Severed: A Novella

by H. G. Reed

  “Rory, it’s a miracle!” My mom calls from outside my bedroom door. “She can fit you in on Friday!”

  “Does HIPAA mean nothing to these people?” I grumble to myself.

  I’m a grown adult. I should be able to make my own damn appointments. But I can’t because of the gnawing feeling in my gut—this sleeping fear that I might uncover something ugly.

  I inhale slowly, deeply, letting the now steaming water pelt my face. I try to feel as excited as she does, but the only miracle will be if this whole therapy thing actually works.

  What if? What if it doesn’t?

  THEN

  Sophomore Year, Fall

  “RORY, PLEASE DON’T push yourself if you’re not ready.”

  The silent spring semester was a long one, and we are both ready for me to go back to school even though she pretends to be the usual helicopter parent. After our blowout fight, I resigned to taking the semester off, and it was actually a good thing, though I’ll never admit it to Mom. I had a lot more physical therapy and recovery I didn’t account for, so the break was nice. But we’re both tired of daytime television and drives to rehab appointments.

  “Mom, it’s been long enough. Please just be cool, okay?”

  We reached a compromise a month ago in which I agreed to continue living at home if she let me re-enroll at the university. Baby steps. I didn’t foresee these painfully long commutes with her behind the wheel, and I count the days until she lets me drive the Mercedes Dad dropped in my driveway last week. I won’t be driving it for a while, but it’s nice to know it’s there waiting for me. He’s been a bit more hopeful about my recovery than Mom has. She says it’s because he’s not a real father and doesn’t see the hardships we go through every day.

  “Did you take your medicine?” she trills.

  “Yes.” I roll my eyes.

  “What about lunch? What if you get hungry?”

  “I’ll eat at the dining hall like everyone else.”

  “But what if—”

  “Mom!”

  “Okay, okay,” she says, brushing her frizzy hair out of her eyes as she refocuses on the road. I feel bad for raising my voice, but she really is being ridiculous.

  “It’s going to be fine,” I assure her, just like I used to before the surgery. Before everything changed.

  “I know it is,” she says through a forced smile. “I’ve just been worrying about you your whole life. I’m not sure what to do now.”

  “Get a boyfriend.” I laugh. “Have a life.”

  “You were my life.”

  “I’m not dead, Mom.” She reaches over and grabs my hand. “Ugh, groosss.” I pretend to be disgusted by my sappy mother, but she wouldn’t be Mom without some sap.

  We arrive at the main student building, and I quickly grab my bag from the backseat while she throws on the hazard lights which apparently give anyone permission to park anywhere. We’re currently alongside a curb in the turning lane.

  She doesn’t say anything as I get out of our old, beat up hatchback, and for some reason I feel guilty.

  “Love you,” I say through the open window.

  She smiles and nods like she already knew what I was going to say.

  I walk into the massive brick building with its large white columns and smell of aristocracy. The addendum to our deal was that I would seek out the Student Access Center before my first class even began. It’s a fancy name for where students with disabilities go. That’s me. Apparently I’m more crippled now than I was before and need “accommodations”.

  I slide the crumpled paper out of my pocket and read Mom’s loopy letters and numbers, detailing my destination. She even drew a map on the back and I stifle a laugh. She really must think they pulled out my whole brain. I follow her dumbed down directions and arrive at a brick building that looks like all the rest. I take the elevator to the second floor just as Mom’s directions state.

  I can already hear the chatter and see the shadows of bodies through frosted glass before I push open the office door. The hum of a busy atmosphere envelops me, and I remember it’s fall semester on a college campus. This is the busiest time of year for anyone to do anything. I consider turning around and walking out when a kind face behind the desk asks, “Can I help you?”

  “Uh…I’d like to talk to someone about getting some help in class.” Even as it comes out of my mouth it sounds stupid and begging. She gives me a strange look. “I’m one of you. I mean, I have a disability.”

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  “I didn’t know I needed one.”

  “Name.”

  “I don’t know who I’m meeting with.”

  “No, your name.”

  I scan the room full of potential classmates, heads down, pens scribbling away at some form stuck to a clipboard.

  “It’s uh…Rory,” I say, just above a whisper.

  “Speak up, please, sir.”

  “Rory,” I nearly shout over the dull roar which abruptly comes to a stop. Everyone’s staring. “Rory Halstead.”

  This doesn’t appear to faze the lady at the desk, and she writes my name on a list. “Hi Rory, I’m Allison Cheng. If you could please fill out this intake form—our servers are down, so a hard copy will have to do.”

  She thrusts a clipboard and pen at me from over the counter top, and I suddenly get why the disabled robots are meticulously scribbling.

  “Take your time,” she says with a polite but not exactly warm smile. “We’ll get you with our next available disability service provider.”

  As I wait for my name to be called, three other students are taken back to meet with some wizard behind a curtain. They don’t all go in the same direction and I wonder just how many people are back there.

  I miss my first class, waiting on the uncomfortable sofa in the lobby. The sofa itself might have been comfortable but I was squished between two other people on what was barely bigger than an oversized armchair.

  “Rory,” Ms. Cheng calls from behind her computer. I step up and start to hand her my form. “No, you’ll give that to Mr. Jones.”

  I turn to see a towering man in a blue dress shirt and purple striped tie standing behind me. “Good morning. I’m Mr. Avery Jones.”

  His voice is like rolling thunder and I immediately decide I want him to give the eulogy at my funeral one day.

  I shake his hand and follow one of many wizards back to his office.

  “So what can we do for you today?”

  “I’m not really sure. My mom just made me promise to come here as part of the deal.”

  He flashes his pearly whites, and they’re almost blinding against his dark skin.

  “Well, I can probably figure what mom wants, but what do you want from our office?”

  “I guess just let my teachers know that I might have a seizure in class. I mean, I just had surgery to try and fix it, but the doctors say it might still happen on occasion. I’m on new meds too, so I might be really groggy some days or have trouble focusing, but I try and pay attention.”

  He leans far back in his office chair and crosses his legs. I can’t tell if he’s examining me, or just trying to get comfortable.

  “I think we can do that. Anything else?”

  “Nope, I think that’s it.”

  “Well that was easy,” he says with that same wide smile. “Let’s take a look at the documentation you brought.”

  At least I’m prepared for this.

  I reach into my bag and pull out the bradded file folder full of doctor’s notes, letters, assessments, and any and all discharge paperwork I’ve ever gotten from every hospital. Ever.

  Mr. Jones lets out a low whistle. “They made quite a study of you, huh?”

  “Tell me about it. This is everything.”

  “Well, let’s only take what’s important. How about anything post-surgery?”

  I open up the folder and hand him the most relevant paperwork. “These are all copies so you can put it in my file or something.”
I shrug, trying to sound nonchalant, but what I really want is his guarantee that it will be kept safe and secret.

  “We’ll take good care of it,” he assures as though he knows what I’m really asking.

  He’s a pretty cool guy, and I count myself lucky that of all the wizards I could’ve been assigned, the gods paired me with Mr. Jones.

  The first day of class passes without incident, which may sound boring, but to me, it was a solid victory.

  “How’d it go?” Mom asks when she picks me up in the afternoon.

  “Not bad. I got assigned a disability guy—the one who services me.”

  “That sounds…inappropriate.”

  “Whatever, Mom, he’s just going to get me all those things you wrote on the stupid list.”

  “The accommodations?” she asks, merging onto the interstate at a deadly slow speed.

  “Yeah. All of them. He seems really nice, so don’t say anything bad about Mr. Jones.”

  She spends the rest of the ride home singing the same few lines from the Counting Crows’ song.

  NOW

  THE VOICE IN MY HEAD hasn’t stopped its incessant nagging since Mom made the appointment earlier this week. Today is Friday.

  The big day…not.

  I’m beginning to regret my decision to have any part in this crime drama. I sit in the lobby of what looks like a preschool. Its primary colors slap me in the retinas as I try to look at anything other than the floor full of toys and the table displaying magazines that promise to make its readers better parents.

  “Dr. Simmons is ready for her four o’clock.”

  This is their way of not calling the patients by their first and last name. Confidentiality. I guess I’ve achieved special status now that their ethical code applies to me. The lobby is full of people, and most of them are under the age of twelve, so I doubt they’re paying any attention to my name anyway.

  I stand and give Mom a reassuring look. She waits to see if I will allow her to come back with me, but I know the rules. Just like with the detective, I’m a grown-up now, and grown-ups don’t need their mommies to hold their hand. I squeeze hers anyway. For her sake, I let her believe this is the least threatening of my appointments in the last two years. For me, it’s as terrifying as having my head sliced open again, except this doctor doesn’t need a scalpel.

  “Welcome, Rory,” a young therapist greets me as I enter the room.

  The walls are a bluish gray with white trim. It looks like a living room and I immediately scan the room for cameras. It feels like a stage, a poor imitation of home and comfort. It might fool a fifth grader, but not me. I give the potted plant a side eye. I don’t trust it, the room, and especially not the lady in it.

  “Hi.”

  “Please have a seat wherever you’re comfortable. Today will be our first session—”

  No shit.

  “— and I’d like to spend some time getting to know one another.”

  “That’s okay. I’m kind of on a time crunch, so we can just skip to the part where you tell me what to do.”

  She smiles in a way that tells me she knows more than I do. She already knows how this whole process works, and she holds all the secrets to the magic—another wizard behind a curtain.

  “Then let’s dispel some myths, and give you a peek into what therapy is actually like,” she says.

  My jaw practically hits the floor.

  She’s a mind reader too.

  I should be glad, but instead I distrust her even more. I don’t like that someone can know my thoughts as I think them. It’s unsettling.

  Her overt kindness shifts and she steps out from behind her desk, settling into the armchair across from me.

  “Tell me about yourself, Rory. Is it okay that I call you that?”

  “Sure, it’s my name after all. Is it okay that I call you Dr. Simmons?” I mock.

  “Actually, I prefer Josie. So tell me a little about who you are.”

  “You know everything. I faxed you the medical file three days ago, so…”

  “I know what the paper says about you, but what do you say? Surely you’re more than a diagnosis.”

  I’d never actually thought of it before. All my life, from as early as I can remember, I was the seizure kid, the one everyone had to be careful not to jostle too hard or play too rough with or upset too badly. I was delicate and I was my disorder.

  “Do you know anything about split brain syndrome, Dr. Simmons? I mean, Josie.”

  “A bit.”

  “What are you even a doctor of anyway?”

  “That’s a very good question. I have my PhD in counseling psychology…”

  I let her drone on and on about her academic pedigree, scrolling through the pages of her resume while I let my mind escape to Elsewhere. It’s a private space I’ve had since I was a kid, and there isn’t anything particular there, but it’s quiet and there is always something more fun to do than in real life. I became very good at visiting Elsewhere, and I often saw it in my seizure dreams. The brain goes haywire when the body seizes, so why wouldn’t I see a place or dream of it? I doubt any doctor would back my claim, but that doesn’t bother me. They don’t belong in Elsewhere.

  “Where did you go, Rory?” I’m snatched from my safe place and back in the fake living room. I’m guessing the fake tree in the corner is supposed to take the edge off, but it doesn’t. “You zoned out, and I just wanted to check in on where you’d gone.”

  “No, I was listening.”

  “Really? Because I started talking about the recent legislature in the porn industry and you didn’t bat an eyelash.”

  I shift uncomfortably in my seat.

  “Why are you here, Rory?”

  “That’s easy,” I scoff. “I want to learn how to tap into the other half of my brain.”

  “You were a witness to a violent crime. Are you sure you’ll be able to handle what you find in there?” She taps a finger to her temple.

  I don’t have an answer.

  “I think we’re done for today,” she says.

  “What? But I’m paying you for a whole hour.”

  “This one’s on me,” she says with a dismissive wave as she stands from her chair with her notebook. I start to feel like I’ve flunked therapy somehow when she says, “Same time tomorrow?”

  I nod and she scribbles something down, then I walk as slow as possible to the lobby, already anticipating Mom’s outrage. I check my watch. I was only there for fifteen minutes.

  * * *

  “Thank you for coming in today,” the Dean says, as if it was my choice. I stare at him over a polished, oak desk. It looks a lot like the one the doctor had—much nicer than Josie’s. “I wanted to talk with you about the recent incident. Do you know which incident I’m talking about?”

  “Yes,” I say, not giving anything away. My lawyer taught me that: don’t answer questions that haven’t been asked.

  “As the Title IX coordinator, I was asked to speak with you about the recent sexual assault that happened here on campus, and your association with it.”

  “Excuse me?” I gulp.

  “You are aware of your being at the crime scene?”

  “Of course, but how is that Title IX’s business?”

  “You’re a person of interest.”

  “But not a suspect.” I know my rights.

  “You were there.” His face flushes as he takes his balled-up fists and hides them in his lap.

  And then the ugly pieces click into place. “Wait, she was raped?”

  “Son, playing dumb is not—” He takes a steadying breath. I mirror him and take a breath as well, and remember where I am. No lawyer, no quirky therapist, just a guy who is probably going to try and kick me out of school for something I had no part in.

  “The campus and city police departments are working together, keeping us updated with only the necessary information. The disability office won’t release any of your documentation, so whatever you’ve given the police will h
ave to suffice. We understand you’re also cooperating, and we’re grateful. However, it won’t dissuade your peers, I’m afraid.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean? Can’t you just tell them I had nothing to do with it?”

  “Unfortunately, we don’t know that for sure. It’s an ongoing investigation. Because of your involvement, the team thought it best to discuss alternative education options that will benefit you as well as the rest of the student body.”

  “You’re expelling me?”

  “Of course not,” he says with a casual laugh like he’s being the nice guy.

  Only because I’d sue your ass if you did.

  “We value you as a student here and want to give you every opportunity to be successful. The team believes you would benefit from online courses. It gives you freedom to do the work at your own pace which leaves you more time for meetings and…court proceedings.”

  “I’m just a witness. I’m not being tried for anything.”

  “Oh yes, of course we know that you’re doing everything in your power to help the investigation,” he drones, clearly trying to win me with honey. The same thick, sticky stuff that could trap you if you stepped in it. “We want to encourage your learning here, and we think it’s best if you pursue all online classes, away from the potential distractions of campus life. I understand your mother lives nearby?”

  “Sort of, but I don’t want to live with her again. I just got settled into the dorm.”

  “Not to worry, we’ll have your residence life deposit refunded as soon as you leave here today. We’ve taken every step to ensure your change in course format goes smoothly, and your adviser has already set you up with the online course equivalent of what you were registered in before.”

  “Thanks,” I say, voice laced with sarcasm. “Your attention to detail is really something.”

  “It’s no trouble at all, son,” he says with a toothy smile. “We wish you the very best.”