Cemetery Street, John Zunski [read any book TXT] 📗

she? Why is she sleeping in my room?
I studied her face, turning its features over in my mind, prying through its recesses for a slightest hint. Her bright green eyes flew open.
“James,” She whispered.
I smiled thinking who is James?
“James,” she said louder. “Oh my God,” she cried bolting up in her chair. “Just James you’re awake!”
I don’t know why, but my heart raced as she climbed out of the chair.
“Nurse!” she cried. She stood next to me clicking a button. “Oh my God, Just James, you’re awake. Oh my God. Thank God. I can’t believe it! Oh my God!”
The door flew open and the room was flooded with light. “He’s awake,” the blonde cried. “He’s out of it! He’s awake!”
“Welcome back James,” another woman said while gazing at the screen with the green squiggly lines.
I smiled and looked back at the blonde woman. “Damn it Just James, you scared us shitless.” She brushed the hair from my forehead.
“I did?” I whispered. Why would this stranger care? Whatever the reason, I delighted how my forehead came to life with her touch. Something about it was familiar, but I couldn’t place it; something about her was familiar, but I didn’t understand how.
“Yeah you did,” the familiar stranger answered. She bent over and kissed my lips. “God, I love you Just James,” the stranger said.
A starburst of warmth exploded throughout my body. I smiled. Exhausted, I closed my eyes.
“James?” the blonde’s voice pleaded, it had an edge of panic.
“Yeah?” I struggled to open my eyes.
“He’s okay,” The nurse said. “James, are you tired?”
“Yeah,” I whispered.
“Shannie, why don’t you call James’ father,” the nurse said as I drifted off to sleep.

I awoke to doctors and nurses prodding my body. “Hello,” a young faced doctor said as I opened my eyes. He said his name was something or another and that he was a neuro-something. Even now, I can’t remember his name. My father reminds me his name is Dr. LaPish. “What’s your name?” the doctor asked.
“Ah…” I stuttered. “James,” I guessed.
“James what?” the doctor grilled.
“Uh, um,” I stalled. I couldn’t remember my name. “It’s James. Just James,” I said.
“Do you remember what happened, why you’re here?”
“Swimming, I was swimming, put I was pulled out.”
The doctor frowned. I sunk into my pillow. “I wasn’t swimming, but it was wet,” I continued.
“Do you know where you are?” The doctor asked.
I thought very hard for an answer: “In a hospital.”
“Do you know what hospital you’re in?” I shook my head no. The doctor told me my last name was Morrison and that I was in a serious car accident. He told me the name of the hospital.”
If you say so, I thought. Grimacing, I tried to memorize what he said.
“Rest up bud.” He patted my arm and escaped the room.
“James Monroe?” I mouthed, trying to remember my last name. Frustration consumed me, I knew my last name wasn’t Monroe, but I couldn’t remember what the doctor said. I remembered him saying I was in an accident and that I was in Pot town Hospital. Not thinking to read the name on my wristband, I slammed my head against the pillow. Pondering my name I fell asleep.

“Watch,” the blonde’s voice resonated. “Look at James’s heart rate. Whenever I come into the room it speeds up. It did it when he was in the coma; it’s still happening, isn’t that cool?”
I opened my eyes. Two vaguely familiar people were in the room with the blonde. They stopped talking and turned their attention to me. “James, you gave us quite the scare,” an older good-looking lady said. She looked like the younger blonde, but wiser, more weathered, the first hint of crow’s feet etched the corner of her eyes. Her hair wasn’t as wild but she was dressed much more seductively, wearing a low cut blouse that tied between raised and tucked breasts. Though I couldn’t define cleavage, I knew what I saw. I’m convinced the older blonde’s attire guided me through the first step of a long and painful recovery.
The other person, an unremarkable male, who would have blended into the wall if the other two didn’t prod him, spoke: “How are you son?” He patted my arm. For weeks I struggled to describe my father, especially in the shadow of the older blonde. How do you describe a white wall on which a masterpiece hangs?
During the following days, after I was moved into an ordinary room, life resumed with some semblance of routine. Physical therapy was heaped upon physical therapy; on occasion Dr. Whatever his name, the neurologist, had me put square pegs in square holes.
At night, either of the blondes or my father visited, always at least one of them, sometimes two, and once even the three. I complained that I didn’t understand why I was in the hospital. “Why are they keeping me prisoner?” I questioned the younger blonde. “I want to get out of here,” I complained to my father. “I’d heal faster at home,” I reasoned with the older blonde.
“Where is home?” she asked.
“Home is home,” I answered. I hadn’t a clue.
“Be honest doctor, what’s James’ prognosis?” I heard the older blonde ask Dr. Whatever. She cornered him just inside my room. She thought I was asleep.
“None of James’ superficial injuries pose any problems. The arm fractures should heal, his knees are banged up, he will require physical therapy – maybe additional surgery. His brain injury has me concerned. A prognosis, at this stage - it’s too early to say. We’ll be transferring James to Lenape Valley Rehab. They have a great brain injury unit. Then we can evaluate the damage and begin recovery.
Fuck them, I’m not brain damaged. I’m not a sped, I thought.
“James’ injury, is a classic case of closed head injury. His skull wasn’t pierced. The brain jury occurred as his head struck the windshield. When this happened his brain slammed at a very high velocity into his skull. The collision caused numerous bruises and tore numerous blood vessels. I’m concerned that the rapid movement may have stretched neuronal axons.”
“What would that do?” the older blonde asked.
“Worst case, a permanent effect on his fine motor control, up to and including paralysis.”
The older blonde sighed.
“Neuronal axons are threads that link cells to one another throughout the brain and from the brain to the rest of the body. Widespread axonal injuries can disrupt communication between brain regions and also between the brain and the body. An injury like James’ has a tendency to effect broad areas of functioning.”
“Can you tell? Are they’re any tests you can give him?”
“No. We don’t have a test that can detect this type of diffuse damage. All we can do is pay close attention to his motor functions. As we get further along a clearer picture will emerge. James will have to relearn many basic living skills. We can’t be sure how the brain injury will affect his personality. An injury like his can damage systems that control our social-emotional lives. The ramifications may be very difficult. James’s personality can change subtly or drastically.”
I didn’t remember that explanation, that’s what Diane told me.
My last day in the hospital began like every other. With the help of a nurse I walked behind a wheelchair, pushing it up and down the hallway. As I approached the waiting room, the younger blonde’s voice drifted into the hallway. Hearing my name I stopped and listened. “James may have mood swings. He may show dependant behavior, irritability, lethargy. The doctor says he could be uninhibited. He may not be able to modify his behavior to fit the situation.
“You just described James before his accident. Maybe this will knock some class into him.”
“Geezus Pete Genise! You can be such a bitch!”
“What’s the big deal?”
I pushed the wheelchair into the waiting room. “YOU! THE DEVIL WITH TITS! OUT! GET OUT! GET THE FUCK OUT!” I bellowed. The fiend grinned at me as I rumbled towards her. She tucked her legs into her chest as I crashed the wheelchair into the side of her chair. It tipped over and spilled her onto the floor. I backed the wheelchair up, ready to again ram it into the overturned chair. She scrambled to get out of harm’s way. The blonde placed herself between the beast and me.
“James! Stop it!” The blonde commanded. With all her might she leaned into the front of the wheelchair. Her eyes blazed, their glare disarmed me. Arms wrapped around me, restraining my movement.
“It’s alright James,” the nurse’s said. “Come on, let’s go back to your room.”
“Yeah lets, you retarded asshole,” the beast’s voice cried.
“Shut up Genise!” Shannie barked.
“Yeah, Shut up Genise,” I laughed all the way to my room.

That afternoon I was transferred to Lenape Valley Rehab. I wanted out of the hospital so bad that I correlated my release with my violent outburst. Act like an asshole, be released, I thought. In retrospect, I figured the brain injury allowed my mother’s genetics to run wild. I’m positive that if I’d had a glass drinking container during my stay at Lenape Valley, it would have been smashed against a wall.
I was clueless of the rigors I was about to experience. Never in my life did I feel such psychical pain and mental frustration as I did during the thirteen weeks I spent as an inpatient. There’s no joy like having to relearn colors, multiplication tables, or the difference between vowels and consonants.
“Are you my mother?” I asked the older blonde.
“No,” Diane repeated for the thousand time from the chair aside my bed. Even though I was in a rehab, it felt like a hospital. My bed was a hospital bed, doctors and nurses still made annoying visits.
“Who is?” I asked.
“Mary Morrison,” Diane stated.
“Oh.”
“Who are you again?”
“I’m a friend of you and your father’s.”
“Oh.”
“Where’s my mother?”
“I don’t know. She ran away,” Diane told me.
“Really?” I turned my attention to the little TV on the end of a long arm. “Who’s the girl with the blue eyes? I pointed to the picture of the serious faced girl sitting against the monument.
“They’re green eyes,” Diane corrected.
“Oh,” I mumbled.
“She’s your best friend. Do you remember her name?”
I searched across the expanses of my mind. Frustrated and embarrassed, I turned my head away from Diane. From the television, laughter showered down upon me. I rolled to my side, pulling the cover over my head. After a long silence I turned back towards Diane. “J-Jenny, Jenny.”
“No. That isn’t it.”
“Yes it is.” I was positive Diane was lying. She was part of something bigger to keep me in prison.
“You’re close, her name ends in –nie.”
“You sure it’s not Jenny?” I asked my tormentor.
“I’m sure.” Sitting up in her chair she said. “Read my lips, her name is, Shay-knee.”
“Shay-knee, Shay-knee,” I repeated - willing myself to remember.
A few days later, Diane asked me the name of the girl in the picture. “Ja...” I began. “Ah, it’s something knee,” I mumbled. Then Diane performed a miracle, in her hand was a cup of coffee. She undid the lid and ran the cup under my nose, filling my senses with the smell of freshly ground coffee. “Shannie, Her name is Shay-knee.”
“Shannie.” I took another whiff.
After Diane left, as I lay on the edge of sleep, I reached for the cold cup of coffee that she’d left behind. After struggling to pop off the lid, I inhaled. Memories of Shannie washed over me like a warm shower. I fell asleep with the image of Shannie and