The day I was 'discharged' no thoughts of future therapies clouded my mood. I was the happiest man on earth. I was beaming as Shannie, Diane, and my father escorted me out of the Rehab's front door into the brisk December sunlight. Shannie's description of the freedom she feels the first twenty minutes after checking into a hotel room best fit my mood - the world held no ills. After going out for breakfast, we headed to the dead end I knew as Cemetery Street.
Steve Lucas visited that day. The five of us sat around the Ortolan's kitchen table. I was silent as spoken memories flew like snowflakes in a blizzard.
"Speaking of Count, how's his old man and Flossy doing?" Steve Lucas asked.
"I see Bear here and there. Flossy who knows? She turned into a recluse," Diane said.
"I saw her," I said breaking my silence.
Four sets of eyes turned their attention to me. "When did you see her?" my father asked.
"When Shannie showed me Count's grave. She was on the side porch staring at us. It was spooky. She didn't wave, did say anything - she just stared, and when she knew I saw her, she stomped into the house."
"Why didn't you say anything?" Shannie asked.
"I thought you noticed her. You notice everything," I said.
"Didn't see her," Shannie said.
"I think she blames me?"
"Why?" Diane asked.
"I don't know. But I feel it." I answered.
***
Steve Lucas spent a chunk of his Winter Break with me. Although he never said, I think he regretted doing so. He learned the craziness a traumatic brain injury can cause, like the night I imitated Nancy Kerrigan at the King of Prussia Mall. The mall was packed with Christmas shoppers. Frustrated with the crowd, I started screaming "Why me? Why me? Why me?" while drooling like an idiot. People got out of our way. I felt like Moses after parting the Red Sea.
He learned how fast I could succumb to fits of fury - an innocent comment could set me off on tirades that Steve said were reminiscent of my mother's. Two days after Christmas, Linda, one of my occupational therapists, stood talking with me outside the rehab when Steve pulled up. "You getting any of that?" Steve questioned as I closed the passenger door.
"Getting what?" I was in a bad mood.
"Jesus Christ Morrison, you're not that out of it. You're tapping it."