Cold Cold Heart by Tami Hoag Page A

so lucky to still have her—”
    â€œDon’t talk about me like I can’t hear you,” Dana said.
    â€œI’m not talking about you like you can’t hear me. I’m telling Dr. Dewar how I feel,” her mother said. “You can do the same. If you chose to participate, you wouldn’t feel left out.”
    In her mind, Dana frowned, though it was doubtful anyone noticed. Her face had been carved into a permanent frown.
    â€œI’m just saying I feel lucky to have you alive and with us,” her mother said. “How do you feel?”
    â€œI feel so lucky,” Dana said so flatly that her answer was probably construed as sarcasm, though she wasn’t sure if that was how she had meant it or not.
    Her mother looked away, upset.
    Dr. Dewar broke the tension. “Dana, what are you going to do each day when you get home?”
    Dana felt herself freeze for a second as the answer eluded her. She felt ambushed. No one had told her there would be a quiz.
    â€œBreathe,” the doctor said softly.
    Dana drew a breath and let it go.
    â€œWhat are you going to do each day when you get home?”
    â€œThe same things I do here,” Dana said. “Follow my routines. Implement my strategies.”
    â€œI’ve spoken at length with Dr. Burnette,” Dr. Dewar said. “Do you remember who that is, Dana?”
    Dana concentrated on her phone, clicking through a series of commands, bringing the name
Burnette, Dr. Roberta
up from her contacts list. She read aloud the note she had made to go with the name. “Dr. Rob-erta Bur-nette is the thera-pist I will be working with when I get home. She received her under-grad-uate and doc-tor-ate degrees at Purdue Univer-sity.”
    It frustrated her that she still stumbled over multisyllabic words when reading aloud. She recognized and understood the words, but there was still a slight disconnect getting them translated from visual recognition to speech. She looked up at Dr. Dewar to gauge her response.
    The doctor arched an eyebrow, a smile tugging at one corner of her mouth. “Someone’s been busy on the computer.”
    â€œI have,” Dana said, missing the intended humor.
    â€œDana’s always been a research fanatic,” her mother said. “She was born to be a reporter.”
    â€œI’m glad you’re back at it,” Dr. Dewar said. “Curiosity is a great sign. It tells me you’re making strides to overcome your adynamia. You’re rediscovering your passion for something.”
    Dana said nothing. She had taken it as an assignment to find out about the new therapist. Research was work, not passion. Research was a strategy against being taken by surprise. But she kept that to herself. Adynamia—her apparent lack of motivation and enthusiasm—was her enemy. It was always the first topic of conversation in her evaluations, the stumbling block that impeded her from progressing toward normalcy.
    Dana felt the words
adynamic
and
bored
should be considered interchangeable. Eight months into rehab, she was bored and listless. As much as the frightened, apprehensive part of her wanted to cling to the routine and familiarity of this place, another part of her craved stimulus and wanted to move on to life beyond the walls of the Weidman Center. The internal conflict left her feeling impatient and irritable.
    â€œHer office is only about half an hour from our house,” her mother said. “I can run you down there and go do my errands—”
    â€œI can drive myself,” Dana said. “I have a car. I can drive a car.”
    Her mother frowned. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, sweetheart—”
    Dana shot her a hard look. “I don’t care what you think.”
    â€œDana . . .”
    â€œLynda . . .”
    â€œIf the route isn’t too complicated, it should be fine for Dana to drive herself,” Dr. Dewar