Broken Grace
Authors: E.C. Diskin
ALSO BY E.C. DISKIN
The Green Line
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Text copyright © 2015 E.C. Diskin
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of
Amazon.com
, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781503946187
ISBN-10: 1503946185
Cover design by Ben Gibson
For Jim
CONTENTS
ONE
G
RACE’S HANDS SHOOK AS SHE TRIED
to put the key in the ignition
.
She looked back at the house, threw the gear in reverse, and backed out of the drive, the tires spitting up gravel. Shifting into drive, she slammed her foot on the accelerator and flew down the road.
The neighborhood was quiet, the sun still hidden, just an orange and pink glow rising through the barren trees. The car bounced over the railroad tracks, jolting her body into the air, smacking her head against the roof. She slowed as she reached Red Arrow Highway and made a right onto the empty road.
Breathe.
She needed to get to the police. She glanced back, but there was no one following. She faced the road ahead. Which way was the station? Her fingers, gripping the wheel, tingled, turning white. She shook her hands, one at a time.
Breathe.
She scanned the rearview mirror. There. The car was several hundred yards back—but it would catch up. As she floored it, watching the gauge climb, a deer darted out from the trees. She slammed on the brakes and wrenched the wheel hard left, but it was too late. The massive animal flew up; his body crushed the hood, his antlered head smashing into the windshield while she veered across the highway.
She felt the tires leave the pavement and power over the frozen ground. She went for the brake again but pressed the accelerator. Her body jerked as the car rushed forward over rocks and hollows. Her head whacked the driver’s-side window so hard she heard it crack.
She tried to focus, but the windshield was a blur of shattered glass. And then she hit something—like a brick wall—launching the deer from the hood. Her body rocketed forward into the steering wheel. Suddenly, cold air enveloped her. Everything went dark. The only warmth came from something oozing down her forehead.
She understood, in the abrupt silence, the finality of this moment. She was not meant to survive. She closed her eyes and felt the pain dissipate, the trickle of cool, soft feathers on her skin that melted upon contact. She opened her eyes one last time. Snowflakes. Big, airy, lake-effect flakes. And then it was as if she just floated away.
TWO
Eight days later
G
RACE SAT ON THE EDGE OF
A CHAIR
near the bed, dressed in clothes a stranger had brought her, and waited. The walls of her sterile room matched the blank canvas of her mind. She had stared at the white ceiling tiles for days—at the thousands of tiny holes in each square that must have allowed air and sound and matter to breathe—but they held no answers. And now it was time to leave. Outside the window, the world beyond this little box was whitewashed, almost frozen in time, the only indication of life coming from puffs of smoke rising out of a nearby chimney stack.
Dr. Roberts entered, open laptop in hand, and smiled. “Big day, huh, Grace?”
She slowly stood to greet him. “I guess,” she said in a barely audible voice. She cleared her throat and repeated the words. His light blue eyes and that dimpled chin had been a comfort all week, his tone and smile always able to calm her. But today she noticed rounded shoulders, dark spots on his forehead, pronounced bags under his eyes, and the mostly white stubble of a five-day-old beard. He was old and tired. He was ready to be rid of her.
“I know you’re nervous,” he said, closing the computer. “But what you really need right now is rest and time. You can do that at home.”
Home. If only that meant something.
“Now, let me take a look here.” He patted the bed for Grace to sit and put the laptop aside. She moved with caution, trying to minimize the strain to her ribs. Dr. Roberts gently guided her chin to her chest and checked the stitches in her scalp. “All is well here. How’s the headache today?”
“It was pretty bad an hour ago, but it’s a little better now.”
When she’d woken and realized what was missing, the doctors explained that, among other things, she had a large gash in her head that had required a dozen stitches. Her response was an incoherent mumble, but inside, she’d screamed. She felt sure this gaping hole in her head had allowed everything she’d ever known to spill out.
Dr. Roberts lifted her chin and looked into her eyes with his tiny flashlight. “Good. Now take a deep breath,” he instructed, listening with the stethoscope.
She winced from the strain.
“Yeah, the ribs are going to hurt for a bit longer, but your lungs sound good.”
No one was paying attention to the real problem. The nurses and doctors had come in all week, checking machines and tubes and looking into her eyes and listening to her chest and examining her wounds, but no one focused on the massive black hole in her mind. She’d searched the contents of the small purse beside her bed, examining the driver’s license and crumpled receipts for answers, but nothing helped. Even the cell phone failed to bring the world into focus. It held no photos, no notes, no texts. It was nearly as empty as she was. Only a few names in the contacts: Lisa, Dave, Michael. No last names.
Nurse Molly entered wearing her teddy bear–covered scrubs; those squeaking pink sneakers; and that big, fat, stupid perma-grin, with her curly bottle-red hair pulled into pigtails like a little girl. Leaving Nurse Molly was the only benefit to today’s agenda. Finally, she could say good-bye to that relentless smile and incessant chatter about every reality show on TV. The nurse took Grace’s temperature for the hundredth time.
“Ninety-eight point six,” she said to Dr. Roberts. “You’re getting out just in time for church, honey.” Even the word
church
conjured confused images of the many churches Grace had seen, though she had no idea if these pictures were her own memories or remnants from books or television or movies. Did she even go to church? Was she a Christian? Maybe the answers were somewhere outside these white walls.
“You can’t possibly want to stay here,” the nurse said, wrapping Grace’s arm to check her blood pressure. “After a week? You’ve got to be ready for some real food. Apple pie, mac and cheese, ice cream . . .”
Grace had the sudden desire to slap that stupid expression off Nurse Molly’s freckled face. She imagined the shock it would cause the irritating woman and smiled.
The nurse obliviously smiled back, patted Grace’s knee, and gave the “all good,” before busying herself with more exit procedures.
“I still feel like I’ve been hit by a truck,” Grace said to Dr. Roberts, who was typing notes into her chart.
Nurse Molly responded before the doctor could. “Well, it’s probably not much different than a truck. If I were you, I’d be going to church today, thanking God for watching over me. You should thank him for protecting that beautiful face of yours. You’re a lucky young lady.”
Grace ignored her. The doctor took Grace’s hand in his. “You’ve been through a major trauma, and it’s going to take some time. But everything looks good in there,” he said, pointing to her head, “and I feel confident that this is a temporary situation. Just take it easy this week. I want to see you in my office next Monday. We’ll determine where things are and make a long-term plan. Okay?”
One week. It sounded like an eternity. She nodded.
“I know this must be scary, but you need to rest and let your sister take care of you. It’s the best thing for you right now.”
Grace looked at his eyes, her only comfort. “I don’t even know her.”
He squeezed her hand before letting go. “Yes, but she knows you. It’ll help to be home.”
As if on cue, a knock sounded at the open door, and Dr. Roberts and Nurse Molly turned and smiled. Grace slowly turned as well, trying to avoid straining her ribs. Lisa smiled, raising her coffee as a greeting, an extra coat draped over her other arm. She’d obviously overheard the conversation. “Besides that, your insurance won’t cover any more days, so there’s really no choice, sis.”
Lisa had come to see Grace every day. She’d brought her clothes, a toothbrush, even an old blanket that she swore Grace had cuddled with for twenty years, but nothing about her felt familiar. She’d sat at her bedside speaking softly and slowly, like Grace was a fragile doll, and even held her hand when Grace was trying to sleep. She’d stared into her eyes, as if doing so might cause a spark, and didn’t seem fazed by Grace’s reluctance to connect. When Grace would pull back, shift focus, or give a clipped response, Lisa would smile, just as a preschool teacher dealing with a difficult child might, and say, “It’s okay, Grace. This must be so weird.”
Looking into Lisa’s eyes felt a little like drowning in deep pools of water, so Grace focused instead on the mascara-covered lashes; the thick, dark liner; and how her dramatic features and porcelain, almost translucent skin reminded her of a Tim Burton movie character. (She could name at least five Tim Burton movie titles, she realized, though the titles existed in her mind as facts, unattached to any memories.) The idea of being released into Lisa’s care put her on edge.
Lisa clomped into the room in her chunky heels and oversized, all-black ensemble, bringing with her the scent of cigarettes and a jarring, almost blinding energy, as if the day’s agenda were worthy of celebration. Grace studied her face. It held no answers.
Dr. Roberts began rambling on about the medication schedule—the Norco for pain, Seroquel for agitation, Ambien for sleep issues. It was difficult to focus on his words. “People with TBIs often have trouble sleeping,” he said, talking more to Lisa now, “and she might be forgetful and foggy. There are some side effects like dizziness and blurred vision . . .” Her head was starting to throb again.
Nurse Molly rolled a wheelchair into the room and helped Grace into it while Dr. Roberts continued. “The goal is for Grace to get a lot of rest this week. It’s probably the best thing for her injuries.” Finally he turned back to Grace. “No activity, okay? And absolutely no driving. These are pretty strong meds, and your reaction times are going to be slower for a while.”
“Got it, Doc,” Lisa said. “I need to work a lot this week, since I spent so much time here last week, but I’ll be with her as much as possible.”
Dr. Roberts nodded. “Hopefully she’ll spend most of her time sleeping. But please check in with her every so often.”
“Will do,” Lisa said. “And there’s no chance of driving.” She looked at Grace. “Your car was totaled.”
Grace felt no comfort at the thought of leaving with this woman, but no one else seemed to care.
“And what do you think about the memory loss?” Lisa asked.
“I’m hopeful that it’s temporary and related to the brain injury.” Dr. Roberts turned to Grace then. “Be patient. Your brain has been through a major trauma. You need to give it some time. And if you remember things, write them down. Take some notes. It’s a process.”
He put his hand on Lisa’s shoulder. “You can help by keeping track of her meds—be sure she’s taking them, make notes of any side effects, anything you notice about how she’s doing. Call if you need me; otherwise, we’ll adjust anything when I see you next week, okay?”
Grace didn’t look up into the doctor’s face; it hurt her neck and head to move. She lifted her arm toward the stitches on her head. “What about this? Can I take a shower?”
“Sure. But be careful. If you’re dizzy, let’s stick to baths.”
“Got it,” Lisa answered. “Now, it’s freezing out there, sis,” she said, offering the extra coat. With Nurse Molly’s help, she put the coat on Grace, then wheeled her toward the elevator. The nurse came running out of the room behind them. “Don’t forget this stuff, sweetie.” She loaded Grace’s lap with her purse and a bag filled with the clothes they’d removed when she came into the ER. “Good luck, hon,” she added before squeaking away.
The sisters sat in silence as Lisa maneuvered out of the hospital parking lot and onto the city street. Grace examined the road signs and scanned the buildings.
“What are you thinking about?” Lisa asked.
“Nothing looks familiar.”
“Well, that’s not surprising. This is Kalamazoo. You’ve probably never been up here before. But it was the closest Level One Trauma Center.”
“How far are we from home?”
“About an hour and a half. You might as well rest.” Lisa wriggled out of her heavy coat, turned on the radio, and pulled onto the expressway.
The music was too loud, compounding the pain inside Grace’s head, but she feared the questions and the energy of this woman, and the song seemed to distract her: Lisa was tapping the steering wheel to the beat, humming along with the heavy rock tune, completely absorbed. Grace couldn’t help but stare as Lisa brushed her wild, shaggy black hair away from her eyes. Grace had spent a lot of time examining herself in the hospital mirror: the square of her jaw; the shape of her brows; the variations of brown, and a few streaks of something lighter, in her hair. This woman seemed so different—shorter, smaller, her face narrower, her nose thinner, her eyes darker, her skin lighter. She wondered if the hospital had asked for proof that they were sisters.
Lisa’s fingernails, chewed and chipped, were painted black, multiple earrings hung from her ears, and the top of a tattoo was visible on the side of her neck. It was a tough facade, but her wrists were tiny, as if all of this were armor for something more fragile.
Grace examined her own hands. Her nails also looked chewed, but her wrists were a tad bigger, her skin a little freckled. And scarred. Dozens of small scars—straight lines, like hash marks—on her forearm. Lisa must have seen her looking, but when Grace glanced over, she turned her gaze back to the road without comment.
Grace stared out the window at the passing cars, noting the license plates: mostly Michigan, but sometimes Indiana, and even a couple Illinois. She rubbed her earlobes, massaging the tiny hard bits of cartilage that confirmed her own piercing. Lisa stopped singing. “What is it?”
Grace put down her hands. “I’m just trying to remember.”
Lisa laid her hand on Grace’s and interlocked their fingers. “Don’t worry. It’ll come. Everything will be okay.”
Grace stared at their entwined hands, a gesture of intimacy that felt contrived. She pulled away, and Lisa continued singing along to the music. She actually had a nice voice.
“Joan Jett,” Grace said abruptly.
Lisa turned down the music. “What?”
“You remind me of Joan Jett. She’s a singer, right?”
Lisa smiled. “You remember Joan Jett? How random is that? Is it the hair?”
“I guess. I just heard you singing and her name popped into my brain.”
“That’s kinda crazy. Mom used to sing Joan Jett all over the house when we were young. She’d belt out that song ‘I Love Rock ’n’ Roll.’ You remember?”
Before Grace could respond, Lisa began singing the lyrics, and suddenly Grace was sorry she’d mentioned it. She feigned recognition and turned to view the passing landscape, desperate for this to end. “So I’m in school?”
Lisa reached for a cigarette before responding. “Do you remember school?” The car lighter popped, and Lisa lit the cigarette, inhaling deeply.
“No, I just figured, because the doctor said I was twenty.”
Lisa exhaled into the open slit of her window. “Wow, you really are a blank slate. Yes, you’re a student and you wait tables. But don’t worry, it’s winter break, so you don’t have classes for a few weeks, and I called the restaurant already. They’ve taken you off the schedule until you’re ready to come back. Everyone wanted me to tell you that they hope you’re feeling better soon.”
“And what about you? Are you a student too? I don’t even know how old you are.”
Lisa chuckled. “No way. School was never my thing. I’m twenty-seven. I manage a bakery in Bridgman.”
Grace nodded slightly and turned her attention back to the flat, desolate road surrounded by woods. Her neck ached from looking left. She tried to get comfortable and rest her head against the cold window.
“I’m sorry I have to work a lot this week, but I took off so much time to be with you last week.”
“It’s no problem,” Grace said, grateful that there would be a break in the questions, the stares, the small talk.
“But I’ll do what I can to make things easy for you, okay? And I can bring home some pastries and fresh bread. So that’s not bad, right?”
Grace offered a fake smile and a nod, still gazing at the trees outside. Her focus dulled, the trees became a blur, and then it was impossible to keep her eyes open.
