Free What Matters Most by Melody Carlson Page B

baby.”
    I didn’t say anything.
    “I’m talking about those Mexicans. They’re taking over down here.”
    I still didn’t say anything, but I did let out an exasperated sigh.
    “Don’t be so sensitive, Maya.”
    “I don’t like that kind of talk.”
    “Don’t go acting like I’m some kind of narrow-minded racist WASP, little girl. You know me better than that. Good grief, I married your father, didn’t I?”
    Okay, I’ve always wondered if she would’ve married a black man who wasn’t famous and wealthy. But I knew better than to open my mouth just then. I didn’t want to fight with her. There was a long pause, and I hoped that she’d hung up.
    “I thought you’d be glad to hear that I’m doing okay, Maya.”
    “I am glad, Shannon.” I tried to infuse warmth into my voice. “I really am. I think it’s great that you got a job and are in a treatment program. Really great.”
    “Thank you.” Her tone was still indignant.
    I wanted to add that I hoped she’d keep it up—work and rehab—but I knew better than to say that. Shannon’s been in treatment programs before, and they didn’t usually last too long. Still, I know there’s always a first time for the whole thing to kick into gear and really work. I hope and pray this is that time for her. We talked a bit more, and then I was relieved to hang up. I briefly considered changing my cell phone number. Not that it would matter since I’m sure she’d figure out how to track me down eventually.
    Then instead of feeling sorry for myself, I headed my car over to Marissa’s nursing home. Not that I was feeling particularly sorry for her. I mean, not any more than usual since I still struggle with balancing my irritation that she allowed such stupidity to waste her life against the fact that she is so pitiful and helpless now. To add insult to injury, if that’s possible—and I think it is—it’s depressing going to the nursing home to visit her.
    It’s like there’s a spirit of hopelessness at that place. Like you’re barely through the doors, and you just want to give up.You see all these old people in varying stages of Alzheimer’s and dementia, and it’s like you can smell death—literally smell it. As Marissa says: “Bad place.”
    When Marissa was in the hospital, she had more people (nurses, therapists, doctors, etc.) to encourage her and work with her, and somehow it just made her recovery seem more positive and possible. Now her recovery is beginning to feel like a long shot. But according to what I’ve read, a brain injury takes at least six months to heal and sometimes as long as two years—depending on how much it’s going to heal. On Monday, Marissa’s dad told me that she’s been elevated to Level 7, which is an improvement, but even so it’s a long way to Level 10, which is considered normal. Still, it’s only been a couple of months since the accident, so there’s hope she can keep improving, working her way up the brain ladder.
    But my hopes diminished as I entered the dreary building. As usual, it smelled like overcooked vegetables and Lysol…and other unpleasant things…and death. I always try to smile and look cheerful as I see wrinkled old people slumped in wheelchairs. One nearly bald woman smiled back at me today, and it seemed she wanted to talk. I said hello and asked how she was doing, but she got confused and frustrated when I wasn’t who she thought I was, and then she shut down. I continued on to Marissa’s room with a feeling of deep sadness, laced with anger. I need to get over it, but I still get mad when I think that none of this
had
to happen to Marissa, when I consider all the warnings we gave her—the oneswho loved her. How many times did we say she was risking too much? How many times did we caution her? Maybe we should’ve just locked her up until she turned thirty or until sensibility kicked in. She would be better off with a fully functioning brain in jail than the way she is in this