Then Kelly looked toward the photograph again.
“Do you know what I remember most clearly about my own accident?”
I waited.
“Not the noise. Not the hospital.”
She folded her arms.
“It's how frightened everybody looked afterward.”
I watched her carefully.
She continued.
“People kept telling me how lucky I was. And I knew they meant well, but sometimes I wanted to ask whether I was allowed to be angry about what I'd lost.”
I nodded.
“Of course you were.”
Her eyes filled.
“Sometimes I still am.”
I didn't offer a diagnosis.
Didn't analyze her feelings.
I simply listened.
Kelly looked toward her hands.
“I used to remember everything.”
She smiled sadly.
“Flower orders. Phone numbers. Every lyric to every song. I could look at an arrangement and remember exactly how I'd built it six months earlier.”
She took a breath.
“Now sometimes I walk into a room and forget why.”
I nodded.
“That must be frustrating.”
She looked up.
“It is.”
Then she smiled faintly.
“But I'm getting better at making my own systems.”
She showed me the little planner she carried.
Lists.
Appointment reminders.
Delivery schedules.
Notes about when she needed breaks.
It was organized beautifully.
I admired the work.
Not as a clinician assessing a patient.
As someone recognizing another person's determination to build a life that suited her.
“You've put a lot of thought into this.”
Kelly smiled.
“Turns out I'm rather good at solving my own problems when people give me a chance.”
I laughed.
“I believe that.”
She looked toward me.
Then said softly, “You always say that.”
I frowned.
“What?”
“That you believe me.”
For a moment, I didn't know what to say.
She continued.
“Even when I don't remember everything, you don't automatically decide that what I do remember is wrong.”
I considered her words.
Then answered carefully.
“Remembering something and proving exactly what happened aren't always the same. But you deserve to be heard.”
Kelly nodded slowly.
“That's what I mean.”
She smiled.
Then gathered her coat.
“I should go.”
I walked her to the door.
Outside, snow drifted softly beneath the streetlights.
Kelly turned toward me.
“Jeffrey?”
“Yeah?”
“Would you ever take a chance on something that frightened you?”
I stared.
The question seemed too personal.
Too close to the conversation I'd been having with myself for weeks.
I took a breath.
“Depends what it was.”