I backed out of the room and moved into the kitchen. Opening the fridge, I stared at the collection of seltzer cans. The beast howled. If I closed my eyes, I could conjure the malty flavor of the beer I’d had at Alan’s. I’d not gone on a binge or bender. A few sips and I was done. Maybe I’d changed. Maybe I could handle it.

Glancing over my shoulder at the bed, I wondered whether a beer or two would really be that bad.

Crossing to the bed, I grabbed the blankets and yanked them all off the mattress. Tossing them all on the floor, I plucked out the sheets, balled them up, and carried them to the small washer and dryer that barely accommodated the set. The blanket and comforter would require a trip to the Laundromat, something I wasn’t willing to do tonight.

Pouring in extra soap, I switched the dial to hot water, closed the lid, and pressed the “Start” button. The lid locked, water rushed inside the machine, swirling around dirty memories I didn’t want to remember.

28 MARISA

28

MARISA

Thursday, March 17, 2022

8:00 a.m.

I sat in the waiting room for Dr. Brenda Webster, the neurosurgeon who’d operated on me after the accident. Today was my sixty-day follow-up, give or take a few days. I always chose the earliest appointment, hoping to avoid the crowds of people like me recovering from a brain injury. Some fared far worse than I had, and seeing them reminded me of how close I’d come to losing it all.

It had been easy to wake early. My couch was not the most comfortable, but for some reason, even after I’d pulled the warm sheets from the dryer, I had been unable to sleep in my bed.

I glanced at a two-month-old copy of Newsweek, barely scanning the headlines as I flipped the worn pages that had likely never really been read. No one came here for current or old news.

“Marisa Stockton.” The heavyset nurse was dressed in scrubs. She was in her late forties and wore dark-rimmed glasses.

I set down the magazine, shouldered my purse, and rose. “That’s me.”

The nurse smelled faintly of clean soap and antiseptic. “Follow me.”

I trailed behind her, not daring to glance toward the open exam rooms. When we reached my room, I gratefully ducked inside and sat on the exam table. The nurse took my temperature and blood pressure, then checked my pulse and vision. “Have you been drinking?”

“I thought I wasn’t supposed to.”

A brow arched. “Have you?”

“No.”

“Smoking?”

“No.”

“Daily exercise?”

“My work is pretty active. I’ve always counted it as exercise.”

The nurse glanced at my chart. “Photographer.”

“Right.”

“The nurse tells me your vision checked out. Has it been consistently good?”

“None.”

“Sleep?”

“On and off. But that’s always been normal for me.”