Wake Up Missing (4 page)

“DC? My hockey team went to the Smithsonian when we were there for a tournament once!”

“No.”

“Oh. Washington State?”

“Yeah.”

“That's cool. So how'd you get your concussion? I got checked
into the boards playing hockey. This girl was absolutely huge, and she was flying. Do you play sports?”

“No.”

Elena came to the table with a tray of orange juice and gave us each a glass.

“Thanks,” I said. She just smiled.

Sarah poked Ben. “Well, if you don't play sports, what
do
you like?”

“Riding horses.”

“I should have guessed that from your magazine, huh? Do you have a horse?”

“Yes.”

“So how'd you get here?”

Ben finally looked up again. “Dude, were you not right there when we pulled up on the airboat? Or was that some other annoying skinny girl on the dock?”

“Hey,” Quentin said quietly, spreading cream cheese on his untoasted bagel. “She's trying to be friendly.” It should have made me happy that he was standing up for Sarah, but somehow, it made me sad. I stared at him, wondering why. “We're going to be here together a while. We might as well be friends.”

Then I figured it out. Quentin was that kid I
used
to be before middle school—the one teachers chose to show new students around because they'd always be kind to kids like Amberlee. Maybe when—

“Look, this ain't summer camp.” Ben slammed his magazine on the table, and his tray jumped. “I'm not here to make friends and learn archery. I'm here to get better so I can ride again.”

“That's why we're all here, Mr. Personality. Besides, I wasn't asking how you
traveled
here; I was asking what happened. Like my hockey crash.” She put a hand to the left side of her head as if talking about it brought back the pain. “This is my second concussion, so my doctor said no more hockey for the rest of the year at least.”

“Well,” I said, “this place is supposed to work wonders.” I hoped it was true. For Sarah and for me. “The website makes it sound like you end up smarter than you were before your concussion.”

“Yeah.” Sarah let out a sharp laugh. “I think that's what my parents are hoping.”

“So, um . . . Sarah already knows this. But I got hurt playing football,” Quentin said.

“He's on the school team. You play quarterback, right?” The bounce in Sarah's voice was back.

“Yeah.” He hesitated, then sat up a little straighter. “Quarterback.”

“You get sacked or what?” Ben asked, finally peeling his orange.

“Uh, kind of. I went down pretty hard. I still get headaches, and sometimes when I'm doing my math homework, I can't remember stuff, you know? Like I'm supposed to have the information and it's probably in my brain somewhere, but it feels like everything got knocked out of place.”

Sarah shrugged. “My brain always feels that way when I do math.”

“What about you, Cat?” Quentin pushed his glasses up on his nose and squinted at me.

“I fell out of a tree stand.” There. Embarrassing moment over. “I was watching birds up there.”

I waited for them to laugh or say bird watching was an old-lady thing. But they didn't.

“Cool,” Sarah said. And Quentin nodded. And then we all looked at Ben.

He took a long time chewing a section of his orange, then swallowed and said, “I . . . uh . . . fell off my horse.”

“Wow,” Quentin said.

“Yeah.” Ben paused but then went on. “My aunt and uncle have a stable where they run programs for disabled kids. I ride there a lot.” He shrugged like it was no big deal, but his face changed in a way that only happens when you're talking about something important. “I did, anyway, until I got thrown.” He looked back down at his magazine, turned to a new story. And I could tell he'd told as much of
his
story as we were going to hear.

Dr. Ames came striding into the cafeteria then, jingling keys on a keychain. “Oh, good! Glad you're getting to know one another. I hate to steal you away, Cat, but you've got an MRI this morning so we can see what's going on in that head, okay?”

He walked me to the lab near his office and flicked on the lights. This room wasn't the stark white of the MRI lab at the hospital back home; it was painted a deep blue and had art prints on the walls—water lilies and meadow scenes that were probably meant to be soothing. But the most soothing thing to me was
the MRI machine itself. “It's a lot more open than the one at home,” I said.

Dr. Ames smiled and looked at me like he understood. “Those old models are pretty claustrophobic, aren't they? I think you'll find this more comfortable.” He glanced at the clipboard in his hands. “I've got the wrong chart,” he said, and gestured toward the examination table next to the MRI machine. “You can change into a robe and hop on up. I'll be right back.”

He closed the door behind him, and I reached for the soft cotton robe draped over the table, but then I remembered my music. Back home, I'd get so nervous in the MRI machine it was hard for me to be still, and then they couldn't get a good scan. I'd always move and mess it up, and then I felt awful because they'd have to start over.

So Mom had the lab technicians play my favorite music—my
real
favorite music. Not Lucy's dark, moody new playlists that I listened to on the soccer bus and pretended to like. My playlists were full of happy, upbeat bands like GizMania and the Stealth Acrobats, and they helped a ton. I looked at the machine here; I'd probably be okay, but it couldn't hurt to see if I could grab my music player.

I put down the robe and opened the lab door, but Dr. Ames wasn't back yet. I looked down the hallway and saw his office door was closed, but the one next to it, Dr. Gunther's, was cracked open, with voices coming from inside.

I walked down the hall and was lifting my hand to knock, when Dr. Ames raised his voice.

“No! Not when we're so close!”

Why would he be yelling at Dr. Gunther? I lowered my hand and took half a step back.

Dr. Gunther said something I couldn't hear, and then, “. . . far enough. Think what could happen.”

Dr. Ames's response came through loud and clear. “
You
think what could happen, Rudolph. Have you forgotten how we came to work together?”

I don't know if Dr. Gunther answered or if Dr. Ames kept talking over him.

“At that time, you were found to be violating federal laws that regulate genetic engineering research. At that time, you were charged with a felony. And at
that
time you were never going to set foot in a lab again. You were never going to finish your clinical research; you were never going to find your cure for Parkinson's disease. And you. Were. Going. To. Die.”

That last word hung in the air. Maybe Dr. Gunther said something back, but I couldn't hear, and my thoughts were all jumbled; it happened a lot since my concussion. I could remember things from last year, but I'd forget something I heard a few minutes ago. And this . . . this was all too much to understand.

It sounded like Dr. Ames was threatening Dr. Gunther. But why? They worked together, didn't they?

Trying to sort it all out made my head hurt. I stepped back. Why was I even in this hallway? I was supposed to be in the lab having an MRI.

They were still talking in there, but only scraps of their conversation made it out the door.

“. . . tumor continues to grow, and I really think . . .”

“. . . better with the other first-round subject.”

“. . . procedure has taken, but it's early yet, and . . .”

“. . . proceed as planned.”

“. . . must contact the girl's parents—”

“I said NO.”

Dr. Ames's voice sounded so loud, so sharp, so close to the door that I jumped back, scrambled across the hall to the lab, and stumbled into the exam table. Dizzy . . . I always got dizzy when I moved too fast, and then the nausea washed over me. I put my head down and breathed in the clean detergent smell of the cotton robe until the spinning slowed and I could stand up again.

When I did, Dr. Ames was in the doorway.

“You all right, Cat? Take your time.” His voice was soft again, his face concerned but not angry at all. Why was he so upset with Dr. Gunther? And did they say they were calling someone's parents? Whose? I tried to remember the conversation but it broke apart like a staticky phone call.

“Cat?” Dr. Ames stepped to my side and put a gentle hand on my arm.

“Sorry.” I shook my head. “I got dizzy when I started to change.”

“I see you didn't get far,” he said. “Do you want Olga to come give you a hand?”

“No, that's okay.” I picked up the robe and took a deep breath. “It's going away. I can get changed.”

“Great,” he said. “I'll be outside; give a knock when you're ready.”

The door closed, and I concentrated on moving slowly, smoothly, so I didn't jar myself dizzy again. I concentrated on the feel of the cotton and the smell of the lab. On everything but the words I couldn't sort out, because my head felt foggy every time I tried.

I knocked on the door. “I'm ready.”

Dr. Ames came back with his clipboard. “Great. Climb on up.”

I hoisted myself onto the exam table and leaned back.

“Relax and let your arms rest at your sides, okay? You want some music?”

“What?” The words made my heart jump, and I leaned up on my elbows. I never told Dr. Ames I wanted to go get music. Had he seen me in the hallway? No, he couldn't have known. I didn't even mention it. And why was I so scared that he might know I was in the hallway? Somehow, even though the words didn't make sense to me yet, I knew I'd heard something I shouldn't have.

“I asked if you wanted music.” Dr. Ames was standing by a computer on the counter. “Some of our patients find that music makes it easier to relax for the MRI. I've got some light jazz, a bunch of classic rock . . . Bruce Springsteen, Journey . . . I'm probably dating myself, huh?” He grinned and shrugged. “Sorry I can't offer you something more current.”

“No, that's okay,” I said, settling on the exam table. “Classic rock is fine. Everything's fine.”

Maybe it was
, I thought.

Dr. Ames flipped a switch on the wall, and my table moved slowly toward the scanner that was going to take pictures of my brain.

Everything had to be fine. I pushed the echoing words I'd overheard down into the shadows of my head and took a deep breath.

Everything was fine. These were doctors, after all, and this was where I needed to be to get better. I had to trust them.

“All done for today. That was painless, wasn't it?” Dr. Ames leaned against the counter and turned off the music.

“It's way better than the one at home,” I said. “What do I do the rest of the morning?”

He looked out the window. “It's a beautiful day. Maybe take a swim or read a book by the pool?”

“I mean, do I have more tests or treatments or anything?” I leaned over to peek at the papers on his clipboard.

“Nope, nothing else today. Phase One of treatment is simply getting you settled, getting the daily brain scans, making sure we have your meds right. We'll begin light, oxygen, and exercise therapies soon, though. And you can see this anytime you want, by the way. It's your chart.” He handed me the clipboard.

Name: Catherine Grayson

Age: 12

IQ: 132

Mother: Anne Woods Grayson—Age 52

Father: Robert Grayson—Age 55

Siblings: None

Family Medical History: Heart attack—paternal grandfather

Concussion Report: Subject sustained damage to right frontal lobe of brain after falling from playhouse in tree.

Risk Level: Moderate

Below that were a bunch of boxes for dates and vital signs—heart rate and blood pressure and stuff, as well as space for notes on MRIs and treatments.

“I'm always happy to answer questions, Cat. This is
your
treatment, and you should know exactly what's going on.”

“Thanks.” I felt like I should have lots of questions, but I couldn't sort them out. I stared down at the chart. The word “risk” jumped out from the paper. “What does ‘risk level' mean?”

“That's . . . risk is really the wrong word for it. It's an assessment of how severe your injury was when you came here, and yours was merely moderate—nothing life-threatening, even though we understand that the post-concussion symptoms have changed the way you do things from day to day.”

“Oh.” I looked back down at the paper. It didn't quite make sense, but I was getting tired. The numbers and letters were starting to blur.

“Anything else, Cat?” Dr. Ames raised his eyebrows and smiled.

There was something else. I'd wanted to tell him that I fell from a tree stand for bird watching . . . not a playhouse. Playhouse
made me sound like I was eight years old. But I couldn't find the words, and looking all over my head for them was hard. “No. That's it, I guess.”