2. Sophia

2

SOPHIA

M y driver's license tells me who I am.

Sophia Chiara Viscuso. Born twenty-five years ago.

It shows me what I looked like before…

It's the only thing in the world I trust. It was returned to me by the police in a plastic bag with the only other thing they found in my car: a shattered phone.

Apparently, it was with me the day I went through the windshield of a car. A car that isn't even mine, which I was apparently driving erratically. Without a seat belt.

Before I swerved off the road and hit a tree.

My license is how the people who helped me on the scene knew who I was.

The mirror reminds me that I no longer look like the woman on my license. She's a stranger to me even though some things remain the same, like my long dark hair, minus the regrowth at the back of my neck. I know my prosthetic eye is necessary. I've been told all the reasons why. But I'm struggling to accept the changes to my physical appearance.

I couldn't bring myself to tell Theo the full story. I'm not sure why, because I'm usually an open book.

My family has been amazingly patient. Even when I asked them to see proof that we were actually family. My mother used it as an opportunity to pull out my baby books and tell me everything from the beginning, right down to how many stitches she needed post-labor. I saw pictures of a little girl in frilly dresses and knits. School photographs with bad haircuts. School plays with hideous costumes. A cap-and-gown graduation. A twenty-first birthday party with my famiglia . Eating a large dish of pasta con le sarde . Celebrating Stragusto in Trapani with my broader family and hunkered down at home celebrating the feast of Saint Agatha of Sicily.

My brothers were typical brothers, I guess. They told me stories involving escaped frogs and bloodied noses and my first date with a neighborhood boy they terrified. They showed me pictures of private air travel and concerts and, in the more recent pictures, lots of champagne.

We're obviously close.

They call me Puparu . It means puppeteer . It's a nickname I was given by my father for pulling my brothers' strings to get them to do as I said.

But when they showed me the photographs at the start of this journey five months ago, I had this weird feeling that I was looking at someone else's life.

Certainly, I was there in the images, but I wasn't.

I have no memory of any of it.

And I didn't have a real connection to any of them beyond them telling me I was loved, which felt…awkward. My initial feelings toward them were that of any stranger I saw on the street. In the months since, thanks to their efforts, I've learned to love them in my own way. They've been fierce advocates for my recovery. I worked for my father, but he won't let me even think of trying to find a way to work yet. Instead, he pays for everything.

Despite living in the rehab unit, I've visited my luxury apartment a handful of times and been to my parents' house to spend time there in the past month as my independence has grown. I'm not a hostage here, but there is safety in having on-call support at night. Of having easy access to various therapies. And of having some kind of space from the overwhelming worry my family has for me.

Plus, the other places feel…foreign. There is evidence of me in both places. Photographs. Clothes that fit me. But in other ways, neither place reflects me. I didn't like either of the books I took from my bookshelves, ones my youngest brother assured me were my favorite. And the clothes are all too…much. Too expensive, too restricting, too impractical.

All I want now is softness against my skin. Clothes that hide my scars and don't hinder my movements in any way.

I feel guilty for all of it. My therapist says it's normal to harbor the feelings I do. Their generosity overwhelms me. They pay for everything. For the care here. For my apartment because I have no work. They've bought me a new phone, new laptop, and new clothes.

And yet, I may need them to help me find a new place to live. Somewhere that will give me a new start. Maybe on a lower floor, so if the elevator ever breaks down, I don't have to walk up eleven flights of stairs.

I'm early for my session, but I no longer want to be in my room. I debate going to the roof to get some steps in on the track up there, but I find myself heading in the direction of the lobby.

"Morning, Angelique," I say when I pass the administration station on my floor of the three-story building.

"Morning, Sophia. Where are you off to?"

"Group speech therapy. Where already-damaged brains go to die from boredom." Then I laugh. Too hard for what I said. It's the one thing I can't control. You could tell me I have a month left to live and I'd likely howl. Famine? I'd laugh. Two-week-old baby thrown from the top of a twenty-floor building?

I laugh at the thought of it, even though, intellectually, I know it's not funny.

Angelique shakes her head.

I close my eyes and take three deep breaths. My strategies are breathe, adjust, think.

BAT for short.

The breath helps me calm. Adjusting helps me change my posture. I hunch my shoulders when I laugh. Thinking means to take a moment and process whether my response is appropriate.

"You're gonna be out of here soon," Angelique says. "Not sure the rest of the world is ready for you yet."

I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the glass behind Angelique. My eye patch is a black outline on my face. "Not sure I'm ready for the rest of the world."

As I pass through the lobby of the center, I see my father sign in. Next to him is a tray with two take-out cups and a folded paper bag.

"Sophia," he says when he sees me. As always, he's dressed in a suit. This one is a charcoal pinstripe that fits too snugly around the middle.

He kisses each of my cheeks and then puts his palm to my face. "You look tired. You getting enough rest?"

I smile. He says that every time he sees me. "I'm fine."

He hands me the bag. "I only got ten minutes, but want to eat with me?"

"I'm early for my session so your timing is perfect." We find a spot to sit, and I open the bag. "Cannolo Siciliano? At this time in the morning?"

Papà laughs. "Fried dough and ricotta. It's practically a grilled cheese sandwich."

"Not sure that would hold up in front of a judge."

"Freshly made by Tommaso Buscetta's mamà. The granita di caffè is from a Sip of Sicily, your favorite. Eat. Just don't tell your mamà I ate them too."

He winks and take some out of the bag when I offer it to him.

"Busy day?" I ask.

He shrugs. "Your brother Leo has been sniffing around Little Mikey's girl. He's gonna get his balls shot off before he even grows into them. Gonna have a word with him to stay on the right side of the Aglieris."

I almost choke on my coffee. "What about work?"

"Got a meeting with Alessio at ten. We pushed ahead with the purchase of that land adjacent to the docks you suggested. Tough negotiation, but they came down in price just like you said they would."

I wish I could remember the land and the deal he's talking about. "You know, I can help. I mean, maybe not as much as I used to. But if I could get access to my old work files, who knows, it might?—"

"Soph. You gotta just focus on this. A time will come for work. You don't need to worry about money. We got you. Plus, it means you're free when I need a partner in crime to eat cannoli with in the morning. You remember anything yet?"

He always asks. I wish he wouldn't. There is nothing quite like feeling you're letting your father down every day.

I shake my head. "Not yet. You'll be the first to know if I do."

We finish our pastries and coffee with some small talk about being out of here by Thanksgiving, and I hug him when he leaves.

It's odd. He loves me way more than I currently love him because he's a man I've known for less than twenty weeks.

Alessio, at thirty-three, is my eldest brother. He's so smart and thoughtful. Luca and Leonardo, the twins, are thirty. Luca is intense. Leo is easier going. Shit, I have two more, and I can't remember their names. My short-term memory isn't firing on all cylinders today. I pull out my phone to remind myself.

Marco and Enzo.

Marco is twenty-eight and down in Atlantic City, so I don't see him as often. Enzo is twenty-six and is in Sicily. He came straight over when I was first injured but has had to go back to return to work. We've video chatted since, but it's a little stilted and awkward.

I don't remember any of them. Not a single memory, even the days immediately after I came out of the coma. It's all a blur.

None of them know why I was in the car either.

All I have is what I know of them now. They're all older than me. I'm the baby.

Friends came to visit in the beginning, but over time, I've become an obligation. I'm lucky if I see more than a couple of friends a month now. Instead, my friends are here. Dr. Polunin. Raheel, my massage therapist. Lori, who pushes me to my physical limits. Patients who have come and gone.

We're an unusual collection of misfits unified by one thing: the rehabilitation of the brain.

When I reach the group room, several people are sitting around the table. There's Jamie. He arrived two weeks ago after three months in the hospital because he smashed up his car too. I'm slightly envious that he remembers his accident. He'd owned the supercar his father had bought him for his twenty-first birthday for approximately seven hours when he spun out on the highway. The paralysis affects both legs and his lower torso, and he's still in the raging anger phase we all go through. I wave, and he tips his chin.

Belle-Odette is a New York maven who tripped over the leads of her five Chihuahuas. The pavement and her skull had a disagreement when she landed, and she now finds it impossible to remember anything new. There's a fifty-fifty chance she'll remember my name today, but she can tell you everything about her dogs, which get brought over here in a black town car three times a week to see her.

I was the same as her when I was brought here after being discharged from the hospital. In the early stages of emergence from a coma, most people have issues writing new memories. Which is really tough if you can't remember any part of your life before, like I can't.

"Morning, Sophia." Erin, the language pathologist, points to a seat next to the only man who doesn't look like he belongs here.

"Morning, Theo," I say, recalling his name from our conversation by the pool two days ago. I saw him in the dining area yesterday with two people I'm guessing were his parents.

He glances up at me, his gaze…speculative. "Morning, Sparrow."

I suppose I shouldn't feel quite so melty that I have a nickname. It's probably because it's a genuine interaction I remember and the fact his face is so damn gruff and attractive, he belongs on one of those fancy cologne ads.

Theo is unlike any other man I know, which, let's face it, is not an extensive list, seeing I only have my family and the men here as reference. But he has the powerful combination of size and self-assurance.

It certainly helps that he's got sharp cheekbones that cast shadows.

I don't know what he does for work. I don't know why he has all the tattoos up his arms and over his back. He scares almost everyone else here with his presence. No one sits on either side of him, as if keeping their distance.

But I like his eyes. Maybe it's the fact he still has two of them.

I chuckle at my inner dialogue.

"Should we break out of here and go on a road trip to Vegas to see if our brain injuries turned either of us into a card shark?" I ask him.

He huffs a laugh but continues to look at the table in front of him. "Not sure that's how it works."

"Sophia, not everyone uses humor as a coping mechanism," Erin says. "You know this. Perhaps try to consider other people's feelings and read the room."

"Sorry," I say, not entirely sorry at all. A girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do to figure out how to move on with her life with no discernible—or memorable—skills and mobility issues. If humor is it, then so be it.

A travel mug with a handle sits to his left side. He hasn't told me why he's here, but I can see he has trouble with his left arm as he reaches for it and uses it. The cup shakes, and he transfers it to his right hand.

"Ready for another riveting installment of regurgitating last week's news?" I ask.

He glances my way. "Can't…wait."

Oh, and he still spaces his words out, as if the next word hasn't appeared in his mind yet. My issue was I'd just skip words all together. It wasn't that I couldn't find them. I just didn't know they existed or that grammatically I needed to use them.

"Okay," Erin says. "Let's make a start. As a reminder, this session is about helping you all with general communication in social settings. Pick any news article from the piles scattered around the table. I want you to read one, and then I want you to pick out the key facts of the article. Then we're going to work on sharing those details with the group."

Belle-Odette stands suddenly.

"Can you sit down please, Belle?" Erin asks.

"The dogs. Feeding with…" The next few words are mumbled.

"The dogs are at home with Gerald," Erin explains patiently.

I know some people have life-changing revelations about their career after something like this. You hear about the rehabbed woman who changes careers and retrains to help people just like her once she's healed, but I wouldn't do this job for all the money in the world.

It's chaos and requires vast amounts of patience.

Belle-Odette looks confused. "But… dogs they..."

"I walked them…and fed them," Theo says. "The little brown one was"—he closes his eyes tight for a second—"happy as…fuck to see me."

I snap my head to look at him, but he's just looking straight at Belle-Odette, who puts her hand to her heart. "Oh, thank you. Coco and I…went shopping yesterday." She smiles, then sits.

Confabulation. That's another thing you learn here. There's a version of amnesia where you just talk bullshit. You can completely rewrite what you think happened yesterday. Belle-Odette is always here. There is no way she went shopping with Coco, but I bet she'd pass a polygraph test if you asked her if she did.

"Get started on your news article," Erin says, and comes over to our table. "Theo," she says. "Thank you for trying to help, but it doesn't help Belle-Odette if we lie to her. It's important for her to know what's really happening in her life."

"Maybe, Doc. But to what…end? She's got clear difficulty determining…fuck me…" He breathes like we've all been taught.

I breathe with him out of habit. A part of me wants to put my hand on his back and reassure him we're used to waiting long periods for someone to speak here.

"Reality." The word comes out on a sharp snap of breath. "She's not in her home. Her dogs…" He rubs his right hand on his chest. "Give her peace, yeah?"

"Valid point, Theo," Erin concedes.

"That was really nice of you," I say, finally.

Theo shrugs. He reaches for his coffee again, but his shaking seems worse. His fingers brush the handle, and it tips over. Thankfully, it's in a cup with a lid, so it doesn't immediately spill everywhere, but I jump from my seat and launch myself across the table to catch it before it rolls out of reach.

"Parkour," I shout, even as my hip nails the hardwood edge, making me wince.

Theo shakes his head. But I see the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth. "Sit down…before…hurt."

Belle-Odette gives us a retelling of…something. I'm not sure. But we all sit riveted because she's trying so hard.

Tears sting my eyes because I remember being her when I first arrived. With a missing eye, a scarred face, not knowing anyone, trusting even fewer. The world felt, and still does, like a dangerous place.

My team has been making really strong suggestions that I'm ready to leave, but outside this building is a terrifying world I'm unfamiliar with. Leaving, as a concept, scares me.

Theo gives us a rundown of a Nets versus Knicks game. He holds his composure right to the end, even when he struggles to find the language he needs. When he's done, he skims the article like a pebble across water. I watch as it glides off the table and lands near Belle-Odette's feet.

We finish the session after I repeat the details of a play review by a major theatre critic. "In conclusion, the revival of Chekhov's Seagull inevitably fell flat," I say.

I manage not to laugh, but only because I breathe the heck out of the ending. I can feel the giggling vibrations in my chest though.

"You want to grab lunch together?" I ask Theo as we prepare to leave. It's always a logistical challenge. Wheelchairs, walkers, and people unsteady on their feet like me. There are porters and carers who arrive to help people move to their next session. "I've seen you looking sad and mopey all by your lonesome in the cafeteria."

Theo glances my way. "Perhaps I just like my own…company."

"Or perhaps you haven't made any friends yet?"

"Or I"—he winces—"don't like…talking now."

"Fair. But I can fill the silence. My small talk is one of my greatest strengths. Ask anyone."

He rubs his hands across his face, then glances at his watch. "You …hitting on me, Sparrow?"

"God, no." I laugh. "To hit on someone is way above my pay grade. You're speaking to someone who can't even remember ever going on a date. Don't make me eat alone just because you're in a bad mood. I don't have massage therapy for another ninety minutes."

"Fine."

We walk to the restaurant in silence. While the paintings and window dressings and flowers are fancy, the easy-to-clean tables are industrial, and the setting is sterile. Eating with unstable limbs can be messy. Some people choose to eat in their rooms with their carers. I did for the first month I was here. After a while, the embarrassment I felt at being seen eating in public came second to feeling trapped in my room.

There are all kinds of special seats depending on needs, but Theo leads us to a table by the window without asking me where I want to sit.

A man who takes charge.

I secretly like it.

He takes a second to pull out my chair before sitting in his own.

"So, tell me more about what happened to you," I insist.

Because now that I have his attention, it's suddenly imperative I know more about him.