Free Left Neglected by Lisa Genova Page B

I’ve been in meetings with CEOs, some of the most powerful men in the world, and could barely stay focused on what they were saying because I’d inadvertently touched my chin and become obsessed with the idea of destroying five microscopic hairs. I hate them, and I’m terrified of someone else noticing them before I do, but I have to admit, there is almost nothing more satisfying than pulling them out.
    I stroke my chin, expecting to feel my Little Pig beard, but touch only smooth skin. My leg feels like a farm animal, which suggests I haven’t shaved in at least a week, but my chin is bare, which would put me in this bed for less than two days. My body hair isn’t making any sense. I hear nurses’ voices in conversation coming from what I imagine is the hallway outside my room.
    I hear something else. It’s not the machine that may or may not be keeping me alive, not the nurses’ chatter, not even the faint buzz of the fluorescent light. I hold my breath and listen. It’s Bob’s snore!
    I turn my head, and there he is, asleep in a chair in front of the beige curtain.
    “Bob?”
    He opens his eyes. He sees me seeing him and pops upright.
    “You’re awake,” he says.
    “What happened?”
    “You were in a car accident.”
    “Am I okay?”
    He looks at the top of my head and then into my eyes and purposefully not at the top of my head.
    “You’re going to be fine.”
    His expression reminds me of what happens to his face when he’s watching the Red Sox. It’s bottom of the ninth, two outs, the count is 3 and 2, there’s nobody on, and they’re four runs down. He wants to believe that they can still win, but he knows they’ve probably already lost. And it’s breaking his heart.
    I touch the staples on my head.
    “They did surgery, to relieve the pressure. The doctor said You did really well.”
    His voice shakes as he says this. Not only are the Sox losing, they’re playing the Yankees.
    “How long have I been here?”
    “Eight days. They had you sedated. You’ve been asleep for most of it.”
    Eight days. I’ve been unconscious for eight days. I touch my bald head again.
    “I must look horrible.”
    “You’re beautiful.”
    Oh please. I’m about to tease him for being so corny when he starts crying, and I’m stunned silent. In the ten years that I’ve known and loved him, I’ve never seen him cry. I’ve seen him tear up—when the Red Sox won the World Series in 2004 and when our babies were born—but I’ve never seen him cry. I’m an easy crier. I cry watching the news, whenever anyone sings the National Anthem, when someone’s dog dies, when I get overwhelmed at work, when I get overwhelmed at home. And now when Bob cries.
    “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” I say, weeping with him.
    “Don’t be sorry.”
    “I’m sorry.”
    I reach over and touch his wet, contorted face. I can tell he’s struggling to pull his emotions back in, but he’s like a shaken bottle of champagne, and I just popped the cork. Only nobody’s celebrating.
    “Don’t be sorry. Just don’t leave me, Sarah.”
    “Look at me,” I say, pointing to my head. “Do I look like I’m going anywhere?”
    He laughs and wipes his nose with his sleeve.
    “I’m going to be fine,” I say with teary determination.
    We nod and squeeze hands, agreeing to a certainty we both know nothing about.
    “Do the kids know?” I ask.
    “I told them you’re away for work. They’re good, business as usual.”
    Good. I’m glad he didn’t tell them that I’m in the hospital. No need to scare them. I’m normally home with them for the hour or two before school and for the last hour of their day, but it’s also normal for there to be times when I have to work late and miss seeing them before they go to bed. And they’re also used to my frequent travel schedule and me being entirely away for many days at a time. Still, when I travel, I’m not usually gone for more than a week. I wonder how long I’d need to be here for