intellectually, I understand that there's a left side of the plate, but it's not part of my reality. I can't look at the left side of the plate because it's not there. There is no left side. I feel like I'm looking at the whole plate. I don't know, it's frustrating, I can't describe it.”
”I think you just did.”
”But is there really chocolate there?”
”Yup, the kind Bob brought yesterday.”
Lake Champlain. The best. Without understanding how this might work, I grab the top of the plate and rotate it to the bottom. Tada! Almond b.u.t.ter Crunch. Bob's the best.
”That's cheating!” says Dr. Kwon.
”Totally fair,” I say, chewing a sublime mouthful.
”Okay, but answer this. Where did that chocolate come from?”
I know he wants me to say ”the left.” But there is no left.
”Heaven.”
”Sarah, think about it. It came from the left side of the plate, which is now on the right, and the right, which you just saw, so you know it exists, is now on the left.”
He might as well have just said something about Pi times the square root of infinity. I don't care where the right side of the plate went. I'm eating my favorite chocolate, and I'm moving to rehab tomorrow.
IT'S BEEN TWO WEEKS SINCE the accident, and Bob's been taking a lot of time off from work to be here with me, which can't be good for his chances of surviving if there's another layoff. I told him he shouldn't be here so much. He told me to be quiet and not worry about him.
My favorite test aside from drawing pictures is called the Fluff Test. Rose, the physical therapist, tapes cotton b.a.l.l.s all over me and then asks me to remove them. I love it because I imagine I must look like one of Charlie's or Lucy's art projects, like the snowmen they'll probably make in school in a few weeks. G.o.d, I miss my kids.
I pluck off the cotton ”snow” and let Rose know when I'm done.
”Did I get them all?”
”Nope.”
”Close?”
”Nope.”
”Did I get any on the left?”
Wherever that is.
”Nope.”
Weird. I truly believed I found them all. I don't feel any on me.
”Hold on a sec,” says Bob, who has been sitting in the visitor's chair, observing.
Bob holds up his iPhone and says, ”Say cheese.”
He clicks a photo and shows me the LCD display. I'm stunned. In the picture of me on the screen, I'm covered head to foot in cotton b.a.l.l.s. Crazy. That must be the left side of me. And there's my arm and leg. I'm beyond relieved to see that they're still there. I'd started to believe that they'd been amputated and no one had the courage to tell me.
I notice my head in the picture. It's not only covered in cotton b.a.l.l.s, it's not shaved. My hair, aside from looking oily and matted, is exactly as I remember it. I reach up to touch it but feel only bald head and the Braille-like b.u.mps created by my incision scars (a neurology resident removed the staples a couple of days ago). According to the picture, I have a full head of hair, but according to what my hand feels, I'm completely bald. This is too bizarre.
”I still have hair?”
”They only shaved the right side. The left still has all your hair,” says Rose.
I stare at the picture while I run my fingers along my scalp. I love my hair, but this can't look pretty.
”You have to shave the rest,” I say.
Rose looks over at Bob like she's checking for another vote.
”It's the best of the two looks, Bob, don't you think?”
He says nothing, but his lack of response tells me that he agrees. And I know it's like asking him, Which do you like better, church or the mall? He's not a fan of either.
”Can we do it now before I chicken out?”
”I'll go get the razor,” says Rose.
As we wait for Rose to come back, Bob stands and checks email on his iPhone. I haven't checked my email since I've been here. They won't let me. My heart races when I think about it. My inbox must have a thousand emails waiting for me. Or maybe Jessica has been forwarding everything to Richard or Carson. That would make more sense. We're in the middle of recruiting, my most critical time of year. I need to get back to make sure we get the right people and place them where they'll best fit.
”Bob, where'd you go?”
”I'm over by the window.”
”Okay, honey, you might as well be in France. Can you come over here where I can see you?”
”Sorry.”