Cold Cold Heart by Tami Hoag Page B

said.
    â€œSee?” Dana said.
    Her mother frowned harder.
    â€œGo together the first few times,” Dewar said. “Then start with short drives close to home on your own.”
    â€œI’m definitely going with you to start,” Lynda said firmly. “And that’s the end of it.”
    â€œI’m not sixteen,” Dana grumbled.
    â€œNo,” Dr. Dewar said. “You’re not sixteen. You have a brain injury. Cut your mother some slack. She needs to see that you can do things for yourself, Dana. That’s only fair.”
    â€œI don’t want to be fair,” Dana said without emotion. “I want to be normal.”
    Her mother pressed a hand to her lips as tears welled up in her eyes. She looked away, out the window, not wanting to face the truth—that her daughter wasn’t normal, that she might never be considered “normal” again.
    â€œYou have a new normal now,” Dr. Dewar said. “And you’ll build a new normal every day. You’ve got a mountain to climb—both of you. And you do that one step at a time. There will be many days when you feel you’re taking one step forward only to fall three steps back. You just have to keep trying. That’s all you can do. Use the tools we gave you here at the center, and do the best you can every day.”

5
    Dana was quiet as they started the long car ride home through the rolling southern Indiana countryside. The rain had stopped, but swollen gray clouds still crowded the sky. Fall was sweeping down from the north on a blustery wind. The grass was still a vibrant green, but shades of red and orange rippled through the trees. The leaves on the white birch trees fluttered like golden spangles as they passed.
    For a while she tried to look out the window at the countryside, but the dips and turns in the road upset her equilibrium, and nausea forced her eyes forward. She fidgeted in her seat, tugging on the shoulder strap.
    â€œHow long until we get there?” she asked, hoping the answer would be sooner rather than later.
    Her mother sighed. “About an hour and a half.”
    â€œDid I ask you that already?”
    â€œThat’s okay, sweetie. I don’t mind.”
    â€œI don’t mean to keep asking the same thing over and over.”
    â€œI know you don’t.”
    â€œI’m sure it’s really annoying. I would be annoyed if I had to listen to someone ask the same questions over and over.”
    â€œIt’s all right, honey,” her mother said. “I don’t care if you ask the same question a million times.”
    â€œOf course, if someone asked me the same question over and over, I might not remember that they had asked already,” Dana pointed out. “So I guess that’s the bright side.”
    â€œThat’s one way of looking at it.”
    â€œI should write down in my phone what I already asked so I can check to make sure I haven’t already asked it.”
    She pulled her iPhone out of the pouch of her oversize pink hoodie and flicked a finger across the screen to the notes icon and began to type.
    QUESTIONS ASKED
    3:17 PM Q: How long 2 home?
    A:
    She couldn’t remember the answer.
    Frustrated, she heaved a sigh. She felt stupid, though she knew she wasn’t. She was intelligent, had always been an A student and an overachiever. The fact that her short-term memory came and went didn’t make her less intelligent. It just made her feel that way—which made her think other people would feel the same way about her. They would think of her as brain-damaged. They wouldn’t want to be around her because the idea made them uncomfortable. Everyone had loved Before Dana. No one would have chosen After Dana.
    â€œWhy didn’t Roger come today?” she asked.
    She looked at her mother, gauged the beat of silence, the deep breath, the way her hands tightened and relaxed on the steering wheel.
    â€œDid I ask you