Melinda scrubbed my scalp with industrial-smelling shampoo. At the salon Mom and I both went to, everything smelled of coconut and mint. Not here. This shampoo smelled like toilet cleanser and felt like that stuff Mom used to put on my cuts. I lay flat on the bed, head hanging off the bottom end, feet hidden under my pillow. Blood pooled in my head. I hoped the increased pressure wouldn’t cause any further damage.

Dr. Logan stood near the door while my parents paced around the room like newly caged animals. Viewing the scene upside-down was disorienting and dizzying, so I closed my eyes and listened to the conversation unfold as the nurse kneaded my scalp with her fingertips.

“We really need to get her home,” Mom explained to Dr. Logan. “The Internet says that a hospital is the worst place to be unless you’re really sick. It makes you sicker. Isn’t that right?” Dr. Logan cringed. Doctors must hate the Internet.

“And I’ve been speaking with insurance,” Dad said. “We stay here much longer and we won’t have a house for her to come home to anymore, we’ll owe so much money.” That was just like Dad. He probably had an Excel spreadsheet of our expenses for the past two weeks, including a category for the vending machine. I wondered if he planned on deducting it all from our taxes.

“Her EEG was normal, but I’m still concerned about the hand tremors. She became incredibly agitated both times,” Dr. Logan said.

I cleared my throat. Agitated? I flipped out. I had to be sedated. Sedated.

“She’s doing well. Really well,” Mom said. “I can handle things at home.”

I knew I wasn’t doing really well. I opened my eyes and made eye contact with Dr. Logan. I think he missed the message. I was upside-down, after all. Gravity made it impossible to contort my face into disbelief and panic. Or maybe I succeeded and Dr. Logan didn’t really know me well enough to translate the message.

“Let’s talk outside,” Dr. Logan said. The pacing stopped, my hair was rinsed and towel-dried, and I was left alone.

Ten minutes later, it was decided. I was going home. “You’re cleared by me,” Dr. Logan said. “Except for the ribs, of course, but that’s not my specialty anyway.” He winked. I narrowed my eyes. We sat around for the next four hours while the hospital processed the discharge papers. Mom read me the end of Catch-22. I learned that my rehab situation was indeed a Catch-22. I discovered another one, as well. Death is finite. Unless it’s not. In which case it wasn’t death in the first place. Just an absence of life.

Dr. Logan said I still had to come in for monthly consultations, with the potential for recurrent MRIs or EEGs, depending on my symptoms. I appeared to have escaped any lasting neurological damage, except for my hands, of course. My parents didn’t seem worried about the twitching. Dr. Logan acted like he thought it would eventually pass. I didn’t want to have an episode at school. I was already the smart kid. No need to be the smart kid with the freaky twitching hands.

When my parents left to find an edible meal in the cafeteria, I picked up the hospital phone and called the only number besides my own that I knew by heart.

“I’m coming home,” I said in halting syllables.

“Thank God,” Decker said. Either dread did not translate adequately over the phone, or Decker didn’t know me quite as well as I thought. “Don’t worry,” he added, “I’ll be there.”

I let out a sigh of relief and hung up before I said something I’d regret. Something like, I’m scared.

Dr. Logan came back to go over some documentation, outlining possible side effects to watch for. “Let’s not forget that Delaney is indeed a victim of traumatic brain injury. Don’t let her recovery fool you. Be on the lookout for headaches, fatigue, depression or anger, sleep disorders, memory trouble, and speech issues. That’s what therapy is here for.”

My parents nodded, half-listening, and signed the paperwork. Melinda eased me into my wheelchair.

“Last time,” she said. She tucked my hair behind my ear and pushed me down the hall. I said good-bye to the blue room, my home for the last week. In the lobby, my parents thanked Melinda for her care.

“Let me take it from here,” Dad said. He pushed me toward the exit, a narrow hallway with open double doors at the end. Mom put her hand on my shoulder as she walked. The afternoon sun reflected off the snow in a blinding light. My body and mind resisted. I wanted to stay. I wasn’t ready to go home. But they pushed me toward it, the light at the end of the tunnel.

Chapter 4

“Wake up, honey.” Mom’s voice roused me from unconsciousness. “We’re home.”