shrink-wrap. Dr. Singh was still reviewing a few points of housekeeping when I blurted, "You're not sending me to a padded room! I'm not living the rest of my life doped out of my mind and counting flowers on the wallpaper. I won't let that happen!" I tried to stand but my legs failed me.
"It's all right, Rebecca," Dr. Singh said. "No one is going to make you do anything you don't want to do. We're here to find out what you're experiencing and to help you feel better."
"Becky."
"What?"
"It's Becky. I'm Becky."
She wrote this on her clipboard. "What's happening to you is frightening, I know. The good news is that the brain has the ability to heal from trauma, though it may take a little time. The tricky part is that no two brain injuries are the same."
I took a tissue from the box, dabbed my face with it and crumpled it into my hand with the first one. "Okay, let's do this."
"My notes from Dr. Burke say that you've been upset a lot. Crying for long periods of time without stopping."
"Yeah," I said, failing to suppress more tears. "I get sad sometimes when I think about what happened."
"The car accident, you mean?"
"Yeah."
"The deaths?"
"Yeah."
"Were the boys who died your friends?"
"Yes. Well, no. Not really." How to explain Johnny? I couldn't even explain it to myself. "It's not just the accident. When I'm out where there's lots of people, I get all freaked out. It's like running in a nightmare, when you can't get anywhere. Crying's the only way to stop my head from exploding. Too much drama."
"So you haven't been going out then? Haven't been visiting friends?"
"Friends?" I wanted to spit. "What are those? No. I like being home where it's safe, where I can hear myself think."
"And you're having episodes where you stop talking in the middle of sentences?"
I looked down at the wadded tissues in my hands. Dr. Singh had studied up. What else was in my file? On second thought, I didn't want to know. "Yeah, I guess."
"Can you tell me about what that is like?"
A fresh barrage of tears flooded down my cheeks. I couldn't answer.
Mom scooted to the edge of the couch. Overly made-up, her face distorted from cosmetic surgery, she jangled when she moved, a result of several spangly gold bracelets. "It's like she'll be talking to you," Mom said, "and her eyes will kind of glaze over. After a few seconds, sometimes she'll start whispering, as if she's talking to someone who isn't there."
Doctor Singh wrote something on her clipboard. "How frequently do these episodes occur?"
Mom seemed to consider this. "Maybe once every couple of days."
"Any trouble concentrating in school?"
"No more than usual," I answered.
"Any dropping of words? Unable to find the words for what you want to say?"
"For a few days after I woke up in the hospital. Not since."
"And you haven't been eating?"
"Blah! Food. Gross."
Dr. Singh tapped her pen contemplatively to her lips. "What about having fun? Are you doing things you used to like to do?"
"Mom and me would sometimes go into the city. You know, shopping, makeovers. Lunch at the Four Seasons. The whole girlie-girl thing." I felt my eyes glaze over and shook my head to clear it. "It's just... stuff. None of it matters anymore."
"What does matter?"
I managed a shallow smile. For the first time since I'd arrived, the weight didn't feel quite so heavy. "What matters? These two, I guess. Mom and Dad. Family. People."
Dr. Singh continued to make notes. "Okay, why don't you tell me about these voices you've been hearing."
I felt my cheeks flush. Of course, she knew about the voices. Why else had Dr. Burke referred me? But she didn't know everything . I hadn't told anyone my secret.
I examined my hands again, as if I'd unexpectedly grown an eleventh finger. "Not voices," I admitted. "Voice. One."
"Okay. Tell me about it."
I sighed, weary of telling the tale. "It's a voice of a little girl. She's like, I don't know, seven or eight years old maybe. She talks funny, like with an accent.
"It's all right, Rebecca," Dr. Singh said. "No one is going to make you do anything you don't want to do. We're here to find out what you're experiencing and to help you feel better."
"Becky."
"What?"
"It's Becky. I'm Becky."
She wrote this on her clipboard. "What's happening to you is frightening, I know. The good news is that the brain has the ability to heal from trauma, though it may take a little time. The tricky part is that no two brain injuries are the same."
I took a tissue from the box, dabbed my face with it and crumpled it into my hand with the first one. "Okay, let's do this."
"My notes from Dr. Burke say that you've been upset a lot. Crying for long periods of time without stopping."
"Yeah," I said, failing to suppress more tears. "I get sad sometimes when I think about what happened."
"The car accident, you mean?"
"Yeah."
"The deaths?"
"Yeah."
"Were the boys who died your friends?"
"Yes. Well, no. Not really." How to explain Johnny? I couldn't even explain it to myself. "It's not just the accident. When I'm out where there's lots of people, I get all freaked out. It's like running in a nightmare, when you can't get anywhere. Crying's the only way to stop my head from exploding. Too much drama."
"So you haven't been going out then? Haven't been visiting friends?"
"Friends?" I wanted to spit. "What are those? No. I like being home where it's safe, where I can hear myself think."
"And you're having episodes where you stop talking in the middle of sentences?"
I looked down at the wadded tissues in my hands. Dr. Singh had studied up. What else was in my file? On second thought, I didn't want to know. "Yeah, I guess."
"Can you tell me about what that is like?"
A fresh barrage of tears flooded down my cheeks. I couldn't answer.
Mom scooted to the edge of the couch. Overly made-up, her face distorted from cosmetic surgery, she jangled when she moved, a result of several spangly gold bracelets. "It's like she'll be talking to you," Mom said, "and her eyes will kind of glaze over. After a few seconds, sometimes she'll start whispering, as if she's talking to someone who isn't there."
Doctor Singh wrote something on her clipboard. "How frequently do these episodes occur?"
Mom seemed to consider this. "Maybe once every couple of days."
"Any trouble concentrating in school?"
"No more than usual," I answered.
"Any dropping of words? Unable to find the words for what you want to say?"
"For a few days after I woke up in the hospital. Not since."
"And you haven't been eating?"
"Blah! Food. Gross."
Dr. Singh tapped her pen contemplatively to her lips. "What about having fun? Are you doing things you used to like to do?"
"Mom and me would sometimes go into the city. You know, shopping, makeovers. Lunch at the Four Seasons. The whole girlie-girl thing." I felt my eyes glaze over and shook my head to clear it. "It's just... stuff. None of it matters anymore."
"What does matter?"
I managed a shallow smile. For the first time since I'd arrived, the weight didn't feel quite so heavy. "What matters? These two, I guess. Mom and Dad. Family. People."
Dr. Singh continued to make notes. "Okay, why don't you tell me about these voices you've been hearing."
I felt my cheeks flush. Of course, she knew about the voices. Why else had Dr. Burke referred me? But she didn't know everything . I hadn't told anyone my secret.
I examined my hands again, as if I'd unexpectedly grown an eleventh finger. "Not voices," I admitted. "Voice. One."
"Okay. Tell me about it."
I sighed, weary of telling the tale. "It's a voice of a little girl. She's like, I don't know, seven or eight years old maybe. She talks funny, like with an accent.
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