She had been incredibly stupid. Instead of using men like Rafael, and taking pride in it, they had been using her. They had wanted only her body, and that was what she’d given them, so exactly how had she been using them? They’d been willing to pay her and she’d been willing to be paid, so that had made her exactly what she’d always sworn she wasn’t: a whore. Not one of them, and especially not Rafael, had cared one whit if she had a thought in her head or any emotions or interests, likes or dislikes. Not one of them had seen her as a person, because none of them had cared, one way or another. She’d been completely disposable to them; the only value she’d had was a sexual one.
But they had held her cheaply because she’d held herself cheaply. She couldn’t remember a time in her life when she’d ever valued herself, when she had ever held herself to a higher standard. Not once as an adult had she ever made a decision based on what was right, what she should do; instead, she had gone for whatever paid her the most, benefited her the most. That had been her only criterion. Maybe most people also used that as the basis of their decisions most of the time, but they also went out of their way to help friends, they sacrificed their own material needs to provide for their children, or their aged parents, or they gave to charity or something. She’d done none of that. She had looked out for Drea-first, last, and always.
Now the harsh eye she turned on herself was merciless. She saw all of her faults, the basic dishonesty with which she’d lived her life. The only time-the only time-she hadn’t played a role was when she’d been with him, but she’d been too frightened then to hold the act together, and in any case, he’d already seen through her. He was the only man who ever had. Was that why she had such an over-the-top response to him, both emotionally and physically? She couldn’t say he’d broken her heart, because obviously she didn’t, hadn’t, couldn’t love him-hell, she didn’t even know his name!-but at the same time his rejection had hurt her more than anything except losing her baby, so obviously something had been there. But she didn’t know what-just something.
Alban. Dorky name; she’d never have named him Alban. But for there, that place, the name fit perfectly. She knew, without knowing how, that it was an old name, dating back centuries. And the woman…she hadn’t introduced herself, but her name was…Gloria. One by one, mentally reviewing the eleven people who had looked at her and decided whether or not she deserved a second chance, she knew their names as well as if they’d worn signs. Gregory, the undertaker. Gloria had used his name, so that one was obvious. But what about Thaddeus? And Leila? And all the others whose names sounded so gently in her head when she saw their faces?
In her mind she drifted between that world and this one. She didn’t want to leave that world, and she sure didn’t want to be in this one, with her constant companion, the Great Bitch. Her second chance wasn’t really at this life, it was a second chance to earn that life. If she wanted that, then she had to do this.
It came down to good decisions and bad decisions, she thought as she drifted. Bad decisions were everywhere. Making one was easy, like picking fruit off the ground. The good decisions were mostly the ones that were difficult, like climbing a tree to get to the fruit at the very top. Yet sometimes the good decision was right there, lying on the ground in front of her, and all she’d have had to do was bend over and pick it up. But instead, she’d looked around and picked a bad decision-sometimes even going out of her way to get it. That was how wrong-headed she’d been.
Making good decisions didn’t mean being a saint. That was lucky, because even with her new knowledge she didn’t think she could ever reach that level. In fact, she was beginning to feel cranky about this whole business. Okay, she’d try. She’d try like hell, which maybe was a bad analogy, but she wanted to go back to that place, she wanted to see Alban again. She wasn’t his mother there, she understood that, but for too short a while they had shared the closest of connections, her body giving him life, and she wanted to feel the echo of that love again.
Her thoughts were interrupted time and again by the hospital staff, who were growing more and more perturbed by her lack of speech. The nurses constantly asked her questions, talked to her, even gave her a notebook and pen to see if she could write. She could, but she didn’t. She had no desire to write anything, just as she had no desire to speak. She simply stared at the pen in her hand until they gave up and took it away.
The surgeon, against whom she still held a big grudge, shone a bright light in her eyes and asked questions, none of which she answered. She didn’t even punch him while he was that close, though she thought about it.
The surgeon called in a neurologist. They did an EEG on her and discovered her synapses, or whatever, were firing wildly. They did a brain scan, looking for damage that would explain her loss of speech. They discussed her, standing right outside her cubicle, as if the sliding glass door wasn’t open and she couldn’t hear every word.
“The medics made a mistake,” the neurologist said flatly. “She couldn’t have been dead. If she’d been without oxygen that long, she would, at the least, have significant brain damage. Even allowing for the most extreme variables, and we’ve both seen cases like that, if she had no heartbeat and no oxygen for an estimated hour, for God’s sake, there’s no way she could come through without any brain damage at all. I don’t see anything that would explain her lack of speech. Maybe she couldn’t speak before; maybe she’s deaf. Have you tried ASL?”
“If she were deaf, she’d be using sign language herself, trying to communicate,” the surgeon said drily. “She doesn’t. She doesn’t use another language, she doesn’t try to write or draw pictures or even indicate she hears us. If I had to compare it to something, I’d say this complete lack of communication is symptomatic of autism, which I don’t think she has because she makes almost constant eye contact, and she does everything the nurses want her to do. She understands what we say. She cooperates. She just doesn’t communicate. There has to be a reason.”
“Not that I can see.” She heard the neurologist heave a sigh. “The way she looks at people…it’s almost as if we’re another life form and she’d studying us. We don’t try to communicate with bacteria. It’s like that.”
“Right. She thinks we’re bacteria.”
“She wouldn’t be the first patient to feel that way. Look, my recommendation is you call in a psychologist. What happened to her was traumatic, even by our standards. She may need help getting over it.”
Traumatic? Had it been? What had come before had been traumatic as hell, but her actual death…no. She couldn’t remember being impaled. She knew it had happened, had that hazy memory of seeing herself, but all in all she was glad she’d died, because otherwise she wouldn’t have seen Alban, she wouldn’t have known that wonderful place existed, that there was something else waiting out there. This life wasn’t all there was; there was more, much more, and when people spoke of death as “passing” they were exactly right, because the spirit passed on to that other level of existence. Knowing that was the most comforting thing she could imagine.
So a psychologist, Dr. Beth Rhodes, came several times to talk to her. She said to call her Beth. She was a pretty woman, but there was trouble in her marriage and she was truly more concerned with that than she was about any of her patients. Drea/Andie-or was it Andie/Drea? Which one was first, now?-thought Dr. Beth should take some time off and concentrate on what was important, because she loved her husband and he loved her, and they had two kids to consider, so they should really get their shit together and work things out, and then Dr. Beth would be able to give her full attention to her patients.