Star on the Mantel

Three

After the holidays, Claire spent most of her days home bound. It was recommended by Dr. Reese to focus the first few weeks out of the hospital adjusting to her environment and healing physically as well. Over the past couple of weeks, she got to know her parents and younger brother, Ben. Mom is an artist, known for her abstract pottery exhibits. Dad is a pilot, traveling constantly for days on end. Bend is in 2nd grade, and 8-year-old boy constantly on a sugar rush. She quickly learned one rule: Everything was normal. The accident never happened. It was taboo to speak of it.
Eventually, treatment began to be considered. There was so far she and her family could pretend. Mom had a friend who was an art therapist, offering to have painting sessions with her. Clinical hypnosis was thought of as well. She laid on a cushioned, velvet red couch for hours as the hypnotherapist attempted to pull something from her consciousness. Nothing came from it. Eventually, Dr. Reese recommended psychotherapy sessions with a former colleague. "How has it been coming home," the psychiatrist asked.
"Terrifying," Claire groaned. "People come up to our house all of the time. Some hug me, and others sob seeing me. The guilt of not recognizing them consumes me."
"You don't have to," the psychiatrist reassured her. "For some people, it is a longer process."
"But why am I expected to be fixed now?" Claire countered. "I'm still limping. It hurts getting up in the morning. I'm still trying to recover physically, but people expect me to be the girl holding the diploma on our mantel."
After the session, Claire stormed into her room, face planting into the quilted bed. She hated the Polaroids sticking on the wall, the strangers staring at her as she slept. She couldn't stand the cd collection in the bookshelf. She didn't know every song by heart. She faced the raggedy stuffed animal plopped next to her. It was well-loved, and it hurt not knowing all the adventures it went with a little girl. Suddenly, banging knocks came from the front door.
"Claire," Mom called. "This is Sammy. She was your roommate at UIC." A girl with feathered, chin length hair bolted up the stairs, slamming open her bedroom door. "You're alive!" she cried. "Why haven't I heard from you?"
"Oh. Um-" Claire stumbled.
"I'm kidding around! You've been through a lot. I'm taking you out for coffee."
As they ran — well, Claire was dragged — to Sammy's Tucson, Claire stared at the girl's never ending layers of necklaces and bracelets gliding in the wind. She was a crafty person, jewelry ranging from what one would find at an antique store and what she made with yarn and clay. Claire envied that talent.
After a car door clinging ride to the Starbucks, Claire was faced with a new challenge; The Menu. What did she like before? Was she a coffee person? Sammy saw her concern. "You like those dragon fruit drinks. You hated coffee."
"Oh, okay."
As she stared at the vibrant pink and purple drink, Sammy bombarded questions. "You don't remember anything?"
"No. Only memories from others' perspectives. It's frustrating. People usually gain their memories back in days, but it has been weeks. I don't remember even coming off of the bus," Claire said, stirring the ice and dragon fruit with a straw.
Sammy paused. "What bus?"
"I was on a bus when the accident happened. A car t-boned it. My parents didn't tell you?"
"No, that wasn't what happened. You were with David."
"David who?"
Sammy looked pale in hue, staring down at her espresso. "I think it's time to take you home now."