Beside her, Amy’s ankle cracked over and over as she shook it at the end of her crossed legs. It was a nervous habit, Claire knew, borne from constant anxiety over the state of her abandoned son. Claire reached out and laid a hand gently on Amy’s leg, patting her knee in an expression of affection, and Amy stilled. Claire used to be the motherly sort, before she became old enough to become the grandmotherly sort. So she knew what to do, the motions that indicated the intentions, even if she didn’t feel them anymore.
“My name is Dr. Allison Cans. I am a clinical psychologist with a background in post traumatic stress and traumatic brain injury. I -,”
“We can see your credentials, Doctor,” Claire interrupted. Best for everyone’s sake to just cut to the chase. “And we know the drill, in terms of expectations and job responsibilities. We’ve been through this all before, you see.”
“Yes,” Dr. Cans agreed, “you have. At least twice before me, correct?”
Miguel nodded, the only one to respond, and she continued, “I’ve read up on each of my predecessors’ case notes and, I must say, I’m disappointed. Disappointed, though not surprised,” she said. “I suppose one doesn’t get fired for no reason, after all.”
Claire’s traitorous mouth quirked up slightly at that. She clearly wasn’t the only one who appreciated sarcasm.
“One thing that was very clear, though, was your lack of cooperation.”
Ah, now we come to it, Claire thought. What tack would the new doctor take? Would she smile and offer reassurances that their cooperation would result in a swift and speedy removal from this facility and a return to their families? An obvious lie, given Miguel’s current incarceration. Or would she lay down the law, establishing herself as the firm authority who would brook no argument and happily hand out consequences to those brave enough to try? That was their last doctor’s method.
But no, neither of those seemed to be Dr. Allison Cans’ preferred cup of tea.
“Let me be perfectly clear,” she said, resting her gaze on each of them for a moment before moving on. “I don’t actually need your cooperation.”
She paused and let that settle. Across from her, Claire saw Andre’s brow furrow over his eyes. Amy’s eyes narrowed and her ankle started cracking again. And Miguel, well, Miguel looked upset. Of course, as the only one who had been cooperating, that statement must have landed like a blow.
“I don’t need it. I would prefer it, of course,” Dr. Cans said smoothly, brushing a piece of invisible lint from her impeccable skirt. A skirt that, when combined with a pair of four inch heels, showed a truly impressive length of leg. Claire saw both Miguel and Andre’s eyes dart down before looking quickly away. She sighed. Men.
“I would prefer to talk with you, get to know you. Learn about your injuries and what’s brought you to us, yes. But I’d also like to learn who you are and see if there might be anything I can do to help you. Personally, that is.”
She looked at Miguel and smiled professionally. “Whether that means helping you learn to live with certain physical alterations or,” and here she glanced at Amy, “finding out how your family is faring in your absence.”
Amy’s eyes shot to the doctor and both feet dropped heavily to the ground. It was an unusual lapse on her part, an indication that the doctor had struck a nerve, that she tried quickly to cover. “Is that a threat?” she asked angrily. Not angrily enough to erase the momentary spark of hope and need that had jumped to her eyes at the mention of learning her son’s welfare.
Oh, well played, Doctor, Claire thought, admiring the move despite herself.
“Obviously I can’t get you released from this facility. I’m not your medical doctor and, since I want to set an example of honesty, I should tell you that I suspect your residence here may be permanent. But that doesn’t mean there isn’t anything I can do. And I’d like to help, in any way that I can.”
There was silence and Claire watched her fellow captives from the corners of her eyes. That was the most blunt speech she had ever heard from one of them. Andre’s forehead was still creased as he tried to parse the meaning of Dr. Cans’ words. Amy looked doubtful, an expression that told Claire she’d hang onto the outward appearance of anger until she could sort through her confusion in private later. And Miguel? Well, Miguel looked like he was crying under that blindfold.
Claire turned and met the doctor’s eyes. She seemed to be watching her with interest. Claire’s own opinion was unformed. Dr. Cans’ demeanor was professional, despite the skirt, but detached. She smiled, but clinically, the expression never quite reaching her eyes. Her words were spoken gently, moderately, but they couldn’t be mistaken for kind. They remained still, locked in a staring match until something shifted subtly in the doctor’s expression and she glanced down.
She was looking for something, Claire thought, something in her. And she’d found it. But what, Claire had no idea. She took one more sip of her tea, now lukewarm, and considered. The other doctors had been easier to read. Everyone who worked here, in fact, was quite obvious. But the new doctor? She kept herself veiled, nothing but a mask looking out. Masks only existed to hide something. What that something was, Claire had no idea.
“Now then,” Dr. Cans said crisply, bringing the session back to matters at hand, “back to business. Now that you know a little about me -,”
“You want to know a little about us?” Amy asked rudely. “How original and unexpected.”
“As much as I would prefer that, I’m not worried about knowing you,” Dr. Cans replied smoothly. “I have files for that kind of thing. What I would like to know, however, is what exactly you’ve been told about why you’re here.”
There was silence in the room as the four prisoners looked at each other.
Finally, Miguel broke the silence. “We know we’ve each had a brain injury that should have killed us. Instead, it gave us some kind of weird side-effect that causes a lot of problems.”
Andre rolled his eyes. “Don’t start in with that again,” he said brusquely. “We all know you buy into their propaganda, but the rest of us aren’t so desperate.”
Miguel pointed his face back towards his lap, the blindfold effectively hiding anything he might be thinking.
“Propaganda or not,” Dr. Cans interjected, “I want to make sure you’ve all been given the information you need. Have any of your doctors used the term Reflexive Neurological Bias with you?”
Claire stared blankly back at the doctor, not because she was being uncooperative but because the answer was no, they hadn’t.
“I thought not,” Dr. Cans said with a sigh. “We’ll start from the beginning.” She leaned over and slid her coffee cup across the desk behind her and then settled into her chair.
“Reflexive Neurological Bias is the theoretical condition you have each been ascribed. But even though it’s theoretical, this company believes strongly in its existence and application in the real world.”
“So, they think it can make them money.” Andre asked, more of a statement than a question.
“They do,” Dr. Cans agreed. “In fact, they think it can make them a lot of money.”
“So what does Reflexive neural…,” Amy stammered, “or Reflective neroli…”
“You can just call it RNB,” Dr. Cans suggested, ending Amy’s struggle. “Much more simple.”
“Okay, so what does RNB mean for us?” Amy asked. “Why do they think we have it?”
“Well, Miguel isn’t wrong,” Dr. Cans said with a look in Miguel’s direction. “You each have had a severe brain injury. One that should have killed you. And yet, you each recovered fully, or so doctors believed. But tell me,” Dr. Cans paused, looking at each of them in turn, “since your recovery, you’ve each suffered from severe headaches, insomnia, and…let’s call them depressive thoughts, is that correct?”
Miguel hesitated, but then jumped in. “The headaches are really bad,” he agreed, “and even when I sleep, it doesn’t feel like I really sleep, you know?”
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br /> Dr. Cans smiled. “And what about the depression?”
Miguel looked away. “Oh, it’s not so bad,” he hedged. “Everyone gets depressed now and then, right?”
“They do,” Dr. Cans agreed. “But patients who suffer from RNB have a higher documented rate of severe depression and suicide than brain injury patients who don’t develop the condition. We want to make sure that doesn’t happen to you.”
How kind, Claire thought. She noticed Amy and Andre weren’t meeting the doctor’s eyes either. If she was hoping to get more on that subject than Miguel was giving, she was going to be disappointed. She seemed to sense that and moved on quickly.
“Well, those are a few of the benchmarks of RNB, but we’re still gathering data. What we do know is that your brain injuries didn’t actually heal. Instead, your brains found workarounds - new pathways for functioning that didn’t exist before. Leading to certain… symptoms.”
“Like my eyes?” Miguel asked.
“Like your eyes,” Dr. Cans agreed. She glanced at the group but when no one else was forthcoming, she turned back to Miguel. “Would you like to tell me a little about what’s happening with your eyes?”
Miguel was anxious to share, especially since none of the rest of them would usually listen to him.
“Everything is too bright,” he said simply. “I see so much color that I can’t see anything else.”
“What do you mean by ‘so much color’?”
“Too much,” Miguel said, trying to clarify. “I don’t just see reds and blues and greens. I see the colors that make up the colors.” He ran his hands over his head, scrubbing in frustration and his inability to explain it properly. “I see so much color that I can’t see anything else. Everything else just fades away.”
He clasped his hands and dropped them into his lap, looking towards Dr. Cans a little hopelessly.
She was looking at him intently, finally nodding slightly. “So that’s why you wear the blindfold. To filter out some of the color?”
At Miguel’s nod, she jotted something on the notebook sprawled across her lap and then looked back up.
“Can you name every color you see?” she asked, a slight frown stretched across her perfectly made-up face.
Miguel opened his mouth to respond, but then closed it. He seemed to think it over.
“You know, I’ve never really thought about it before,” he finally said. “But now that I do, I don’t think I can.”
“So you’re not just seeing colors too brightly, you’re seeing colors you’ve never seen before?”
“Yeah. I think so,” Miguel answered, sounding awed. Dr. Cans smiled at him before writing something else briefly in her notebook.
“Thank you,” Miguel said suddenly, and Dr. Cans glanced up.
“For what?” she asked.
“I’ve been here for over two years,” he said quietly. “I’ve never had anyone ask me that before. I’ve never had anyone help me define this thing before. And you did it in 20 minutes.”
Dr. Cans smiled again, genuinely this time. “I’m not just here to study you,” she said. “I’m here to help you learn to live with your… symptoms,” she said delicately.
Andre broke suddenly into the conversation. “Live with and use, you mean?”
“What?” Miguel asked, confused. The doctor merely tipped her head to the side, studying Andre in that unnerving way of hers.
“These people didn’t just bring us here out of the goodness of their hearts, to help us,” Andre pointed out. “She said they think our issues can make them money. They want to use your eyes, man. Not make them normal.”
Miguel shot a glance at Dr. Cans. “Is that true?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said without pause. “I think it must be. But if it helps you regain your ability to function, does it matter? After all,” she said, “isn’t that why you agreed to stay, Miguel?”
“But the rest of us don’t need help functioning!” Amy burst out. She had been sitting quietly for much too long. Claire had been wondering when she’d give in. “The rest of us are fine, even if Miguel says he isn’t.”
“Being able to hide your symptoms doesn’t mean you aren’t affected. Miguel’s are just a little more difficult to camouflage, that’s all.”
“So you think the rest of us are crazy, just like he is?”
“No,” Dr. Cans replied firmly. “I don’t think any of you are crazy.”
“Then what do you think?”
Dr. Cans gave Amy a hard look. It was the first honest reaction Claire had seen. “I think you all experienced a traumatic head injury. You may remember it happening or you may not. I think each of you believed you recovered and went home, glad to be alive. In recovery, you each experienced symptoms that were easy enough to explain at first - headaches, sleeplessness, some anxiety. But I also think you each, over time, started to experience symptoms that weren’t so easily explained away: heightened senses, sounds that were too loud, the ability to do things you didn’t know you could do.
And I think each of you has a voice in your head, telling you that all of this pain and exhaustion and anxiety you’re living with isn’t worth the effort. I worry it won’t be long before you each start to believe that voice and look for a way out.”
During this speech, Dr. Cans had leaned forward in her chair, bracing her elbows on the notebook across her crossed legs, and the rest of them had found themselves drawn forward, as well. Dr. Cans had pulled them all to her with an intensity that was electric, but now she sat back, releasing them from her stare, looking down and readjusting the notebook. Claire relaxed back into her own seat, breathing deeply to dispel the tension that had coiled tightly in her muscles during Dr. Cans’ dispassionate monologue.
Eventually, the doctor looked up. “And I believe that voice can be ignored and those symptoms can be adapted to. That’s why I’m here. To help you live.”
They sat in silence after that, but the tension that radiated across the room like electricity indicated how close Dr. Cans had come to the truth. At least for Claire. Because the truth was, Claire could feel that tension exactly like she might feel electricity, or like a wave of smoke creeping across the floor of a burning building. It wasn’t normal. It was new. Or new since the accident, anyway.
It was much harder to ignore the truth when someone brought it out into the open. Claire herself had been staunchly pushing the truth away for years now.
The voice in her head gloated over her failure.
Chapter 8
Quincy
What she wouldn’t give for one decent, home cooked meal right now. It was a good thing she had eaten a big lunch - that taco truck had been a godsend because Logan and his crock pot had become her new nightmare.
Dave was gamely attempting to swallow what Logan claimed was lasagna. If he’d ever been on the receiving end of…of… that older lady in Arkansas’s lasagna, he would have never made that claim.
Quincy scowled down into her lasagna. What was her name again? She kept forgetting -
“It’s not so bad,” Logan broke in optimistically. “I think I’m getting better.”
That was it. Quincy pushed her plate back and stood. She’d tried. She really had. But there was only so much you could ask of a person. She already had a suicide bomber living in her head, harping at her at all hours of the day and night. She didn’t deserve food poisoning, too.
“Where are you going?” Dave choked out around the mouthful he still hadn’t been able to swallow. He sounded panicked, like he didn’t want to be abandoned to his fate alone. Either that or he really was choking, but who could tell? As Quincy pushed the curtain around her bed back, she shot a glance back at Dave. Was the bite he’d taken getting bigger? She shrugged apologetically at him as she flopped down onto the bulky mattress and pulled a cardboard box out from behind it. She fished around until she found what she was looking for but stopped short of shoving it back into its hole. Maybe she should help a guy out.
Quincy
hauled herself back to her feet and tucked the box under her arm, winding her way back to her chair, pausing long enough to thump Dave on the back a few times.
“No need to fall on your sword,” she said lightly. “I have reinforcements.”
She turned the box upside down and dumped the contents onto the middle of the table. Both men stared as she dropped back into her seat and started picking through the mess.
“Feel free to help yourselves,” she said, digging through the treasure trove of junk food in front of her.
Ah, there. The extra-large bag of goldfish crackers and the king-sized Little Debbie snack cakes were calling her name.
“Where did you get all of this?” Logan asked. He sounded almost awestruck. “There’s so…much.”
Dave reached out tentatively and nudged a four-pack Nutty Buddy. “Are you sure you don’t mind?” he asked politely.
Quincy smiled. “Have at it,” she said and he snatched it off the table like a man on fire looking for a little relief.
Logan deigned to look hurt. “Hey.” He was clearly insulted. “I worked hard on dinner.”
“Yes,” Dave said, “and we appreciate your efforts-”
“I really don’t,” Quincy cut in helpfully.
“We appreciate your efforts,” Dave repeated, shooting a cautioning glance at Quincy. “But if Quincy is being kind enough to share, who are we to turn her down?” he asked reasonably. “It would be rude,” he added, almost as an afterthought.
“Fine,” Logan huffed as he rose proudly from the table. “I guess I’ll just turn the crock pot off since clearly no one will want seconds.”
“Would you mind grabbing me an iced tea from the refrigerator while you’re up?” Dave asked around his mouthful of beef jerky.
Logan scowled but complied. “Anything for you, Princess?” He bowed mockingly to Quincy. “You know, while I’m up?”
“I am kind of thirsty,” she decided. “You know how much sodium is in processed foods.” She tossed a couple of goldfish in her mouth for good measure and tilted her head back and forth. “What do I want?” She drummed her fingers against her chin. “What do I want?”
Burning Bridges (Shattered Highways Book 2) Page 6
