Broken Hearts and a Small Glass of Lemonade

16

1 Day Later:

I'm starting to realize things.  Things I never realized before.  The white trim on the door jams, the books lining the north wall, and the small desk right beneath the window. I realize now, that I must have loved spending time in my bedroom before the accident because there's art all over the place.  Small color drawings of fairies holding flowers in their hands, huge trees towering over meadows, and, the one that surprises me most, is a small pencil sketch of the woman and me.  How can I have drawn the woman's face so exactly and not remember her at all?

The therapist, who followed me in to my bedroom, leans over my shoulder and takes a peek at the pencil sketch.  She smiles.

"You can do it again, you know.  If you let me teach you some things--"

"You won't give up, will you?" I turn to her.  "Why are you still here?  Can't you see that I don't want your help?"

She looks hurt for a second before shrugging it off.  "I'm only here because your mother wants me here."

"You call that a mother?" I ask, pointing out the doorway.  "She hardly speaks to me, and when she does, she yells."

"Give her time," the therapist says after thinking.  "It's just as hard for you to lose your arm as it is for her to lose her daughter.  After all, you don't remember anything about her."

"She doesn't give me the time of day to find out," I huff.  The therapist walks away and then comes back.

"Maybe she's waiting for you to take the first step," she hints.  After she's gone, I sit and think about what she's said.  Maybe I should take the first step.