“As I was saying, you’ll continue taking these in order to help with your awareness and memory. Over the counter pain meds like acetaminophen and ibuprofen can be taken for headaches and any muscle stiffness you may be feeling.”

“How long does she need to take them?” Sofia gestures to the pill bottle. The words are firm, demanding, and I don’t know if it’s motherly instinct or a desire to be in control of the situation.

“We’ll monitor her progress in our follow-up appointments and reassess. For now, she can continue to take them daily before bed.”

“Do you think I’m stuck like this?”

The attention shifts back to me, an air of discomfort settling over the room.

“You’re not stuck, Alina,” Dr. Meyer begins, setting his clipboard on his desk. “It’s still very early. There’s always room for improvement, and it’s likely your recovery won’t be linear.”

A crow lands on a branch near the window, taking cover beneath the overhang as the rain begins to fall. My mother and sister remain silent.

“How does a brain just forget everything it knows, anyway?” My grip tightens around the thick fabric of the sweater I hold in my hands as I watch the bird.

“Your procedural memory is perfectly intact. Once you’re back in your normal environment, I’m confident more things from your life, your past, will come back and be familiar.” He sets the bottle on his desk then leans back in his seat. “The mind is a wondrous thing. It’s not that your brain has forgotten everything it knows, rather, those memories are locked away, and you can no longer find the key. You may find that key again someday, or you may not. My goal is to give you the tools to cope with either outcome.”

A wave of nausea builds in my belly, and I don’t know if it’s an aftereffect of smashing my head against a steering wheel, a reaction to his words, or a delightful mixture of both. Waking up to a life that feels brand new and being told you were in a deadly car accident you’re lucky to have survived is harrowing. I don’t feel lucky. I feel cursed.

The details of the accident were explained to me in simple terms: I was at a party. I left the party. I crashed my car into a tree. I was found by someone out on a run hours later, long after the sun had already risen, though the sounds I remember make it seem as though it all happened in a matter of seconds. Every time I hear it, it feels like nothing more than a story about a stranger, something tragic I might tell someone in passing, not something that belongs to me.

“I think we’re finished here,” he says. “Unless you have anything else you’d like to discuss.”