Brain Damage

by Freida McFadden

And none of that hurt. The truth is, I didn’t feel it at all. What hurt is everything that came after.

“It’s for modesty,” I explain. “I’m not much for modesty,” he says with a wink. I’ll bet. He knows how hot he is. That rat bastard.

“I guess I’ll see you in three months, Dr. Charlotte McKenna.”

I will never see this man ever again. I’m willing to bet the farm on that.

Two years ago, I adopted a black cat from an animal shelter, which I named Kitty (I’m a doctor—I’m not creative). She’s like my best friend now.

At least fifty percent of cats carry an infection known as toxoplasmosis, which is the reason pregnant women shouldn’t change litter boxes. I’ve read that toxoplasmosis can theoretically infect the brain of the owners, effectively causing psychosis.

I open up a can of cat food for Kitty. Kitty refuses to eat any dry food and will only eat gourmet brands of canned cat food. I swear, the stuff looks so good, sometimes I’m tempted to take a taste. (Okay, I admit it, I did try it once. I don’t recommend it.)

I love being able to eat whatever I want for dinner, then watch whatever I want on television while Kitty settles down on the sofa next to me so that I can stroke her soft, black fur.

But then as the perfectly cooked salmon dissolves on my tongue, I can’t help but think about Clark Douglas, that patient from this morning. And how, even though it’s practically impossible, I wouldn’t entirely mind if he were here, sharing dinner with me right now. And maybe hanging around for a bit afterwards.

“Injuries to the right side of the brain can sometimes cause a neglect of the left side,” Amy explains. “Basically, she has trouble paying attention and noticing stimuli on her left side.”

“Mrs. McKenna,” the man says patiently, “you have to realize that she can’t understand—” “You have no idea what she can understand,” the older woman snaps at him.

But they won’t let me do it. Every time I tried to scratch the itchy spot on my scalp, somebody grabs my hand and says, “No, Charly! You don’t have any skull under there!” Which I guess explains why my scalp is so soft and squishy.

I don’t think green bean purée is going to turn into a hot new food trend.

But when I turn around, I get a surprise. Jogging behind me is none other than Clark Douglas.

“It’s been three months,” he reminds me. Oh my God, he really is here to see me.

I feel myself hanging back. I keep glancing over my shoulder, seeing Clark about half a block behind. I could zip ahead, and finish the race with an embarrassingly big lead, but I don’t do it. I always keep Clark in my sight.

“Come on,” I say. “Only one more lap.” Clark’s eyes widen. His half-smile widens into a grin, and he straightens out with a newfound burst of energy. We jog together side-by-side for the last lap, and I hang back at the end to let him win.

I look at Clark sideways. I swear, if I didn’t know he was a lawyer, I’d guess he was a real estate agent who was only going out with me to convince me to sell my apartment. Oh God, is he a real estate agent who’s only going out with me to get me to sell my apartment?

“What breed is she?” I shrug. “She’s a cat.”

“You didn’t have her declawed?” Clark asks accusingly. “It’s inhumane to declaw a cat,” I say. Clark shoves his hand in my face, which is actually bleeding not insignificantly. “Look what she did! You think that’s humane?”

The way I would have canceled that date so fast

Most people don’t know it, but psoriasis causes more depression than most other medical conditions, including cancer. Having scales on your skin, especially for a young woman like Regina Barry, results in a tremendous loss of self-esteem.

“I know it’s all your fault, Dr. McKenna,” Mr. Barry says, sticking his face in mine. “And believe me, I’m going to make you pay.” I’m going to make you pay.

“He didn’t realize how late it was getting,” I explain. “But he just got here!” I don’t know what to say to that one.

“Hello, Charly,” Chris, the rapist, says to me. “You feel like getting dressed?” That’s when I realize, to my horror, that the rapist has actually been sent to see me. They have sent him here to rape me.

Nicole furrows her brow then, all of a sudden, she starts to giggle. “Oh my gosh, the right side of ‘occupational therapist’ is ‘rapist’! She can’t see stuff on the left. That’s why she thought you were a rapist!”

But honestly, I don’t see why it’s funny that I thought that he was going to rape me. I was really scared.

They should give prizes during therapy. That would make it more fun.

Maybe I should tell them to readjust my position so that all the old people are on my left, so I don’t have to see them.

I watch as he digs his fingers into the soft, white cheese. I thought for sure he was going to eat the cream cheese, especially considering it’s obvious he hasn’t eaten much yet for lunch. But instead, he starts smearing it on his cheeks like warpaint. He’s actually much better at doing this than he is at feeding himself. He’s emptied almost the entire container of cream cheese onto his face before a nurse whose ID badge reads Betty notices what he’s been up to.

I do have a husband, of course. Clark. He came that one time but never again. I’m sort of hoping he’ll come again, but part of me sort of hopes he doesn’t. I’m not sure why but he makes me nervous.

I keep trying to remember things that happened before. The memories are still there, but are covered by a hazy cloak. It’s like waking up from a dream and trying to remember what happened during the dream. I remember things like having dinner in a restaurant with Clark, or putting these long dangling earrings in my ears, or trying to hail a taxi in the rain. But if I try to grab any piece of it, it’s not quite there.

“Right, because she’s trying to kill me!” he said. “Charlotte, she sleeps on my face.” “That’s a sign of affection.” “Right, well,” Clark muttered. “You’re going to feel awfully foolish when you wake up to find me smothered by your cat’s fat ass.”

If I can’t be skinny, at least I’ll have pretty hair.

“Look,” I murmur, “the thing about dating patients…” “No, I get it,” Mr. Leroy says quickly. “I understand. You don’t have to explain.” “Oh,” I say, relieved. “Okay.” “When you said you couldn’t date patients, you just meant that you’re not allowed to date patients who aren’t attractive enough to meet your high standards.” He raises his eyebrows. “That’s it, right?”

Mr. Leroy pushes past me and leaves the restaurant. I just stand there a minute, a lump rising in my throat. What an asshole. No wonder his wife left him. I’ll bet it had nothing to do with groin fungus.

He shakes his head. “Charlotte, can you fix it for me?” I snort. “You think I know how to tie a tie?” He raises his eyebrows. “You can sew up someone’s face but you can’t tie a tie?” “They’re completely different skills.”

There’s an expression that goes “cold hands, warm heart,” but that doesn’t make sense to me. Why would having cold hands mean that you have a warm heart? Warm hands, warm heart.

The kind of women who drink at two in the afternoon are not the kind of women I want to date.”

Dr. Greenberg waves at us, and comes close enough that I can see his tie. It has little dogs on it, interspersed with tiny bones. The tie makes me smile.

Even though I know I am a doctor, almost nobody calls me that around here. It actually feels very weird when they call me that, even though I worked as a doctor for many years. Dr. Greenberg is the only one who sometimes calls me “Dr. McKenna.” And only rarely.

He did what? I am completely stunned. Stunned. I don’t know what upsets me more, that he did this without telling me, or that he intends to spend an extra week alone on our honeymoon. That’s a weird thing to do, right? It’s not just me, right?

“Well, that’s okay. I don’t think they’d ever let Clark back in there after what he did when they let him go. God, it’s been over a year and people still talk about it all the time. Because of him, they never fire people at the start of the day anymore.”

Even after all this time, Kitty has never entirely warmed up to Clark, and vice versa. I should have listened to Kitty in the first place. Even my cat has better sense about men than I do.

God, I can’t believe I’m considering forgiving him for this. But then again, we’re married. What am I supposed to do? Divorce him because he got fired?

no divorce him because he lied to you from the very beginning like girl wtf

“I can’t believe I did that to his hair,” I whisper to Jamie. “If that’s really what I did for my career, maybe I shot myself in the head?” Jamie clasps his hand over his mouth, stifling a laugh. I’m glad I made him laugh. It seems like whenever I make somebody laugh these days, it’s rarely on purpose. Jamie looks like he’s about to say something else, but then his mouth falls open.

“A dream that you are dying is a sign of inner changes or transformation,” Dr. Vincent says thoughtfully. “Of course, the Freudian interpretation goes out the window if you were recently shot in the head.”

But somehow I have reservations about trying for a baby with Clark. Ever since that revelation about his employment, I haven’t entirely been able to trust my husband.

And our sex life has pretty much dwindled to zip. I guess Clark used up all his energy with pacing.

“But,” Clark adds, a smile playing in his lips, “you have to promise me that we’re going to have a boy. And that we’re going to name him Clark Junior.” “Oh no,” I say. “She’s going to be a girl and she’s going to be Charlotte Junior.” “Hmm,” Clark says. “What about some combination of the two? Clarotte? Oh, I’ve got it—Chark!” “Brilliant!” I laugh.

“This is him,” I say. “Kyle Barry. He was threatening me because he thought his wife was going to leave him because I cured her psoriasis. And I guess she did.”