The Heart Exchange

Chapter One

"He was in my dream, again, last night," I informed, indifferent to the sympathetic smile my therapist–Caroline–offered. "We were having a conversation about old cartoons we used to watch as kids."

I briefly swept my gaze around the office, noticing for the umpteenth time her many awards and certificates. She was a young woman in her early thirties. The walking definition of optimistic. She'd taught me many self-help techniques in the eight months I'd been seeing her and I appreciated her dedication. Especially since the presence of a female role model in my life was few and far between.

I didn't have a mother.

Not anymore and according to Dad, I handled her death in a healthy manner. Of course, I didn't remember any of this. I had no memory of her death. In fact, I had no memories from the past two years thanks to a skiing accident ten months ago.

"How did the conversation make you feel?" asked Caroline, no longer taking notes.

She'd long surpassed the urge to evaluate my recovery in front of me. She always said she felt awkward scribbling down notes in front of a client and I had to admit, I preferred her way of working.

"Good. Happy. It was...nice. It made me feel free."

She nodded. "I think the fact you were talking about things from your childhood says a lot. Perhaps your mind is craving the same sense of comfort you get from being a young child?"

What she said made sense.

"But why him? Why do I keep having dreams about a boy I've never met?" I asked, confused.

It started after my accident. As if being partially brain dead triggered my mind's need to be visited by this mysterious (somewhat handsome) boy.

"The mind works in secretive ways. You may know this boy from your past but more likely is that you've created him in your imagination as a coping mechanism. Perhaps he signifies something for you? You say you feel happy when you're with him. Maybe he offers you an outlet?"

"Kind of like an imaginary friend?" I asked.

Jeez, I really am losing it!

"If that's how you want to look at it," she replied, checking her watch. "Before we call it a day, how would you rate your week with regards to symptoms?" she questioned, bringing out the familiar chart we always referred to at the end of each session.

"I'd say five out of ten," I answered. "Dad suffered though one of my temper tantrums on Thursday. My verbal filter has been non-existent lately."

"And how did he handle that?"

"He was great, as usual."

Chris Monroe was a saint for putting up with my crap. No longer was I the girl he raised. A traumatic brain injury had the potential to change a personality and mine had undergone a complete transformation. Reserved, distant and cautious on the outside. A scared girl on the inside.

"Did you try the visual aids I suggested?"

"Yes, I pictured myself holding a blue ball of peace but then all I wanted to do was throw it at his head."

Caroline smiled, amused by my honesty. "Keep practicing that. The more you work at it, the more you will see it begin to make a difference."

She stood from her chair and patiently waited for me to do the same, knowing it sometimes took me a little longer. I wasn't physically restricted but my mind didn't process things in the speed that most people required.

"Same time next Sunday?" she asked, gifting me one of her blinding smiles.

She was a brunette beauty with flawless skin and kind eyes. The sort of woman who made men do a double take on the street. Not that she knew any of this. Her modesty was through the roof.