Restart - An Original Novella

Chapter VII {A Rush Of Blood To The Head} Part 2

Friday, May 6th

I have finally left the hospital after a month and thirteen days. It is now Friday the 13th, and I am driving in the back of a car reeking of fart and cheap perfume.

Talk about unlucky.

Driving this prison on four wheels is Mrs. Bloom, my therapist. She is trying way too hard to make small talk and say positive things to me, but I refuse to respond. I'm too busy thinking. She's told me that I'm going to a temporary home — somewhere I can stay before someone finds a place for me to live permanently — the household of the person who takes care of my parents' estate. I don't know anything about this person. I don't even know if it's more than one person, or even their gender.

Am I scared to ride in a car for the first time since the crash? Yes. Terrified. I don't think it's because I think Mrs. Bloom and I will get in another one, but my stomach is churning and my whole body is taut, and I don't even know why.

I am torn from my thoughts when I hear the beeping of a phone. "Sorry, I got a text," Mrs. Bloom says, sighing. "I'll look at it later, at a better time."

After a while, we pull up in front of a tiny, tidy home at the end of a cul-de-sac. Pots of flowers are placed on shelves and hanging from ledges. Vines slither on the brick of the walls, growing freely and looking surprisingly pretty. It has a porch and swinging bench stacked with books. Seeing books makes me strangely excited.

Mrs. Bloom helps me out of the car and offers me her hand to hold. I bristle. She acts like I'm a baby. "No, thank you," I say curtly, straightening myself so I look taller than her. My limp and slouch makes me look like a fool, but it's growing less and less noticeable. We walk up to the olive green door side by side.

It is opened after some difficulty by a middle-aged woman I immediately analyze. She has long, wavy brown hair that reaches halfway down her back, and warm brown eyes that immediately make me feel content.

This makes me scared and discouraged.

She wears an apron and a dress that is tight at her slim waist and puffy below it, like an outfit from a Laura Ingalls Wilder novel. Her fingers are covered with dough, and she holds a whisk.

"Oh, you must be Stephanie!" she cries, wiping her hands on the apron and holding one out to me, the one without the whisk. I take it tentatively and shake. "I'm sorry I'm so ill-prepared, my husband has a luncheon tomorrow and he asked me to cook something up. That door is always causing trouble, too. I think it has a problem with me. Come in! Do you like lemon tarts, Stephanie?"

She beckons us in with the whisk, smiling. I stare at her for a second, wondering if she's kidding. Then, deciding she isn't, I nod in answer to her question and walk in. I'm engulfed by the smell of baking sweets. My mouth waters and my stomach grumbles. It is only now that I realize I'm starving.

"Perfect! I'll be sure to give you both some. Please, take a seat."

The couches are covered decoratively in homemade fabrics. One piece of cloth is speared with needles, in the process of being finished. The detailing is intricate and meticulous, and I'm very impressed by how much time must have been put into making them. When I sit down, the couch is comfortable and plush.

"You don't have a problem with keeping Stephanie with you?" Mrs. Bloom asks the woman as if I'm not there.

The woman laughs. "I think the real question is if she wants to stay with me." She glances at me, looking for a response. This is nothing like how I'd expect her to answer that question. I shrug. A click is heard from the other side of a door. "That's the oven!" the woman says, standing up. "I'll return shortly." She opens the door, walks in, and disappears.