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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BEING BACK AT home was... different.
Don't get me wrong, it had been amazing to be reunited with my family and I was glad to finally be out of the hospital. There's nothing like waking up in your own bed, getting out of bed and spending the morning with loved ones. Being back at home was also bringing to the surface memories that I previously had no access to; making pancakes with my mom, catching a football in the backyard with my brother, playing dolls with Lindsay. It was just a calming atmosphere in general.
But it could also be a bit stifling.
I understood the reason for concern; I had just gotten out of the hospital and wasn't completely adjusted yet. It's harder than it looks to navigate a wheelchair through the house, and I often found the wheels caught on corners or furniture. Not being able to find my way was frustrating, so I usually stuck to just my room, the kitchen, or the living room. I hadn't even dared to venture upstairs.
Meeting Lindsay again was special in its own way. I was reunited with the sister I hadn't seen in four years and we got along great, but there were times when she seemed to pull away. Anytime I brought up something about the past or the hospital, she would fall silent, emotion turning in her eyes before changing the subject.
As for the rest of my family, it seemed like everyone was walking on ice. The natural comfortableness we all felt that first night seemed to dissipate as soon as Noah left. After dinner was over, the conversation seemed to still. Nobody seemed to know what to say, but the sideways glances I was receiving was enough to tell me that I was the cause.
Nobody wanted to say anything to set me off, but I wasn't the one dancing around the subject. I wasn't ashamed or scared or mad about what had happened to me, but I couldn't say the same for my family.
I wasn't fragile, but everyone seemed to think I was. I wanted to help clean up after dinner but I was quickly ushered to bed, told that my siblings would do it and that I needed to rest.
Even a week later, things were no different.
Laying in my room watching the fan spin, I let out a groan and closed my eyes. I could hear the rest of my family talking in the kitchen, everyone home because it was Saturday.
After lunch, everyone had sat down at the table to play a card game and I was excited to participate as well. But before the first hand was even dealt, my mother was ushering me to my room, telling me I needed to lay down for a nap.
Words could not explain how frustrated I was. On one hand, I could understand the concern of my parents and their desire to keep me safe and healthy. They had nearly lost me once and wanted to ensure that it wouldn't happen again. But I wasn't 12 anymore, and I didn't want to be treated like a child.
Another shout rose from the kitchen, followed by squeals of laughter. Letting out a sigh, I opened my eyes to look around my bedroom.
We had yet to go out to buy anything new for my room, my parents deciding that I was too fragile to go out in public yet. The white bookshelves remained empty, the closet only containing the clothes that had been bought for my stay in the hospital. With the desk and walks blank and empty, the room was depressingly impersonal. The hospital room felt more like home than this room.
