Severed: A Novella

by H. G. Reed

  “Art school? Seriously? Might as well have me reenact that pottery scene from Ghost.”

  “Don’t be gross,” she scolds. She knows I’m flirting. “Pick up a brush. I’ve already set out some paints for you.”

  I expect to see those water color kits Crayola sells to children, so imagine my surprise when I see a box of acrylic paint tubes: some full, some rolled down to the last few drops, all bathed in each other’s colors. Other people have used these paints. Many people. I’m not the first one to come to this blank canvas. I’m not the first one to sit in Josie’s fake living room and be made to feel like she has all the time in the world for me. It’s a sad, but oddly comforting thought.

  I’m not the only one, I repeat to myself over and over as I grab a few curious looking brushes and examine them.

  I’m not alone.

  “Rory, today will be very difficult. Let me know when you want to stop and we will.”

  “Do I get to pick a safe word?” I say with a smirk, staring at her over the bristles of my brush. She ignores me.

  “We’ll be doing imaginative exposure, but this time, I want you to start sketching out what you see with paints. Does that make sense?”

  “Yes, master,” I respond in a robotic voice.

  “Your deflection through humor isn’t working today. Valiant effort though. I applaud you.”

  I sigh. It was worth a shot, but like every other day, she sees straight through my bullshit. I pick up another brush from the pile, and take a look at the paints.

  I choose gray.

  Josie looks to me to make sure I’m ready, and I nod before closing my eyes.

  “It’s dark out, and you’re at school, across from the parking garage near Faraway Hall.”

  She begins every exposure exercise like this. It’s some of the few pieces of the story we know to be fact. It was all included in the police report. It reminds me that she actually knows nothing. Only I do. In that, I am alone. No one but me can say what happened. Everything else is pure speculation.

  My stomach tightens. My failure isn’t just mine anymore: it’s Josie’s failure as a therapist, my Mom’s failure as a parent, the detectives’ at doing their jobs, the university’s for not being able to protect their own, my lawyer’s for failing to provide a good enough witness.

  “I’m checking in Rory,” her voice says from across the room. “One to ten. How are you on the scale?”

  She means the anxiety scale. Every time she sees me starting to lose my shit, she checks in. It helps sometimes.

  “Eight,” I tell her, eyes still shut tight. Without being told, I do my deep breathing exercises and rational thought patterns.

  I’m only human, and a defective one at that. Everyone’s fate does not rest on my shoulders. I didn’t hurt Rose. I didn’t put everyone in this situation. It’s not my fault.

  “One to ten?” Josie asks again.

  “Four?”

  “Okay, let’s proceed.”

  My memories pick me up and take me away, and I’m standing in the street between the parking garage and Faraway Hall where my dorm room is. A car pulls up, and two guys get out. Rose is there.

  “Are you seeing it, Rory?”

  I nod, afraid to open my mouth.

  “Paint what you see.”

  I open my eyes and see white canvas staring back.

  “No, keep your eyes closed.”

  “But how am I supposed to—”

  “Just try it. Stay there. Stay in your memories, and draw what you see.”

  I feel completely stupid as I touch the brush to canvas and draw it down. How on earth am I supposed to tell what I’ve painted? Regardless, I try and do as Josie says.

  Asphalt. No, wet asphalt. Puddles of water and my blood. Something hits my face. Someone. He punched me. One of the guys keeps hitting me, slamming me down into the pavement. But how did I get over there. Rewind.

  Parking garage. Car pulls up. Girl starts screaming. I run to her. What’s going on? Is someone hurt? They look at me like I’m a dead man. She begs them not to. She calls him by name.

  She calls him by name.

  “Jesus Christ.” I open my eyes refusing to see anymore, and I’m surprised there are gray blobs on the canvas. My shoulders slump a bit. I was kind of hoping I’d open my eyes to magically find a masterpiece, but instead just a bunch of gray shapes.

  “You did it,” Josie says, crossing to me and not bothering to hide the smile on her face.

  Except I don’t know what I’ve done. I look back at the canvas and realize the blobs make sense to me. They wouldn’t make sense to anyone else, but they do to me. It’s like I’m staring at the backdrop of what happened; not the picture itself, just the backdrop.

  “She knew them,” I say. “She called one of them by name.”

  “Great work, Rory,” Josie says, patting me on the shoulder and looking at the canvas like I’ve just accomplished some great task, but all I feel is a weird swimming in my gut.

  I barf all over the canvas.

  “I’m so sorry,” I say, wiping the spit from my mouth.

  “It’s fine, don’t worry about it,” Josie replies, quickly removing the canvas from the easel and running it to the large trash bin outside the room.

  I know she’s only doing it to be sanitary, but still. Part of me feels like she’s removing it because it’s a sign of defeat.

  “Are you okay?” she asks when she comes back in the room. I see the building’s maintenance man pass in front of the doorway before she shuts it again.

  “Sorry!” I call out to him, but he doesn’t hear me.

  I make my way into The Living Room, glad to turn away from the empty easel and my reminder of failure.

  “There’s nothing to be sorry for,” she says as she sits back in her armchair. “It’s just your body’s response to remembering. Do you recall telling me about that first night at the station? How you got sick in the trash can outside?”

  I laugh. That was an awful night, and laughing seems about the only thing I can do to keep from wanting to rip that detective’s throat out.

  “It’s the same thing. Your body reacts to trauma—”

  “Can I do it again?”

  She sits back in her chair. “I don’t understand.”

  “Can I try the painting again? I think I’m ready this time.”

  “Rory, let’s make sure we’re on the same page here. This isn’t going to happen in a single session. It’s going to take several sessions like this one before you’re able to draw the whole scene that’s stuck up there.”

  She points to her temple. Except her head is just fine. Her head isn’t acting out like a tantrum-throwing toddler, firing on all cylinders with no end in sight.

  I take a breath, trying my hand at perspective.

  It could be worse. You could be seizing like…right now. The surgery made it better in some ways, worse in others. Deal with it.

  I release my grip on the armrests. “Okay, so tell me what to do. How do I get these images out of my head and to the police without puking?”

  “You have to be patient.”

  “I don’t have time. We’ve been over this.”

  “My responsibility is to you. I’m not going to do, or encourage you to do anything that is going to harm you.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “I think puking your guts out equals harm.”

  Now it’s my turn to lean forward in the chair, elbows on knees, looking my therapist in the eye. She looks tired.

  “I appreciate you doing what you have to, but I also need to do what I have to. You’ve got to understand that. Please, help me do this.”

  I don’t realize I’m begging until I am, but it seems to be working. Then, Josie shakes her head.

  “You’re not ready.”

  “Says who? You told me on Day Two that nobody knows me better than I do. Well, I say I’m ready. So are you in or out?”

  She huffs a sigh, and pinches the bridge of her nose between
her finger and thumb. “Fine. But I swear to God, Rory, if you ruin another one of my canvases, I’m adding it to your bill.”

  THEN

  Junior Year, September

  “WELCOME BACK,” MR. Jones says as he shows me into his office. “I trust you had a good summer break?”

  “Yes,” I say, actually meaning it.

  The summer was uneventful—the best kind. No hospital visits, no unusual seizures, and meds had kicked in several months earlier—well, they were finally working since I’d had my surgery. So I was just coasting.

  “You’re back this fall,” he says. Obviously. I’m standing here in his office. “Junior year?”

  “I guess.” I shrug. “Well, almost. I got behind that first spring semester I had to take off for my surgery. I’ll make it up with a few extra classes though.”

  “Sounds good. Looks like your grades from last spring came back, and all’s well.” He flashes me his pearly whites. The guy should really think about auditioning for a toothpaste commercial.

  “Thanks to you.”

  “Thank yourself,” he says, while looking up my electronic file in the database. “We provide the accommodations, but you do the work. You should be very proud.”

  “I guess.” It’s not something I feel often, and I don’t know it well enough to recognize it. “I brought my schedule for this fall.” I fish out the crumpled paper with my classes listed on it.

  Mr. Jones eyes it like he’s not sure where it’s been. “Um., that’s okay. We’ll print a fresh one for your hard copy file.”

  Everything in this place is logged at least twice. I wonder how many things with my name on it are floating around the office as we speak.

  “Where are you living this semester?” he asks, and I think it’s just more small talk, but I see his fingers poised above his keyboard. He’s updating my campus address. Probably in case I don’t show up for class and they need to do a wellness check on me.

  “Faraway Hall.”

  “Nice.” He nods in approval.

  It’s one of the newer residence halls on campus, and I guess my almost-upperclassman status promoted me to decent living quarters. Anywhere away from home is now considered decent living quarters to me.

  “Okay, all your info is updated. Are you requesting any changes in your accommodations from last spring?”

  “Nope. Same brain, same accommodations.”

  “And you got your med bracelet issued?”

  I wave my left wrist to show off my shiny new, red silicone med alert bracelet. You could throw me in the sports complex pool, and this thing would still be able to plug into any USB port and tell you all about Rory Halstead, age 19, history of head trauma and seizures. I know only old people wear these, but it was a condition of Mom letting me live on campus this semester. Once Mr. Jones suggested it, she never stopped talking about it.

  “Hey, I forgot. Your birthday is next month!” Mr. Jones smiles his biggest smile yet.

  “You didn’t just remember. It’s on my freaking intake sheet in your computer.” I laugh.

  “You caught me. Still, if I don’t see you before October, have a happy birthday.”

  The printer spits out five copies of the same letter, and Mr. Jones hands them to me.

  “Thanks, Mr. Jones. If all goes according to plan, I’ll see you next spring.”

  I slide the letters in my backpack, and pull the heavy bag over my shoulder. I’ll deliver a letter to each professor, letting them know just how scrambled my brains are, and that they can’t punish me for doing stupid things. Okay, that’s not exactly what it says, but it’s close.

  “You know I love seeing you, but this time, I hope I don’t.”

  No visits, calls, or emails from the Access Center means an uneventful semester. And uneventful is just what I have in mind. I shake Mr. Jones’ hand, try my hardest to mirror his giant smile, and make my way outside to rejoin campus life.

  * * *

  This semester sucks ass. I’m bored out of my mind, my classes blow, and none of my friends from last year have my same afternoon schedule, so I usually end up eating alone in the dining hall. Ugh. Is this freaking middle school or something? I shouldn’t be bothered, but I am. No one is more pathetic than that guy eating alone. And that’s me. The disabled, silicone bracelet wearing, not-technically-a-junior guy with no friends. To make it even more pathetic, today is my birthday. I’m a twenty-year-old loser.

  “Is this seat taken?” a girl asks. I don’t even look up at her.

  “Nope. All yours.”

  The only thing worse than eating alone is eating with a strange freshman who thinks she can meet people by crowding their personal space. They all do it. Like their Orientation Leader told them this was the best and quickest way to make friends. I start putting my dishes back on my tray and prepare to leave.

  “Hey, you look familiar.”

  I look up and into the most beautiful blue eyes. And a pretty great rack.

  “Did you have Dr. Fyne’s class freshman year?”

  I nod.

  “I’m Rose Peterson.”

  “Rory Halstead,” I manage to squeak out. She’s, by far, one of the prettiest girls I’ve seen on campus. Top ten at least.

  Instead of leaving, I stay. Imagine that. We talk for the next hour about how our semester schedules suck, and how the football team is an embarrassment to our conference. She’s cool.

  Thanks, universe, for this lovely birthday present.

  Her phone buzzes and she reads a text. Her smile falls.

  “I’ve gotta go. I didn’t realize how late it was.” She stands and takes her tray, but I place a hand on her arm before she can walk away.

  “Can I at least get your number?” Hey, it’s worth a shot.

  “Sorry.” She smiles and looks down at her tray. “I have a boyfriend.”

  “Oh, it’s just for class notes and stuff,” I say, trying to back out of the blush creeping up my face.

  “We don’t have the same classes.” I’m pathetic. She smiles anyway. “Sorry,” she says again, and then she’s gone.

  Awesome. I hate you, Universe.

  NOW

  I MAKE IT AS FAR AS the guy pulling a gun on me before getting sick again. This time, I make it to the trashcan. Josie looks unamused, but still has that hard-ass-way-of-caring look on her face.

  “What the hell?” I say as I stand upright. My abs are sore. I might even walk away from this whole nightmare with a six-pack.

  “It’s an ingrained reaction,” she says for the hundredth time. “Most people with split-brain syndrome aren’t trying to recall something painful. But I can promise, start with art and the trauma will come.” She says it like something written on the cover of a Hallmark card.

  “Ugh, I wasn’t traumatized.”

  “You weren’t?” It’s not really a question. More like a challenge.

  “I’m not like some sorority girl who got taken advantage of. I have a brain injury.”

  “I’m just going to ignore that egregious stereotyping.”

  “Trust me, I want to tell you all about it. But I can’t.”

  “Can’t or won’t?” A heavy silence follows. “You definitely witnessed someone who was traumatized.”

  I think back to the gun on my head and mull over the concept of trauma once more. It’s such a big word.

  “How do you know this will work?” I ask. There’s no point in doing any of this if it doesn’t help Rose. “What if we’re just wasting time?”

  “Studies have been done over the years, and people who have experienced trauma can rarely talk about it right away, which is probably why you felt more comfortable going to the campus clinic instead of the police that night. On top of that, you’re different.” I appreciate her not using the word special. “People like you can’t always take what they see and put it into speech. From the report on your injuries, your left visual field was pretty much blocked.”

  “We’ve already been over this.”

&nbs
p; “But it’s more than that.” She walks over to me, putting caps back on paints, and stows them in the plastic bin. It’s almost time to go. “Didn’t you say in your report that someone pushed you into the ground? You could feel it, even though you couldn’t say it.”

  “Yeah, I had to get the damn asphalt picked out of my face at the student health center. My left eye was swollen shut. There’s pictures from the precinct to prove it.” I touch my eye absentmindedly.

  “I’m not challenging you,” she says as she hears my voice rising. “We’re a team, remember. All the information that night was intercepted by your left visual field only.”

  I see what she’s doing. We’re mapping this out together, getting all the pieces of the puzzle ready.

  “It’s stuck over there.” I say. “On the wrong side.”

  “Bingo.” She points at me, her finger and thumb making the shape of a gun. I stiffen, but I don’t think she notices. “Information received through your left fields go to the right side of the brain. And do you remember what’s on the left side?”

  I sift through the mental stack of paperwork they made me study before the surgery. “Language centers.”

  It’s strange how I can have all the pieces, and still not know how to put them together.

  “Broca’s area is on the left side, but all your visual information you need to access is on the right side. It can’t cross because the membrane was cut. You can’t put what you’ve seen or touched into speech.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know,” I groan. “They drilled all that into my head before and after they cut into it. It’s like they gave me an instruction manual on my new life, but it was in Japanese. What I need to know is how this affects the everyday stuff.”

  “Let’s do an experiment,” she suggests with that wild Therapist Excitement in her eyes.

  She grabs me by the shoulders and walks me back over from the trashcan to the easel, a bucket of brushes and paints on at the base of it.

  “Close your eyes.” I do as she says and she places something in my left hand. “Without using your other hand, tell me what’s in your left hand?”

  I wiggle the long, slender thing in my palm, letting it slip and slide through my fingers. It’s smooth and thin like a pencil. At the top are soft, bristly things like…hair? I know this object. I use it every day with the paints and canvas. Why can’t I say what it is? I know what it is, but the words won’t come. I grit my teeth and think harder, like trying will suddenly stitch my brain back together. I remember this feeling—it’s the same frustration I experienced during physical therapy, but I never cared enough to really process what it was, or find a way to overcome it. I was a pretty shitty patient. They told me this would happen. They tried to help. I never thought I needed to listen.