Leah Archer was just 12 years old when she hit her head on a rock and fell into a coma, one that doctors weren't sure she'd ever come back from. But when she wakes up four years later, she faces the struggle of recovery and fights to regain any hint...
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IT'S LIKE A tickle in my brain, like there's something more there but it's just out of reach of my grasping mind. I've seen him before the accident, before my coma, but I only really remember him from physical therapy.
His hair has been cut since then, but it still curls slightly onto his forehead. There's a strong emotion in his brown eyes that I can't decipher, but I'm sure it's over seeing his best friend reunited with his sister rather than just seeing me. His hands sit in the pockets of his gym shorts and his chest is adorned with some kind of football t-shirt. Maybe for the high school?
"I remember you from b-before," I start again, realizing that I never finished my thought before. "I saw you in the physical therapy room. You h-hurt your knee." My words seem to run together and it's hard to tell where one ends and the next begins, but I don't mind and neither does anyone else. Progress is progress.
The last month has been spent doing constant therapy, whether it's physical or mental, like speech and re-learning to read and write. I remembered writing in school before the accident, but as soon as I picked up a pencil it seemed like I had never written a word before. The spelling of simple words like "juice" and "hands" slipped my mind, and my letters were shaky and hard to distinguish. Reading was another thing altogether.
He chuckles. "Yeah, I remember you, giggling every time I saw you. And I did hurt my knee, but it's getting a lot better."
I smile and look back to my brother, who's also smiling. If possible, the sight makes my grin even wider. "I remember you t-too. I remember more now," I tell them and they all looked relieved.
My mom and dad have been in here for hours and it's nearly stifling, but I try and imagine how horrible the last four years must have been for them and I let them be. It's not their fault that they're trying to make up for lost time. I can't be inconsiderate.
Caleb looked almost nervous as he perched on the side of my bed, his eyes not on me and his mind obviously somewhere outside of this room. His fingers play with the hem of his own football t-shirt. The sole of his Nikes tapped a steady beat against the floor of my hospital room, and he seems unreachable.
My mom seems to notice his reluctance and grabs my father by the arm, and they have one of those silent conversations with their eyes. "How about your dad and I step outside for a minute, maybe go get some snacks from the cafeteria? You guys can talk for a bit."
Caleb was brought out of his reverie and nodded his head before our parents walked out the door, leaving Noah, Caleb and me alone in silence. I heard a quiet ding before Noah reached into his shorts and pulled out a rectangular phone–an iPhone. I had seen them before the accident, but they looked different now. My parents each had one, but they hadn't let me see them, and an idea popped into my head. "Can I s-see that?"
