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“She won’t care. She’s down-to-earth people, like me. Melanie,” Horace called. “You might as well meet your new client. Melanie Wysh, this is my pal, Rolland.”
Rolland pulled the towel off his head and shoved it under his arm before extending his hand. “I’m sorry for my current state. I’m Rolland.”
Her eyes were the color of rust, her skin warm-looking like honey-baked bread. She’d been smiling as she walked, her hair bouncing in frivolous curls. Then she gasped twice and her hand flew to her cheek.
Her lips lost their smile, and she licked her teeth showing just a hint of pink tongue.
“Is everything all right?”
She nodded in a jerky manner.
Her hand fluttered in mid-air and he took it, knowing it would be as soft as it was. He’d learned people would sometimes react oddly to him and he forgave her.
“I’m Melanie Wysh,” she said. “And your name again?” She reclaimed her hand and put it behind her back. Her hair was red. He loved red hair.
“I don’t know. Three months ago it became Rolland Jones.”
Chapter Two
The colored letters on the side of Rolland’s case file seemed to follow her as she walked barefoot through her cottage home. Melanie carried the glass of wine to the living room sectional and sat down, folding her legs beneath her.
Plumping the pillows, she leaned back and felt her back relax, yet the tension in her body remained until she reached for the file that had dominated her mind. She used her fingernail and opened it.
John Doe aka Rolland Jones had been in a car accident in Las Vegas, Nevada, June 16, a little over three months ago.
His injury list was extensive. Broken nose and eye socket. Dislocated jaw. His front six top and bottom teeth had been knocked out. Sustained lacerations to his upper body, arms and hands. The injury list to his knee was gruesome and she winced, and then read, Traumatic Brain Injury. He’d been pulled from a car that had burned, but he had been spared injury from the fire.
After lying in a coma for twenty days, he’d been brought to the Ryder Rehabilitation and Spinal Center in Kentucky for complete rehabilitation.
His physical recovery had been nothing short of miraculous, except for the resulting symptoms from TBI. He knew how to write alphabetical letters and words, but he couldn’t write numbers anymore. He reversed things, his shoes occasionally, words, which hand to shake with. He had image memories of his past, but not of the past six years. Sometimes things had to be defined for him. He didn’t know his name, his age, but he thought he’d been married. He confused right and left and didn’t have a mental edit button. Whatever he thought came right out of his mouth. He still suffered with balance problems and he sometimes got lost.
Melanie raked her hands through her new short haircut and stared at the auburn strand that came away between her fingers. Why had she dyed her hair this color?
Because it was different and she’d wanted a fresh new look to go with her new life.
She did a few deep breathing exercises. How could she help Rolland Jones?
She jotted down the standard treatment plan, but given his physical advancement, decided maybe Mr. Jones might like to do some of his therapy outdoors.
He was handsome. Gorgeous, really and she wondered why she hadn’t spotted him before. She’d heard his name mentioned several times, but had never known who the women in the break room had been talking about.
She tried to put Rolland to words and realized there weren’t enough. He was the mmmph women talked about with a shake of their heads and an open-mouth laugh. He was the reason for the raised eyebrows and the twisted lip at the laundry center. He was the double sigh, neck roll, wrist flick, teeth suck, hip switch, six feet of mocha-mocha, hot, scarred, but still fine black man.
She rubbed her aching heart with her thumb, telling herself love was not in her cards. She was here to help make others whole so they could go into the world and become productive.
Her time had decidedly passed.
Sipping her wine, she closed her eyes and listened to the water and the sounds of the children playing around the man-made lake outside.
It was September, typically hot in Georgia this time of year, but Kentucky boasted moderate temperatures with low humidity, and she was glad she’d chosen this place to relocate.
The vacationing families had left after the holiday, and everyone who had stayed had already gotten acquainted.
She’d been welcomed, and while grateful for the warm reception, Melanie liked that her neighbors respected her desire for privacy. After her initial refusal to be set up with everyone’s brothers, they left her dating life alone.
She leaned back on her pillows, the file on her chest, watching the sun fade behind the Appalachian Mountains.
How could she give Rolland Jones reasonable hope that he’d be all right in the world without any help? Most TBI patients had family to aid their recovery in the outside world. Having TBI wasn’t easy. It wasn’t like he was ever going to wake up and not have the debilitating condition.
His brain would not be restored to its former state, but she could help make his life reasonably comfortable. Her job was to make sure he had the skills, but not to give him false hope. She’d teach him how to live within his limits.
Resting her eyes, Melanie listened to the distant strains of Michael Bublе singing Me and Mrs. Jones on the stereo and dozed.
Melanie stood behind her desk, then on the side, then sat in the visitor’s chair, then went back behind her desk.
Where was Mr. Jones? He was thirty minutes late.
Walking to the door she peered out and then decided she wasn’t going to search for him, but get some other work done. She had other clients to see besides him.
Melanie sat down, then got up to adjust her fan to blow right on her, because her office got too much morning sun. She held her arms out so she wouldn’t perspire all over her summer sweater as she reviewed two client charts. Making notes, she reached for her diet soda.
“Soda isn’t good for you.”
His voice made her feel as if a hundred hands were bathing her with warm oil.
“You’re late. I expected you at ten.”
He looked at her, then down at the card in his hand. Large hands, capable hands turned the card over and she wondered what else they could do.
She pulled her gaze away.
“Melanie, I’m sorry. I can reschedule.” His sincerity made her feel guilty for being so blunt.
“Oh. Okay,” she said taken aback. Her husband had never apologized for anything. “Of course not. I’ll see you.”
“I get times wrong sometimes, but this says eleven o’clock. I can’t read numbers anymore. Although that may say ten o’clock. It looks like it says eleven.” He walked inside the office and came around her desk, the card extended. “You can see for yourself, I wouldn’t lie to you.”
The last few months, she’d uncovered so many untruths that Deion had told, she’d stopped believing in anything. She had to remind herself that they weren’t the same people.
“I didn’t mean to imply that you’d lied, Rolland.” She tried to rise just as he leaned down to show her the card.
Their heads connected and the card fell to the floor.
“Ow!”
“Oh,” he said, backing up, a smile as big as sunshine on his face.
“Are you okay?” she asked, up and out of her chair in an instant. “I’m sorry. Is there a bump? Can you see me? Are you having any trouble?”
“Melanie?” His voice moved boulders in her.
“Yes?”
“My foot hurts.”
She looked down and realized she was standing on tiptoe on his toes. “Oh my goodness, I’m going to kill you. No! That’s a figure of speech. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean that.”
He laughed now, sidestepping his foot from beneath hers. “I think I’d better sit down.”
“Of course. Come over here to the couch. I’ll get some ice.”
“It’s just a head butt. You didn’t hit me with a Crown Victoria. Now that needed some ice.”
Melanie hurried across the hall to the break room and was back in a few seconds with an ice pack.
Rolland had sat on the couch with his head back. A knot the size of a pea had formed on his forehead close to his hairline.
“A Crown Vic hit you? Who drives those these days?” Melanie studied the knot, trying to decide how to apply the pack that was now freezing her fingers.
“Old people. Well, in my case their granddaughter who wanted to sneak out on the town. They’re paying for my care and offered a healthy settlement, which I accepted.”
“I’m glad you’re being taken care of.”
He touched her wrist. “You sound like you really mean that.”
“Of course I mean it. Everyone here wants the best for you.”
“Melanie?”
“Yes,” she said, holding the pack by her fingertips.
“I think we might need to cover that with something or when you take it off, you might peel off my new skin.”
Mortified, Melanie stepped away. She was standing between his legs. Looking down into his eyes, all she wanted to do was cup his face and ask him where had he been all her life?
She knew the thought was irrational and she’d have a serious talk with herself tonight over sushi. But for right now, she was not going to cause him further harm.
“Rolland, I’m a very capable rehabilitation specialist. I didn’t mean to hurt you, but I’ve clearly started on the wrong foot. I’m going to get a towel, apply this pack and then call someone to check out your head.”
“That’s not necessary, Melanie. I’ve had worse injuries playing football.”
Melanie hurried to her desk and opened her lunch bag. “So you remember playing football?”
“Yes, when I was a kid. I remember running with the ball and laughing. But not my name, the team and all that. A cloth napkin,” he asked, once she wrapped the pack and put it on his head.
“They make me feel special.” Melanie tried not to look down at him.
“I feel pretty special for you letting me use it,” he said.
“And you should,” she tried to joke. “I don’t usually do wound treatment. But considering I caused this bit of trouble, I’m obliged to help you.”
“Thanks,” he said smiling.
“So what do you hope to learn, Rolland?”
“How to cook. Add numbers.”
“Like nine plus seven?”
“That’s going to take me a few minutes. Write numbers. I recognize it’s a number, but I can’t write it for anything.”
“The alphabet.” Melanie listened as he recited the whole thing without stumbling. “Backwards.”
“You’re kidding.”
She smiled, surprised at herself. “Yes, I am. What else can you identify that you want to learn?”
“I want to find out about my old life. Was I married? Did I have a family? Where are they? Did they look for me? I want to learn how to drive. I love cars.”
“Well,” she said. “Some of those things are on my list, too. Learning how to use numbers so you can dial a phone and cook are very important.”
“Do you use lists a lot?” he asked, gazing up at her.
It occurred to Melanie that she didn’t have to stand over him and hold the ice pack. “Yes, for everything. It helps you stay on task and helps me track your progress. You don’t like lists? Here, hold this.”
She guided his hand up to hold the ice pack and went back to her desk and sat. Feeling silly for leaving him on the couch alone, she took her pad and the contract she had every client sign.
“Lists are fine, but you have to keep them in the right, what’s the word?”
“Perspective?” she offered.
“Right. Everything has a right perspective. So let’s get started. Am I going to learn how to cook first or drive?”
She laughed. “No, but I was thinking, the most important thing for you is to always know your way home, right?”
“I don’t know that I’ll ever find my home, Melanie.”
Her heart pounded. “You—you will, Rolland, and you know, I’ve found, a home is wherever you make it. But first thing’s first. I’m giving you a contract and by tomorrow I want you to read it and sign it. If you don’t understand something, just ask me and I’ll explain it to you.”
“I’ve got homework already, Melanie Wysh.”
“That’s right. Now, here’s a compass. Let’s go get lost and find our way back. I just need to do one thing.”
She went behind her desk and changed her pumps to sandals.
Coming back to his side he looked down at her. “You’re short.”
“Thanks, Rolland, that was honest.”
