by Shay Savage
“Sure,” I said, dipping another forkful of French toast into a glob of syrup. Ethan shoved the last huge bite into his mouth, wiped syrup off his chin, and took a large gulp of orange juice before he started his story.
“After hitting my head, it took a long time for my brain to start working again. Like I said—I was in a coma for a couple of days. After I woke up, I couldn’t speak or walk or anything. I don’t remember any of this, just so you know. My parents told me what happened later. I don’t remember anything from the first week I was awake. Once the brain swelling came down, I could speak, but I had to have a lot of physical therapy to learn to walk all over again. About three weeks after the accident, I had the first grand mal seizure. I started having them about three times a week, and medication wasn’t working at all. Then they started coming more often—three or four times a day—and they were getting worse. My head was just too messed up, so they decided the only thing they could do was some pretty major surgery to stop the seizures.”
He paused for a moment and laced his fingers together, staring at the empty plate in front of him.
“There’s this part of your brain—it’s called the corpus callosum—that carries information from one side of your brain to the other. Sometimes seizures are caused by the information getting kinda…messed up, I guess. Messages between the two halves of your brain get lost and start bouncing around, which is what was causing the seizures. That’s what was happening to me. The seizures were so bad, they decided it would be better to…um…well, cut through it, so the two halves of my brain couldn’t talk to each other anymore. We talked about it for a long time before agreeing to the surgery. My dad was a general practitioner, and my mom was an ER surgeon, but they knew several good neurologists. After getting about six second opinions, we all decided it was the only way I was going to get any better, so they did it.”
He took a deep breath before continuing.
“So, when they do the surgery, they sever all the connections between the right and left hemispheres of your brain, which stops the seizure from being able to go from one side to the other. That’s what makes them really bad. When they cut through it, I stopped having seizures. It’s called an interhemispheric electrical storm, so you’ll be set if you ever get on Jeopardy.”
My own brain spun in a little circle. Did I just hear him right? Sever all the connections? Did he just say his brain was cut in two? I felt my heart rate increase as my chest muscles were clenching around it at the same time. My stomach tightened up as well, just for good measure. I had to have misunderstood what he said. Ethan looked over to me and smirked a little before continuing.
“Yeah, so there are some kinda funky side effects when your brain’s been cut in half. Like if I close my right eye, and you show me a picture of something, I can’t tell you what it is verbally. That’s ‘cause the speech center of your brain is in the left side, and the right side controls your left eye. I can write down what it is with my left hand, but then I can’t read it back to you, so it doesn’t help much. Other split-brain people could read it, and then they’d know what they were looking at. Originally, I thought it was kind of cool, but that wore off pretty quick.”
Ethan looked up from his hands for the first time since he started talking. I blinked rapidly, trying to hide the panic I felt. He blushed and then looked back down at his hands before continuing.
“The neurologist says my brain can’t comprehend symbols anymore,” Ethan explained. “I’m actually not even allowed to drive since I can’t understand the signs. The reading thing’s not common in spilt-brain people—that’s what they call you when you’ve had that surgery. Not being able to name stuff when you close your right eye, that’s pretty common. Since everything kinda happened at once, it’s possible my problems with symbols were part of the original damage from the accident. I’m just glad I’m not color blind, too. At least I know red means stop and green means go.”
“I don’t really give a shit about the driving.” Ethan continued, speaking quickly. “I can get wherever I need to be with my bike and the subway. I still take my dad’s car out a couple times a year—not during rush hour or anything—just so I know it still works. Dad really liked cars, so I kept his favorite. It sucks not being able to read, though. I used to read all the time. I tried listening to books on CDs, but they just don’t capture my attention the same way holding a book used to. I dunno why. I tried holding the CD case while I was listening, but that really didn’t do much for me, either. Mom read to me when I was in the hospital.”
I watched his tongue dart out over his bottom lip and fiddle with the rings there. Ethan looked nervously to his right, then his left, then finally back up to me.
“So, there you go,” he said softly. “I guess the shorter version would have been to say I’m brain damaged. Some of the friends I had back then said it affected my personality as well, but my parents died just a couple weeks after the last surgery, so it could have been that, too. I’m not really sure. I don’t have seizures anymore, at least.”
Ethan looked up from his hands and met my eyes. His look was intense, and I knew he was waiting for me to say something, but I didn’t know how to respond.
“Thanks for explaining it to me,” I finally said. “I have heard of people having seizures, obviously, but I never heard of anything like this.”
“It’s not common,” Ethan said. “It’s a pretty extreme way of resolving the problem, but in my case there really weren’t any other alternatives.”
“So, it’s not just reading?” I asked for clarification. “It’s all kinds of symbols?”
“Yeah,” Ethan nodded. “I can see fine, but when I look at a traffic sign or something, it just doesn’t make any sense to me. You can tell me twenty times what it means, but I just don’t get it. I know I should get it, and I know it should be easy, but the part of my brain that sees the picture and the part that can interpret it don’t talk to each other. Letters are the same way, I guess.”
Ethan laughed.
“Sometimes it’s funny, really,” he said with a smile. “CeeCee and I used to ride past this cafe every day. When we went by, I always got a craving for donuts but didn’t understand why. This happened about two weeks in a row before I mentioned it to him. He told me there was a big sign with the words ‘Fresh Donuts’ painted on the window. My eyes couldn’t read the word, but my stomach could!”
I smiled and shook my head but didn’t really find it funny. Ethan reached out and grabbed my hand.
“Don’t feel bad,” Ethan said quietly. “I don’t usually tell anybody about this. I mean, I know I shouldn’t be ashamed of it or anything—it’s not like there’s anything I can do about it. Most people don’t realize there’s anything wrong with me, and there are a lot of people who can’t read, so people who figure it out just assume I never learned how. I just didn’t want you to think I was, um, stupid or anything, I guess.”
“I never thought you were,” I told him. “I mean, you have some screwed up ideas about what makes a good movie, but I can forgive you for that.”
He met my gaze again, and I saw the light come back into his emerald green irises. A big, full smile lit up his face, and he just about jumped over the table to take my head in his hands and press his lips to mine.
“Thank you,” he said between kisses. “I was scared of what you would think. You’re so smart…”
I was going to argue with him regarding my intelligence level, but frankly his kisses were far too distracting, and within a couple of minutes both breakfast and his disclosure were completely forgotten as we found ourselves back in the pink bean bag chair. We spent about an hour kissing and talking before I realized I really needed to get out of there for a while.
“I need to go home,” I said, and I watched Ethan’s face fall and his gaze drop into his lap. He nodded slowly. “I have some errands to run, and I need to get back into my own clothes.”
“Will you let me see you again?” Ethan asked.
/> “Of course, Ethan,” I told him. I leaned over and placed my hand on his cheek. “I want to see you again.”
“When?” He looked up at me with the slightest glimmer of hope in his eyes.
“Anytime you want,” I said automatically.
“Tonight?” he inquired. I laughed.
“Are you serious?”
“It’s Saturday,” Ethan pointed out. “You shouldn’t have school or work.”
“I have studying to do.”
“You could do it here,” he offered. “Maybe I could help…as long as I didn’t have to read anything.”
“Ethan, that’s very sweet of you, but…”
“I’m not being sweet!” Ethan’s voice was loud and harsh. I flinched a little. I hadn’t heard that particular tone come out of his mouth before. I looked over at him and saw he had his eyes closed and his jaw set. He took three long, deep breaths and then opened his eyes. “Sorry, but I’m really not. I want you to come back, and I’m saying all the wrong shit. If there are errands you have to run, I want to go with you. If you need to study, I want to just be there in the same room, and I swear I won’t get in your way. If you have to go home to do laundry, I want to help you fold it. I just don’t want to be away from you… and I’m probably sounding like some kind of stalker nutcase and fucking scaring you.”
Chapter 9—Obligation
He stood abruptly, grabbed his pack of cigarettes off the end table, and yanked open the balcony door. I stared after him for a minute, wondering if maybe he was a little bit of a nutcase but ultimately deciding he was not. He was just expressing what he really felt.
Who does that in the twenty-first century?
I tentatively stepped across the plush carpet until I was close enough to prop myself up on the wall near the opening to the balcony and look out at him. He was leaning against the railing and sucking hard on the cigarette between his fingers.
“I’m sorry,” he said before I could comment. “I just like you, and I’m scared that if you leave, something will happen to you. I know. That’s fucked up and I need to get over it, but the fear always comes back when I meet new people, and I want to get to know them better. I want to spend more time with you, but I don’t want to freak you out, and I don’t want you to think I’m crazy.”
“I don’t think you’re crazy,” I told him. “It’s very…flattering that you want to know me better and that you are worried about me. I do think I need to go home for a little bit because I need a little space right now. If you want me to, I could come back tonight.”
“Really?” Ethan turned quickly, tossed his cigarette to the side and took two long steps to reach me. He took my face in his hands and just held me for a moment, looking into my eyes and making me feel a little like fainting. He crushed his lips to mine and then broke away quickly. “Shit! I’m sorry—cigarette breath…”
“It’s okay,” I said with a smile. “I don’t mind.”
“Really?” he said again. “You aren’t just saying that?”
“No, not just saying it.”
His lips were back on mine half a second later. His tongue was in my mouth, and my neck was bent backwards under the force of his grip. He moved his lips over my chin, down to my throat and back up again. He wrapped his arms around me, and he held me tightly against his chest. Finally he released me and took a step back, his brilliant smile lighting up the room again.
“I’ll give you the extra key,” Ethan said abruptly. He rushed back inside, opened a drawer in the kitchen, and pulled out a security keycard with “Marquis” scrawled across the front. “Just come on back as soon as you can. I mean, don’t feel like you have to rush, but…shit.”
He ran his hand through his hair.
“It’s all right, Ethan.” I took they key from his hand and slid it into my bag. “I’ll probably be back around seven. Is that okay?”
“That would be awesome,” Ethan said with a nod. “Do you want to eat here? I can order something for us, or I could make more French toast. Oh! I could make mozzarella for pizza! Sorry—those are really the only things I know how to cook.”
“You’ve cooked for me enough today,” I said. “Ordering something would be great, thank you.”
“Thank you,” he responded.
“For what?” I asked.
“For being so understanding,” he replied. “I know I can…take a little getting used to. I tend to be a little intense. I try to rein it in, but it doesn’t always work.”
“I don’t mind,” I told him. “Really, it’s kind of refreshing.”
I got the double-barreled smile, and I was pretty sure I was going to have to keep a fresh supply of underwear around for when I was near him. That thought brought on another one.
“Actually, as long as we are being straightforward, I have a question.”
“Anything,” Ethan said.
“Should I, um, bring a change of clothes for tomorrow?”
Ethan’s grin lit up the room.
“I’d really like it if you did,” he said.
I added my information on Ethan’s phone before I headed out, and he immediately called me so I would have his number, too. Then he insisted on taking my picture for his phone. I wasn’t too thrilled about it. I hated having my picture taken, and my hair was a mess—but he blushed and shrugged.
“It’s the only way I know who’s calling me.” He showed me his contact list, and every entry included a picture. “Since I can’t read the names, the pictures make it a lot easier. I use the voice control to call the right person. Pretty cool, huh?”
“Yes, it is.” I wasn’t sure if I considered it cool or sad that he had to use such devices just to communicate with people. It did make a lot of sense, but it also made me think about all the ways Ethan’s life without reading was more difficult than the average person’s. “I guess using a phone wouldn’t be possible for you otherwise.”
“It was really frustrating in the beginning,” he said, “but I got used to it. I don’t even think about it much now.”
Ethan called me a cab and walked me down to the front of the building to meet it. He kissed me softly on the cheek before I climbed into the back seat and gave the driver my address. During the time it took me to get home, Ethan sent me about fifteen picture messages. The first was of him waving at me, his hair loose around his shoulders and dripping wet from the shower. Then several more pictures came through, including one showing me the leftover French toast, a picture of a carry out menu from a Chinese restaurant that was all in Chinese—so I had no idea what it said—and pictures of three DVD covers depicting movies that were not based on books. I found myself wondering just why the heck he bothered to get texting in the first place if he couldn’t read. At least he seemed to have found a unique way of using technology.
I reached my building, greeted the doorman, rode the elevator, and slipped the key into the lock of my apartment. As soon as I walked in, I immediately noticed that something didn’t feel the same. The feeling stayed with me as I entered my bedroom though all the same items were present in the large master suite—mahogany furniture, original paintings of seascapes, the duvet my father’s second wife picked out for me when I still lived at home, and my favorite childhood stuffed rabbit—but the room felt empty and lifeless. Normally, my apartment was my haven—the place where I could do what I wanted, when I wanted, and how I wanted. No one was in my way, and no one told me how to run things. I loved the space in all its “just me” glory.
I shook my head as if the feeling would fly from my hair like raindrops. It didn’t, but I tried to ignore it as I shuffled to the kitchen and made myself a quick salad. I poured myself the glass of wine I had desired the night before and picked through my mail, throwing every piece into the recycling bin except for the credit card bill and a donation request from Make-A-Wish.
Once I had a load of laundry going—including my borrowed clothing—I did a little general cleanup in the kitchen and bathroom, pulled out some of my economi
cs books, and got to work on the studying. The strange feeling stayed with me while I went through the study guide, finished the reading, and worked out a few practice essay answers.
I finally figured out what it was. I should have known it moment I walked through the door. I didn’t want to be here, alone and with no one to share my thoughts. I wanted to be somewhere else, with someone, maybe sitting in a pink bean bag chair.
My cell phone rang and I jumped, an instant smile and stomach full of butterflies accompanying me across the room to my purse. The butterflies all halted in midflight and dropped to the bottom of my gut in a rock-like lump when I saw “Dad” flashing over the screen.
“Hi, Dad,” I said with a quiet sigh.
“Hey there, Ash!” he called out. “You did an absolutely fantastic job yesterday, of course. We need to go over your schedule for next week. Now, when are you done with classes?”
“Two more weeks, then a week of finals,” I told him. “Dad, I’m not going to have time for a full schedule…”
“Great! That gives us a little bit of prep time to get things worked out before you start officially,” Dad said. “Now I know there’s one day you don’t have any classes—Tuesday, is it? I’ll need you to come in during the morning, and plan on lunch in the company café. There are a lot of people who will be working under you, and they need to see your face a few times. After lunch we’ll go to the pro shop and get some clubs that are a better fit for you. The ones you were playing with last fall are way too short for my grown up girl!”
Dad laughed and continued his ramblings for at least ten minutes before I had a chance to say anything.
“Dad, I still have to finish school!” I finally cried into the phone. “It’s the final semester of my master’s. I have a thesis to finish and four final exams coming up. I’m not going to be able to be at the office that much, and I certainly won’t have time for golf!”
“Oh, Ashlyn.” Dad laughed again. “Don’t worry about all that stuff. You know I’m just excited to have you there. I’m going to retire in five years, and there’s so much for you to learn before then. I’m just excited the time is finally upon us!”
