Sleeping was the only time Leslie’s mind was not fighting the memories. She appreciated her brain’s offer of that luxury. Deep sleep and no dreams. She had friends who would see their parents or others from the past in disturbing dreams. It would seem real to them, almost like a visit. She could thank her brain for that deficiency as well.
Over the past three years she had come to appreciate her brain. She had good reason to be depressed, clinically depressed, and she supposed that she probably was. She was tearful, a lot. Her appetite had diminished. She didn’t even have a desire to taste good food. Initially she lost sleep. Of all the signs of depression, this one could have been the most devastating. Her work required her full attention, attention to every detail. Sleep deprivation could be a killer. Sometime after she finished her residency, they made some new rules about the number of hours residents and medical students could work because studies showed there was a direct correlation between hours worked and patient complications. She didn’t really buy that because when you’re in the heat of battle, surgery or ships, you’re wide awake, energized. And if you’re not, then pick another field, dermatology or something. Of course, if you’re a ship captain, you’re dead.
Six months after the accident, she finally started to sleep. No need to take pills, not for sleep and not for depression. She owed Chris and the kids her depression and she carried it with her like a backpack. But the sleep helped. There were a few times when she felt like taking her own life, but her brain said no, so she couldn’t do it. Couldn’t find the way to do it. Couldn’t get the energy to do it. Another sign of depression. No energy to commit suicide. Sometimes really depressed people start taking anti-depressants and then, just when everyone is feeling good about the change in behavior…voilà…they find a rope and end it. When they’re really depressed, they can’t find the rope. Leslie had plenty of energy now but she was way past looking for ropes.
The wheat must be taken with the chafe. That’s the way it works. The good with the bad. Good brain lets her sleep. Bad brain serves up the memories with amazing efficiency. When it’s ready to do so, there’s no stopping it. Leslie’s brain was a good one for the most part and she had to forgive it for the memories because it also gave her the ability to memorize the Krebs cycle, and so many facts, both useful and useless, which enabled her to get into medical school and ultimately become an orthopedic surgeon.
Her wonderful brain has an area called the cingulate gyrus. It’s a little comma-shaped area nestled deep inside that links sensations with memories and emotions. It’s conveniently placed so it gets first dibs on the sensations coming in from the outside. Things like smell, taste and feel. They’re shuttled into the cingulate gyrus just like into other parts of the brain that enable one to move or decide or scream or operate. But in the cingulate gyrus, a smell or a sighting hooks right up to some old visceral feeling, good or bad. The smell of certain cologne might remind her of an old boyfriend. The smell of a baking cake, a wonderful day she had with her mom when she was six years old, and she might be able to see that day and whatever was important in her mind. The color of a table cloth. The taste of ice, chipped from the freezer. Licking the icing from the little cagey stainless steel beaters, a precious offering from her mom. Working her tongue in between them to get every possible ounce of icing. Just from the smell of a baking cake. Boom. Before Twilight Zone, it could really be a wonderful feeling. A link to her past, usually pleasant in every regard. Warm memories of a terrific childhood, free of struggles.
Now every possible visual, oral, or auditory stimulus with even a remote connection was taking the B-line to the cingulate gyrus and shuttling it right to the stream of consciousness, wherever that was. Focusing on work, her next assignment, or foam particles on the ceiling was the only way to keep the brain confused, get it off track. Otherwise, in idle moments, sensations came in and opened the photo album. Sometimes they were good memories, a vacation. Sometimes bad. A cut or a bad grade. But now they were surely unwanted, and she worked hard to keep them away.
Leslie slept.
Out on the wet highway passing trucks were fewer and farther between. And out off County Road 605, between Abilene and Rowden, Regan Wakeman was lying in bed wide awake, still thinking about the events of this evening. How had it started? He had never had a wreck, even when he was just starting to drive and having an accident, for most of his peers, was just another rite of passage. Tonight he had almost caused, or been part of an accident that could have been catastrophic for him, that lady and the horses.
After leaving the accident and, “What was her name? Leslie. C something,” he had continued north on 36, then to his place. He unloaded the horses, fed and watered them. That was a chore in the rain. He disconnected the trailer, only after he had completely detached the tailgate by its hinge. The Taurus had smashed in the bumper, which had in turn come up and smashed the tailgate, which in turn disrupted the locking mechanism. After a shower he tried to read in bed but was too keyed up to fall asleep. What a lapse of attention on his part. He felt a surge of nausea. Besides the fact that a person could have died, just a small injury to a horse could be devastating, requiring euthanasia on the spot. He had friends who had to shoot horses with broken legs just to put them out of their pain and keep them from flailing about or trying to get up. He went over and over the scene in his mind until the sky over the flat plains outside of Abilene started to turn pink.
4
The phone rang at eight o’clock sharp as planned. Leslie answered it after the first ring. She was instantly wide awake. Answering the phone quickly was a habit. Calls at night were usually emergencies and required thoughtful attention. She always felt that she had to sound as if she were not asleep when she answered. Responding quickly made it seem as if she were sitting by the phone, waiting for the call. And extra rings usually woke up everyone in the house, even though it didn’t matter now.
“Hello.” Expectant voice, with only a touch of morning scratchiness.
“Dr. Cohen?”
“Yes.” Now the voice was tested, and adjustments made to erase all remnants of sleep.
“Hey, Terryl Wells here. We weren’t sure you were going to make it in last night, with the rain and all! Did you have a good trip over from Louisiana?”
“Do you want to know the truth or would just a ‘yeah, no problems,’ do?”
“Wait a minute, you weren’t by any chance involved in that truck and trailer deal out on thirty-six last night, were you?”
“Okay, so you want the truth. How did you know about it?”
“Well, the emergency room folks got a whiff of it through EMS, even though nothing materialized, in terms of, you know, ER admits. This is a small community and word gets around. Man, I can’t believe it was you. What happened?”
“I’ll tell you what. Aren’t we supposed to get together today to go over things at the hospital?”
“We are.”
“So, why don’t we talk about it over coffee?”
“Sure, sure, sorry. How much time you need?”
“Give me forty-five minutes. I’ll need a ride.”
“No problem.”
“And actually, we better make it an hour so I can call the rental company and get them started on delivering another car.”
“An hour for a lady to get dressed, after having a wreck and just waking up. Can you talk to my wife?”
“I was already awake.” She lied unnecessarily.
“Uh huh. Well, I tell you what. Why don’t we meet at that restaurant out front of your hotel? It’s pretty good. Good breakfast. That way, if you’re running a little late, I’ll just wait for you.”
“Sounds good. See you in an hour.” She hung up and looked at the clock. 8:10. How did that happen? She overslept. Not that she cared. It’s just that her inner clock always woke her up at about six o’clock in the morning. She must have been tired.