ENAMORED

JARROD

— six months ago —

I woke up in a room that was both familiar and unfamiliar.

Familiar, in that it sounded and smelled like a hospital. Familiar, in the feel of sterile coolness to the air around me, the crinkle of the stiff white sheets.

Familiar, in that the heaps of unused furniture, boxes of holiday decorations, and my father's old gym equipment they put away after his stroke a few years ago.

Familiar, in that it looked exactly like the basement in my parent's house. My childhood home.

Unfamiliar, in that I could not reconcile these familiar things within the same space.

Aside from being confused about how I got here or why I was laying on a bed in the basement, I did not understand why I was here with a tube down my throat, another in my nose, and an IV hooked to the inside of my elbow.

I blinked and my ears popped. The sound of persistent beeping was suddenly all I could hear. Frowning, I tried to turn in the bed and found my arms and legs restrained.

What the fuck?

I couldn't remember anything. I tried to take a deep breath and was greeted by a blast of fresh oxygen through my nostrils.

The resistance at trying to manage my own autonomous functions sent me into a moment of panic.

Gritting my teeth, I struggled against the band binding my arms to my sides. My fingers itched to rip out the obstructive device in my nose and throat.

A figure appeared amongst all the forgotten basement items and startled me. I froze and focused my gaze on the approaching person.

My mother's familiar face became clearer as she ran over to me, a sob escaping her. I flinched as she threw her arms around me.

"My son! Oh my god. Oh my god. You're awake!"

I groaned and she seemed to realize herself. Jumping back, she look at my face, her lips quivering.

"I'll call the nurse and let her know you're awake," she told me. "She can remove all these tubes."

I attempted to huff but the noise was obscured with all my tubing. I couldn't verbalize anything with all this shit in my throat and nose. I moved my hands to get her attention.

She noticed and realized I was struggling against the bands. She hesitated before releasing the clip holding the bindings.

As soon as the bands fell away, I lifted my arms to tear the medical equipment away from me. My limbs didn't comply right away, though. They felt heavy, like someone tied sand bags to my wrists. I frowned instantly.

"Are you okay?" she asked worriedly. "I'm sorry—I don't know what to do. They didn't prepare me for if you woke up . . ."

Her words perplexed me but I was too focused on figuring out why my body was slow, so heavy, so hard to move.

I didn't have the strength to remove my own tubes.

Within half an hour, a woman in white scrubs found us. She removed all the tubes and ran several tests to determine whether I could breathe and drink water on my own, how focused I was, what I remembered.

I was frightened to realize I couldn't speak. My throat couldn't swallow right and my tongue struggled to move, to form any kind of noise aside from a groan.

My desperate attempts soon turned into exhaustion.

"It's okay to feel frustrated, confused, and tired," the nurse told me.

I didn't particularly enjoy being on this end of medical treatment.

"You're in remarkable shape, Jarrod," she told me. "We weren't sure what state you would be in when or if you ever came out of the coma."

Coma? I've been in fucking a coma?!

My mother patted my hand. "It's okay, honey. You're alright."

I wasn't alright, though. And it only became marginally better as the days passed.

My life was soon filled with many hours of physical therapy and speech therapy sessions.

After the first week, I could sit up on my own, say one-word phrases, and move my hands. My mother refused to answer any questions about what happened to me or why I was in the basement.

Their house was huge, so it wasn't a matter of space. I just couldn't fathom why I would be hidden away in the basement with the Christmas tree.

Fresh air and sunlight were critical for any patient, yet I lacked access to both.

I didn't understand why my father or anyone else never visited either.

Where was Leah? Where was James and Julia? Surely they would've come to visit me if they knew.

The loneliness quickly became my hardest challenge.

My mother did the best she could—sitting with me, holding my hand, reading to me. She brought me a laptop to watch movies on while she was away.

When I was strong enough to hold it and manipulate it, I tried to access Facebook or some way to see what the hell was going on. The laptop's internet capabilities were permanently disabled, though.

At four weeks, I could stand for a few seconds at a time. I could use the bathroom on my own. I could hold a book and read it. I could talk in full sentences, although my tongue often still got hung up on certain words.

"Just tell me what happened," I said one night while my mother ate dinner with me. "I think I d-deserve to know."

Like usual, she was sitting in the fold-up chair beside my mattress. She stared down at the plate in her hands and didn't utter a sound.

"Don't ask questions you don't want to know the answers to, son."

"I don't care anymore, I just want to know. Tell me."

She jumped up and threw her plate on the ground. Her eyes were hard as they landed on mine.

"Let me ask you this," she snapped. "Do you remember being in jail for a year? Do you remember going to court for abducting Leah? For rape and murder accusations? Do you remember all the hell you put me through?" Her voice roared, eyes blazing.

I gaped at her outburst. My mother's temper was no secret but I'd never seen her so furious.

"You have put this family through enough," she said. "It doesn't matter what happened, anyway. Your future is here now."

My brows furrowed. I remembered jail and I remembered leaving a free man. I couldn't remember whatever happened after my release, though.

"What does that even mean, Mom?" I said.

Her eyes were full of sadness despite the tinted shade of her face and her pinched features. "You are dead to the world. Your death certificate is signed. Legally, you died over a year ago."

"What?" I heard myself say.

"You are legally dead," she grit out. "You can never leave and no one can ever know you're still alive."