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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EVERYTHING AROUND ME is busier than it has been since I woke up. I haven't seen Miss Natalia in a few hours, simply because there were too many other people going in and out of my room. Nurses coming in, recording information from my charts, taking readings from various machines, a man delivering a smaller wheelchair, positioning it next to my bed. The reason?
I was going home tomorrow.
After nearly four years in the hospital and more than three months of being awake, I was allowed to return home permanently, even if I still couldn't really remember where home was.
Although I had seen my parents and Caleb a few times, they hadn't brought in my little sister to see me. I'm not sure if it was for my benefit or even hers, but I can't help but wonder if maybe she doesn't want to see me.
I lay in bed as people move around me; right now, there is someone reorganizing the cabinets in the corner while someone else is transferring information from my clipboard onto a computer. I'm pretty sure all my records are already digitalized, so this must be for some other research. I'm not really sure, and I don't really care.
They fiddle around for a few minutes before I am left in near silence for the first time this morning; the only sound comes from the TV that's mounted on the wall in front of me. My dad had set it to old SpongeBob reruns, one of the only things I recognized. It was currently the episode where he steals a balloon on free balloon day.
Not even fifteen minutes later, my door opens as Dad barges in, not wearing his doctor's coat. He smiles at me as he moves, opening up the blinds. I let out a groan.
My dad chuckles. "Rise and shine, kiddo. It's the middle of the afternoon and you haven't been up since your therapy appointment earlier."
I give another grunt, turning back to look at the screen. I've been particularly irritable these last few days, and I'm not sure why. My dad said it was probably one of my new medications, but I didn't like it. I had no reason to be upset, but for some reason, I was in a mood.
"Don't give me that," he snaps, and I'm not sure how he keeps his patience. He grabs the TV remote from its spot on my side table, flicking off the screen. "Come on, we've got some people to visit before you go. Get up."
I sigh, moving my arms behind me to push up my body, something I couldn't do just a month ago. My dad moves the small wheelchair next to my bed, and I use my arms to help out my other muscles, shifting my legs to the edge of the bed. Placing my feet flat on the ground, I stand for the second it takes me to turn around and for Dad to slide the wheelchair right under me. Letting out a grunt, I fall down into the chair.
"That wasn't so bad was it?" My only reply is a series of unintelligible grumbles and my dad chuckles again. "Alright, alright."
He pushed the chair out of the door, and I take a second to appreciate the new wheelchair. Since I had woken up, I had been using a temporary chair that belonged to the hospital. But with the news of my imminent discharge, I guess my parents had bought me my own. It was a children's wheelchair, meaning I no longer had to stretch to reach the armrests and my feet actually reached the foot rests.
