His face scrunches up in confusion, but he doesn’t say anything about how strange my question is.
“I guess I would say you were a normal, happy young lady. As I said, I didn’t have to come out to the prison very often. You were a normal, healthy girl so there was no need for regular check-ups.”
There’s that word again, normal. It’s pathetic that it seems to be the common word used to describe me.
“And that seems to be the problem, Doctor. The things I’ve remembered, the memories that flash through my mind and wake me up in the middle of the night, tell me I was anything but normal. They show me that I probably wasn’t the good, perfect little daughter my parents like to keep reminding me of.”
Dr. Beall sighs and uncrosses his legs, pushing himself up from my bed to pace around my room.
“The mind is a tricky thing, Ravenna. It gets even more complicated when someone has suffered a head injury as you did. I know it’s frustrating, but you can’t always believe everything you see when your mind is still in the process of healing,” he explains. “Our minds can play tricks on us. Make us see things that aren’t really there or feel things we wouldn’t normally feel. It doesn’t mean your parents are lying to you about anything or that you suddenly woke up a completely different person.”
I bite my tongue to stop myself from screaming at him. I want to scramble off the bed and shove his old, slow-moving body right to the floor. I didn’t just wake up one morning a different person. I know with everything inside of me that I’ve always been this person. Why else would I feel so alive letting the anger consume me? A switch has been flipped and I no longer care about turning it off because I like feeling strong and in control of my life.
“The night of my accident, did my parents tell you what happened?”
He stops pacing and turns to face me. “Just the basics that I would need to assess the situation. Your father called my home around one in the morning, telling me you’d suffered an accident outside and you weren’t conscious. I got dressed and came right over. I checked your injuries, dressed the wound on your head and your mother assisted me in cleaning you up and putting you in dry clothes before we put you to bed. I was told you must have been sleepwalking and fell down out in the woods and your injuries matched that information. When I questioned you after you woke up, you couldn’t remember what happened, so there was no reason to think otherwise.”
It was pointless thinking this man could give me answers to my questions or fill in any blanks. He’s going along with whatever my parents told him and not bothering to think anything is strange about what happened. Why would he? Two seemingly loving parents who run a well-known business in town tell the good doctor their daughter was walking in her sleep and must have been clumsy. When the daughter wakes up and can’t confirm or deny their story, there’s no reason to argue it.
“Everything is going to be fine, Ravenna, you’ll see. Just rest your mind and you’ll be back to your old self in no time,” he tells me with a smile as he comes back to the bed, closes his black leather medical bag and moves to my door.
“I do believe I’m already back to my old self,” I mutter under my breath.
Dr. Beall stops with his hand on the door and looks back at me. “Did you say something, dear?”
I give him a fake smile and shake my head. He nods, pulling open my door and is just stepping out into the living room when another question pops into my mind. I jump up from my bed and jog to the doorway, stopping him at the top of the stairs.
“Dr. Beall, one last thing.”
He stops and turns, waiting for me to walk across the room to him.
“When I was little, around five, there was an accident here at the prison. I think it happened out at the lake and, according to my parents, ever since then I’ve refused to learn how to swim, and I’m terrified of the water,” I explain. “Do you remember anything about that? Did my parents call you out here to check on me?”
The doctor scrunches his nose and stares down at the floor while he thinks. After a few seconds, he shakes his head and looks back up at me.
“If I recall, you were around six years of age the first time I ever treated you. Now that I think about it, there used to be a full-time doctor on staff here at the prison. He not only attended to the inmates, but the warden and his family as well. I believe he was the one who delivered you and handled all of your medical care until I took over.”
I let out a frustrated breath, realizing I’ve hit another dead end. Dr. Beall tells me he’ll come back to check on me soon, and heads down the stairs. At the bottom, he suddenly stops and turns around.