Novel: "Touch" chapter 16
Nov. 17th, 2013 09:01 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
violetcheetah[Trigger warning for physical abuse]
"Trudy!" Susan had the paradoxical ability to sound mellow and exasperated at the same time; it was paradoxically comforting and irritating. "The car is leaving in… 26 minutes, and you will be in it. Whether you are clothed and shod is up to you."
Trudy opened her eyes, even though it made no difference. "Can't I just skip this one? I could have a headache or something."
"Okay, you obviously have no experience skipping school, because you can't even pass the 'make up an excuse' part of the test."
"Oh please, it's not school."
"Judy's a teacher; she will be teaching you; it is school."
"Not anything useful. Voice-activated computer navigation; I don't need to know any of that."
"Right, because you have your own seeing-eye sister?" Trudy was silent, and had to consciously work to not stick her lip out in a pout. "Sorry for the snark, but you are going to be separated a good part of your lives. I'm glad you two are, are friends, that you seem to have figured out how to work with one another. I'm guessing that's a new experience for you. Hmm, that came out kind of snarky, too. But you are independent, aren't you, you've had to be, all your life, I presume, and needing someone, for anything, even for help finding your classes on the first day of school, for opening a frickin' pickle jar... it's not comfortable for you. And yet you let Amy help you. And it's great, it took courage. But she's not going to be around 24/7. And you wouldn't want her to be, even if it makes things easier, because dependency breeds resentment."
Trudy realized she'd been tracing the petals of one of the ribbon flowers with her finger for so long that the satiny finish now felt rough against her skin. "I don't want her to resent me."
"Oh, I'm not talking about her: I mean you. It's not just hard the first time you ask for help. It gets easier, of course, but not easy. Each time, there's that fear of getting turned down, of... no, that's not it, really, is it? Each time you show someone a vulnerability, you have to see it yourself, you have to see that you are not invincible. No one wants to be reminded of that, over and over. And since you are reminded of that unpleasant truth every time you're around her, that uncomfortable feeling seems like her fault, and then every time she helps you do something you want to punch her."
"That's just stupid."
"Yeah, well, our brains are stupid. Our brains believe things are connected when they aren't, just because two things happen at the same time or in the same place. And sometimes our brains believe it without our even knowing. And even when you do know, and you know your brain is stupid, it just goes on believing whatever stupid thing it believes no matter how much you argue with it."
Trudy realized her mouth was open, ready to argue with Susan, because her own brain would never betray her — but something flickered in the corner of her mind, an almost physical feeling like eyelashes blinking against the inside of her right temple. She closed her mouth.
Susan suddenly sucked in a breath. "Fuh—crap. Twelve minutes."
"Well, now I do have a headache."
"Brain-ache; different; not a valid excuse." Trudy sighed and swung her feet off the edge of the bed and stood up. "Congratulations," said Susan, "you just won an argument with your stupid brain."
"What's my prize?"
"My undying admiration. And I have just enough time to toast you a cinnamon bagel to eat in the car."
***
"You're doing great," said Judy." You're way ahead of the game since you touch-type."
"Well it doesn't do any good when I can't see my mistakes and fix them."
"Just worry about the typos when you're done with a section; then you can have the voice read it back and fix them all in one go."
"I don't work that way!" If it hadn't been Trudy's own computer, she probably wouldn't have resisted the urge to slam her fists down on the keyboard. The rage quickly morphed into fear, though, and she couldn't stop herself from flinching when Judy's chair creaked softly, couldn't stop herself from anticipating a smack, a pinch, an arm twist, something.
Instead, there was silence, except for Judy's breath, as long and deep as a sigh but without the judgment that comes with a sigh. After a moment she said, "Okay, why don't you explain how you do work."
"I just, I'm typing, and I feel something, something's off, I know I made a mistake, but I don't know what or where, just that I hit something wrong, and I stop. I can't make myself keep going, it isn't that I don't want to, my brain just shuts off my fingers, and if I could see the screen and could go back and fix it and keep going, but I can't see the screen, and I can't tell what to fix."
"Ah, perfectionism. It's funny how it never actually seems to achieve its goal of perfection. It just makes it harder to get anything done at all. You know, they've done studies on why people procrastinate, why students wait until the night before an assignment to do the work, not just students, adults with some work project do it, too. And almost always, it's not that they don't want to do the work, it's that they know the result won't be perfect, and they dread that moment when it's done and it's imperfect so freaking much that it's paralyzing."
Trudy thought about the dozens of class papers she'd finished after midnight, sometimes in homeroom the morning they were due. She thought about what Susan had said not an hour ago. "My brain is stupid."
"I'd be a little more diplomatic, maybe say 'illogical.'"
"Well, you're not me."
Judy laughed. "How about 'imperfect'? Is that insulting enough to satisfy you?"
"It'll do for now."
"Yay: compromise. So the secret is to trick your brain into doing what you want it to."
"And I do that how?"
"Oh, I don't know. I'm hit-or-miss at tricking my own brain; you'll have to figure yours out yourself. It can't hurt to have identified the problem." Judy laughed again, and Trudy realized she was scowling. She shook her head and smiled in spite of herself. "I can tell you from years of experience that yelling at yourself doesn't really help. Although... Okay, I have an assignment for you. Five hundred words of yelling at your brain. All the stupid things it makes you do, all the things that would be easier if it'd just do what you told it to do."
"Only five hundred words?"
"Ha! Yes! Not a word more, at least not in the final draft. You may want to start with an outline, ranking your faults, and then start with the worst and work your way down until you hit the word limit.
***
"What are you writing?" Trudy's shoulders jerked upwards; how had she not heard Amy come in, let alone touch her arm? She quickly clicked the laptop closed.
"Nothing. Just a homework thing."
"I thought you liked writing stuff."
"Usually."
"Don't you want me so you can see what you're typing?"
"No."
"Won't it make it easier?"
"God, could you just leave me to think in peace?"
"Sorr-ree, geez."
The word "resentment" popped into Trudy's head. She tilted her head up, her eyes toward the ceiling, while Amy's gaze stayed on the closed laptop. "No, I'm, I'm sorry, I'm just trying to write something... it's personal, and it sucks, and I absolutely can't write it while you're reading it."
"Oh." Amy was still there, but it seemed somehow like she'd backed across the room. Not because she wanted to. Trudy leaned back against the headboard.
"I... Part of me wants to show it to you, after I'm done, I mean, but then, I don't know, I'm not sure I want you to see it. I want you to, but —" She groaned in frustration.
"Well. I want to read it. I mean, I really want to read it now, because it's..."
"Freaking me out? Thanks."
"Well yeah! But no, no. Because it must mean something. It's important, and I'm just curious what's so important to you."
"Well, if I do let you read it, just don't go gossiping to everybody."
A cold, dull silence followed, and Trudy's chest tightened with the wish that she could take back the horrible attempt at humor. She saw glances of her face, her smile frozen in a grimace now, redness rising from her collar to her cheeks and up to her scalp. She fished through her mind for some apology that wouldn't fall as flat as the joke, but nothing came as seconds stretched out forever. Amy made a small sound, from the back of her throat, a small, stifled sob or sigh. Then a little louder, like a snort, only more drawn-out. Then the view of the room turned sideways as she flopped over on the bed and wheezed with laughter.
"You!" Trudy was still fishing for words.
"Oh my God, if you could've seen your face! Oh, wait, you could!"
Trudy punched her precisely hard enough on the arm. "You: are a bitch."
"Thank you. I'm learning from the best."
"Great, so it's my fault.
"Duh. Who else?"
"Fine. Just go be a bitch to someone else for a while, while I write this stupid thing I have to write."
"Do I still get to read it?"
"What do you mean 'still'? I hadn't decided yet."
"Yes you had."
Trudy shoved Amy's shoulder with her foot, but she didn't argue. "Well, go away before I change my mind."
***
I hate when I know something's true, but it doesn't feel true. Like, I knew my mom had no right, and I knew I wasn't going to get in trouble, I could have told a teacher, the teachers liked me because I was a brain, well, except Mr. Dean, but that's because I knew more than he did, but still, I could have told about anyone, and I had the bruises, I mean, I've read the kids' books, I knew if I had marks they'd listen, they'd call the cops, and she might go to jail, and even if she didn't they'd take me away, at least for a while, it might be a crapshoot if I ended up someplace worse, but I could have tried. But every time I thought about saying something, like, the bell would ring and I'd gather my crap slowly and the room would empty out except for the teacher, and all I had to do was open my mouth, and every time I just, I froze. I always felt her there, my mom, like she was going to come charging through the door and grab my arm and drag me out, I knew it was stupid, but it felt so real, I just couldn't open my mouth. I had dozens of chances, hell, I could've called the cops myself, but I never did, and now it's too late. And don't tell me it's not my fault I'm blind now, because I know it's not my fault, but it's another thing that feels true, and it pisses me off that I'm blaming myself just like every other victim ever.
I hate when people tell me how smart I am and it just makes me feel even stupider. And it makes me feel like I'm lying somehow, making them think I'm this genius when I'm actually an idiot. Maybe it's part of having to be perfect, like, if I get one question wrong on a test, even if it's the best score in the class, all I can think about is that one question I got wrong, because somehow it seems like the other questions were easy so they didn't count, that was the only one that counted, and I blew it. And like with everything else, I know I'm being stupid for thinking like that, but I can't just not think it.
I hate that I'm an asshole to people even when they haven't done anything. Or especially when they haven't done anything. Why can't I be mad at people who deserve it? I mean, besides because I'm afraid they'll beat the crap out of me. I hate being afraid, and I hate that I make other people afraid of me who probably are already afraid of everybody else. If I'm going to be an asshole anyway, I want to just not care how I make other people feel.
That was 484 words, so I'm going to stop now before I hit the limit.
***
Amy scrolled back to the top of the document. Trudy waited, hoping for something other than a "that's awful" or "you've been through so much," but she wasn't sure what she wanted instead. What Amy finally said was, "So your mom hit you, too."
"Well, mainly pushed. Dragged. Pinched, twisted. Not so much with fists. But it's the same diff, I guess."
"Dragging's worse, anyway, or it is to me. It always seemed like I was moving so fast, like in an out-of-control car, and I was going to slam into something."
"And sometimes you do, slam into stuff, I mean."
"And it was your mom that made you blind?"
"Yeah."
"How?"
"She pushed. And I was at the top of the stairs. It wasn't her... intention, I don't think, for me to go down them. She just happened to push when I just happened to be there, and then I was, I don't know, it was so quick, but I remember the bare light bulb at the top of the stairs, I saw that, and then I didn't see anything. Ever."
"I don't understand."
"I hit my head. It damaged," she took a breath, "my brain, the part that controls sight. Different parts of your brain do different things: vision, hearing, movement, memory. It could have been worse, I guess. It could have been some other part of my brain, and I could be a re— a vegetable, like, not able to think, or hold a fork, or talk."
"Talk?"
"Yeah, like stroke patients, when they... well, you wouldn't know that, I guess, but a lot of times they — " Something about the world suddenly seemed to lurch, and then everything got silent. Even her heart pounding in her ears was silent. Her face was hot with something that wasn't quite embarrassment.
Amy stared unblinking at her own fingers, one thumb rubbing the nail of the other. "They what?"
"They can't find the right words for things, call a chair a cake or something, or just not be able to call it anything. Or sometimes they don't, they can't understand what people are saying."
"Because the stroke damaged their brain."
"Yeah."
"What about something not a stroke? Like you, what if you'd hit your head different?"
Trudy swallowed. "Then I might be like you."
Amy switched to rubbing her thumbnail with her index finger, from side to side. "I remember," her voice was a husky whisper, "I remember talking, and it meant something. My parents talking, and I understood."
"When?"
"I was small." She held up three fingers. "Grown-ups asked how old I was and I was this old. And then I woke up, and I wasn't in my bed, wasn't in my room, there were animals painted on the wall, and balloons, but it smelled like bathroom cleaner."
"A hospital?"
"Yeah. Grown-ups with white coats came in, asked me questions, I could tell they were questions somehow, the way you can tell, you know, the way people's voices rise. I thought they were talking Spanish like our neighbors, because I couldn't understand them. But then my mother was there, and she was talking Spanish, too, and I kept telling them to talk English, but when I told them, I was talking Spanish, too."
"Do you remember what came before the hospital?"
Amy shook her head, then closed her eyes. "But my head hurt, and I reached up toward it but my arms were strapped down, but I could feel something on it, like a towel after you wash your hair, but tighter. Later when they let me up to walk, I had a helmet, and I kept wondering where my tricycle was and wanting to ride it down the halls."
"But you remember your mom hitting you, other times?"
"Mainly dragging. And then after, like, she'd drag me through the living room and get to my bedroom door and kind of — " Amy flung her arm forward, a sidearm throw — "swing me, fling me, into my room and slam the door, and then I could relax because when she opened the door, she wouldn't be mad anymore."
"It'd be — " Trudy's tried to draw in enough breath to finish. "If she swung too wide, too hard, you wouldn't go through the doorway, but right into..."
Amy opened her eyes and stared at a spot on the wall. "Yeah. I don't remember it. But every time, I felt how close it was, the doorframe, how fast I was going, I could hear it whiz by." Her voice was trance-like, and she reached up to her right ear. "I could hear it."
Trudy felt the same trance in herself. Without choosing to, she brought her own hand up to Amy's, cupped it against Amy's hand that was cupped over her ear. Trudy's hand pressed just a little, and Amy leaned slightly toward her. Trudy pressed a little more, and Amy closed her eyes again and let Trudy draw her closer until Amy's head rested against Trudy's collarbone.
"I was normal," Amy murmured. "I would be normal." She opened her eyes again, studied the late afternoon sun on the cherry-wood footboard. "I would be normal. My whole life, it would all be different. All of it. I'd be someone else. Who would I be?"
Trudy wanted to have an answer, but she knew the best she could do was sit and remain still in Amy's silence.
"Trudy!" Susan had the paradoxical ability to sound mellow and exasperated at the same time; it was paradoxically comforting and irritating. "The car is leaving in… 26 minutes, and you will be in it. Whether you are clothed and shod is up to you."
Trudy opened her eyes, even though it made no difference. "Can't I just skip this one? I could have a headache or something."
"Okay, you obviously have no experience skipping school, because you can't even pass the 'make up an excuse' part of the test."
"Oh please, it's not school."
"Judy's a teacher; she will be teaching you; it is school."
"Not anything useful. Voice-activated computer navigation; I don't need to know any of that."
"Right, because you have your own seeing-eye sister?" Trudy was silent, and had to consciously work to not stick her lip out in a pout. "Sorry for the snark, but you are going to be separated a good part of your lives. I'm glad you two are, are friends, that you seem to have figured out how to work with one another. I'm guessing that's a new experience for you. Hmm, that came out kind of snarky, too. But you are independent, aren't you, you've had to be, all your life, I presume, and needing someone, for anything, even for help finding your classes on the first day of school, for opening a frickin' pickle jar... it's not comfortable for you. And yet you let Amy help you. And it's great, it took courage. But she's not going to be around 24/7. And you wouldn't want her to be, even if it makes things easier, because dependency breeds resentment."
Trudy realized she'd been tracing the petals of one of the ribbon flowers with her finger for so long that the satiny finish now felt rough against her skin. "I don't want her to resent me."
"Oh, I'm not talking about her: I mean you. It's not just hard the first time you ask for help. It gets easier, of course, but not easy. Each time, there's that fear of getting turned down, of... no, that's not it, really, is it? Each time you show someone a vulnerability, you have to see it yourself, you have to see that you are not invincible. No one wants to be reminded of that, over and over. And since you are reminded of that unpleasant truth every time you're around her, that uncomfortable feeling seems like her fault, and then every time she helps you do something you want to punch her."
"That's just stupid."
"Yeah, well, our brains are stupid. Our brains believe things are connected when they aren't, just because two things happen at the same time or in the same place. And sometimes our brains believe it without our even knowing. And even when you do know, and you know your brain is stupid, it just goes on believing whatever stupid thing it believes no matter how much you argue with it."
Trudy realized her mouth was open, ready to argue with Susan, because her own brain would never betray her — but something flickered in the corner of her mind, an almost physical feeling like eyelashes blinking against the inside of her right temple. She closed her mouth.
Susan suddenly sucked in a breath. "Fuh—crap. Twelve minutes."
"Well, now I do have a headache."
"Brain-ache; different; not a valid excuse." Trudy sighed and swung her feet off the edge of the bed and stood up. "Congratulations," said Susan, "you just won an argument with your stupid brain."
"What's my prize?"
"My undying admiration. And I have just enough time to toast you a cinnamon bagel to eat in the car."
***
"You're doing great," said Judy." You're way ahead of the game since you touch-type."
"Well it doesn't do any good when I can't see my mistakes and fix them."
"Just worry about the typos when you're done with a section; then you can have the voice read it back and fix them all in one go."
"I don't work that way!" If it hadn't been Trudy's own computer, she probably wouldn't have resisted the urge to slam her fists down on the keyboard. The rage quickly morphed into fear, though, and she couldn't stop herself from flinching when Judy's chair creaked softly, couldn't stop herself from anticipating a smack, a pinch, an arm twist, something.
Instead, there was silence, except for Judy's breath, as long and deep as a sigh but without the judgment that comes with a sigh. After a moment she said, "Okay, why don't you explain how you do work."
"I just, I'm typing, and I feel something, something's off, I know I made a mistake, but I don't know what or where, just that I hit something wrong, and I stop. I can't make myself keep going, it isn't that I don't want to, my brain just shuts off my fingers, and if I could see the screen and could go back and fix it and keep going, but I can't see the screen, and I can't tell what to fix."
"Ah, perfectionism. It's funny how it never actually seems to achieve its goal of perfection. It just makes it harder to get anything done at all. You know, they've done studies on why people procrastinate, why students wait until the night before an assignment to do the work, not just students, adults with some work project do it, too. And almost always, it's not that they don't want to do the work, it's that they know the result won't be perfect, and they dread that moment when it's done and it's imperfect so freaking much that it's paralyzing."
Trudy thought about the dozens of class papers she'd finished after midnight, sometimes in homeroom the morning they were due. She thought about what Susan had said not an hour ago. "My brain is stupid."
"I'd be a little more diplomatic, maybe say 'illogical.'"
"Well, you're not me."
Judy laughed. "How about 'imperfect'? Is that insulting enough to satisfy you?"
"It'll do for now."
"Yay: compromise. So the secret is to trick your brain into doing what you want it to."
"And I do that how?"
"Oh, I don't know. I'm hit-or-miss at tricking my own brain; you'll have to figure yours out yourself. It can't hurt to have identified the problem." Judy laughed again, and Trudy realized she was scowling. She shook her head and smiled in spite of herself. "I can tell you from years of experience that yelling at yourself doesn't really help. Although... Okay, I have an assignment for you. Five hundred words of yelling at your brain. All the stupid things it makes you do, all the things that would be easier if it'd just do what you told it to do."
"Only five hundred words?"
"Ha! Yes! Not a word more, at least not in the final draft. You may want to start with an outline, ranking your faults, and then start with the worst and work your way down until you hit the word limit.
***
"What are you writing?" Trudy's shoulders jerked upwards; how had she not heard Amy come in, let alone touch her arm? She quickly clicked the laptop closed.
"Nothing. Just a homework thing."
"I thought you liked writing stuff."
"Usually."
"Don't you want me so you can see what you're typing?"
"No."
"Won't it make it easier?"
"God, could you just leave me to think in peace?"
"Sorr-ree, geez."
The word "resentment" popped into Trudy's head. She tilted her head up, her eyes toward the ceiling, while Amy's gaze stayed on the closed laptop. "No, I'm, I'm sorry, I'm just trying to write something... it's personal, and it sucks, and I absolutely can't write it while you're reading it."
"Oh." Amy was still there, but it seemed somehow like she'd backed across the room. Not because she wanted to. Trudy leaned back against the headboard.
"I... Part of me wants to show it to you, after I'm done, I mean, but then, I don't know, I'm not sure I want you to see it. I want you to, but —" She groaned in frustration.
"Well. I want to read it. I mean, I really want to read it now, because it's..."
"Freaking me out? Thanks."
"Well yeah! But no, no. Because it must mean something. It's important, and I'm just curious what's so important to you."
"Well, if I do let you read it, just don't go gossiping to everybody."
A cold, dull silence followed, and Trudy's chest tightened with the wish that she could take back the horrible attempt at humor. She saw glances of her face, her smile frozen in a grimace now, redness rising from her collar to her cheeks and up to her scalp. She fished through her mind for some apology that wouldn't fall as flat as the joke, but nothing came as seconds stretched out forever. Amy made a small sound, from the back of her throat, a small, stifled sob or sigh. Then a little louder, like a snort, only more drawn-out. Then the view of the room turned sideways as she flopped over on the bed and wheezed with laughter.
"You!" Trudy was still fishing for words.
"Oh my God, if you could've seen your face! Oh, wait, you could!"
Trudy punched her precisely hard enough on the arm. "You: are a bitch."
"Thank you. I'm learning from the best."
"Great, so it's my fault.
"Duh. Who else?"
"Fine. Just go be a bitch to someone else for a while, while I write this stupid thing I have to write."
"Do I still get to read it?"
"What do you mean 'still'? I hadn't decided yet."
"Yes you had."
Trudy shoved Amy's shoulder with her foot, but she didn't argue. "Well, go away before I change my mind."
***
I hate when I know something's true, but it doesn't feel true. Like, I knew my mom had no right, and I knew I wasn't going to get in trouble, I could have told a teacher, the teachers liked me because I was a brain, well, except Mr. Dean, but that's because I knew more than he did, but still, I could have told about anyone, and I had the bruises, I mean, I've read the kids' books, I knew if I had marks they'd listen, they'd call the cops, and she might go to jail, and even if she didn't they'd take me away, at least for a while, it might be a crapshoot if I ended up someplace worse, but I could have tried. But every time I thought about saying something, like, the bell would ring and I'd gather my crap slowly and the room would empty out except for the teacher, and all I had to do was open my mouth, and every time I just, I froze. I always felt her there, my mom, like she was going to come charging through the door and grab my arm and drag me out, I knew it was stupid, but it felt so real, I just couldn't open my mouth. I had dozens of chances, hell, I could've called the cops myself, but I never did, and now it's too late. And don't tell me it's not my fault I'm blind now, because I know it's not my fault, but it's another thing that feels true, and it pisses me off that I'm blaming myself just like every other victim ever.
I hate when people tell me how smart I am and it just makes me feel even stupider. And it makes me feel like I'm lying somehow, making them think I'm this genius when I'm actually an idiot. Maybe it's part of having to be perfect, like, if I get one question wrong on a test, even if it's the best score in the class, all I can think about is that one question I got wrong, because somehow it seems like the other questions were easy so they didn't count, that was the only one that counted, and I blew it. And like with everything else, I know I'm being stupid for thinking like that, but I can't just not think it.
I hate that I'm an asshole to people even when they haven't done anything. Or especially when they haven't done anything. Why can't I be mad at people who deserve it? I mean, besides because I'm afraid they'll beat the crap out of me. I hate being afraid, and I hate that I make other people afraid of me who probably are already afraid of everybody else. If I'm going to be an asshole anyway, I want to just not care how I make other people feel.
That was 484 words, so I'm going to stop now before I hit the limit.
***
Amy scrolled back to the top of the document. Trudy waited, hoping for something other than a "that's awful" or "you've been through so much," but she wasn't sure what she wanted instead. What Amy finally said was, "So your mom hit you, too."
"Well, mainly pushed. Dragged. Pinched, twisted. Not so much with fists. But it's the same diff, I guess."
"Dragging's worse, anyway, or it is to me. It always seemed like I was moving so fast, like in an out-of-control car, and I was going to slam into something."
"And sometimes you do, slam into stuff, I mean."
"And it was your mom that made you blind?"
"Yeah."
"How?"
"She pushed. And I was at the top of the stairs. It wasn't her... intention, I don't think, for me to go down them. She just happened to push when I just happened to be there, and then I was, I don't know, it was so quick, but I remember the bare light bulb at the top of the stairs, I saw that, and then I didn't see anything. Ever."
"I don't understand."
"I hit my head. It damaged," she took a breath, "my brain, the part that controls sight. Different parts of your brain do different things: vision, hearing, movement, memory. It could have been worse, I guess. It could have been some other part of my brain, and I could be a re— a vegetable, like, not able to think, or hold a fork, or talk."
"Talk?"
"Yeah, like stroke patients, when they... well, you wouldn't know that, I guess, but a lot of times they — " Something about the world suddenly seemed to lurch, and then everything got silent. Even her heart pounding in her ears was silent. Her face was hot with something that wasn't quite embarrassment.
Amy stared unblinking at her own fingers, one thumb rubbing the nail of the other. "They what?"
"They can't find the right words for things, call a chair a cake or something, or just not be able to call it anything. Or sometimes they don't, they can't understand what people are saying."
"Because the stroke damaged their brain."
"Yeah."
"What about something not a stroke? Like you, what if you'd hit your head different?"
Trudy swallowed. "Then I might be like you."
Amy switched to rubbing her thumbnail with her index finger, from side to side. "I remember," her voice was a husky whisper, "I remember talking, and it meant something. My parents talking, and I understood."
"When?"
"I was small." She held up three fingers. "Grown-ups asked how old I was and I was this old. And then I woke up, and I wasn't in my bed, wasn't in my room, there were animals painted on the wall, and balloons, but it smelled like bathroom cleaner."
"A hospital?"
"Yeah. Grown-ups with white coats came in, asked me questions, I could tell they were questions somehow, the way you can tell, you know, the way people's voices rise. I thought they were talking Spanish like our neighbors, because I couldn't understand them. But then my mother was there, and she was talking Spanish, too, and I kept telling them to talk English, but when I told them, I was talking Spanish, too."
"Do you remember what came before the hospital?"
Amy shook her head, then closed her eyes. "But my head hurt, and I reached up toward it but my arms were strapped down, but I could feel something on it, like a towel after you wash your hair, but tighter. Later when they let me up to walk, I had a helmet, and I kept wondering where my tricycle was and wanting to ride it down the halls."
"But you remember your mom hitting you, other times?"
"Mainly dragging. And then after, like, she'd drag me through the living room and get to my bedroom door and kind of — " Amy flung her arm forward, a sidearm throw — "swing me, fling me, into my room and slam the door, and then I could relax because when she opened the door, she wouldn't be mad anymore."
"It'd be — " Trudy's tried to draw in enough breath to finish. "If she swung too wide, too hard, you wouldn't go through the doorway, but right into..."
Amy opened her eyes and stared at a spot on the wall. "Yeah. I don't remember it. But every time, I felt how close it was, the doorframe, how fast I was going, I could hear it whiz by." Her voice was trance-like, and she reached up to her right ear. "I could hear it."
Trudy felt the same trance in herself. Without choosing to, she brought her own hand up to Amy's, cupped it against Amy's hand that was cupped over her ear. Trudy's hand pressed just a little, and Amy leaned slightly toward her. Trudy pressed a little more, and Amy closed her eyes again and let Trudy draw her closer until Amy's head rested against Trudy's collarbone.
"I was normal," Amy murmured. "I would be normal." She opened her eyes again, studied the late afternoon sun on the cherry-wood footboard. "I would be normal. My whole life, it would all be different. All of it. I'd be someone else. Who would I be?"
Trudy wanted to have an answer, but she knew the best she could do was sit and remain still in Amy's silence.