It's Only Temporary (2 page)

“We'd better get going. We're supposed to be at rehab by two,” Skye's father said. “If you really think bringing him home is a good idea.”

“The insurance company thinks it's a good idea,” Skye's mother reminded him dryly. “And I'm pretty sure we can manage it. Sooner or later I want my baby to come home, Danny, so it might as well be now.”

“We can give it a try, at least,” Skye's father said, looking over his shoulder for a break in the traffic as his left turn signal ticked. “We can turn around on that reservation road.”

The imposing turnoff to the road that led south to the ancient and isolated Acoma Pueblo looked as if it were headed toward a big city, rather than a distant hilltop. Most of the inhabitants of the reservation now seemed to live in the satellite dish-studded houses and trailers scattered sparsely along this reservation road, however, and Skye sketched, wondering what their lives were like.

“Turn the car around, Daniel,” Skye's mother said. “Or we're going to be late.”

“There's a wide place just past that little cemetery, if I recall correctly,” Skye's father said as he rounded a corner. “What the–” His exclamation faded as he made his way past an unexpected lineup of parked cars and pickups parked on both sides of the narrow dusty road. “It's a funeral,” he announced, his voice flat.

Skye's mother gasped – which just about said it all, in Skye's opinion.

She couldn't help but look, however.

In spite of the intense midday heat, people of all ages were streaming quietly through a wrought-iron gate and into the barren cemetery, which was surrounded by a low wire fence. The people were neatly dressed in dark jeans and ironed shirts, Skye observed, and at the head of each carefully tended grave was a small wood cross that had been painted white.

A woman with shining black hair flowing loose to her waist stood near the gate. She was holding a black-and-white bowl, and many of the people entering the cemetery slipped money into the bowl as they passed, probably to help pay for the funeral, Skye guessed.

They ignored her family's car.

“Don't stare, honey,” Skye's father said, catching her eye in the rearview mirror. “This is a private moment for them.”

“I know, Daddy,” Skye murmured, looking away. But she could still picture every detail of the scene.

It was nice here, she thought, her spirits unexpectedly lifting, and it was peaceful, and perfectly perfect in every perfect way: the sky, the heat, the little white crosses, the beautiful bowl, the quiet people.

This was the way the end of life was supposed to be.

And this was probably how it should have been – for Scott.

Skye couldn't help but think that.

“L
ate,” Scott exclaimed angrily from his wheelchair as Skye and her parents walked into his wide-doored room. “Late, late!”

“I'm sorry, sweetie,” Mrs. McPhee said, hurrying to his side. “We wanted everything to be just perfect for you at home, that's what happened.”

Let the lies begin
, Skye thought grimly, forcing herself to look at what was basically a brand-new brother. He was planted in his chair like a TV judge, and he glared at his family as if his condition was all their fault.

Scott's TBI – his “traumatic brain injury” – was the worst result of his accident, Skye had been told, though you couldn't tell that just by looking at him. But the TBI was the injury that would take the longest time to heal–if it ever fully did.

As for the rest of him, Scott's ankle was still in a cast, as was his left arm. The scar on his right cheek had faded a little, Skye was relieved to see, but her brother still looked like Frankenstein's monster. Maybe it was his expression, Skye thought, but he didn't truly seem like her brother anymore. Not that he had for a long, long time.

They used to be friends. But then, when he was twelve and she was about eight, Scott had started messing up: talking back to their mom and dad, slamming doors, “forgetting” to do both chores and homework assignments. He'd concentrated all his attention on his small circle of friends, friends who'd grown sketchier as the years passed – except for Stacie, his almost-girlfriend, who seemed nice.

Recently, Scott had started lying in a big way – to everyone–and cutting class, and, later, sneaking out at night.

Then there was the accident, and Scott was different now. His quirky expression and blazing blue eyes were the same as before, but some important part of him seemed to have been left behind in the desert that cold March night.

“Stoppit,” Scott snapped, looking at Skye. “Quit looking!”

“I didn't do anything,” Skye mumbled, staring down at the shiny floor again.

“Did they round up everything you'll need for the holiday, son?” Mr. McPhee asked in his most bustling, take-charge tone. “Are you all packed?”

“Uh,” Scott grunted, looking away. “I hate it here!” he shouted suddenly, pounding the arm of his wheelchair so hard that Skye jumped.

“
The Loonies
,” Scott had painfully managed to call Las Lunas Rehabilitation Unit during Skye's one and only other visit a few weeks earlier, and that small joke was the only thing so far that had given her anything like hope for him.

But now…

“We know you hate it here, darling,” Mrs. McPhee murmured, trying to calm him down. “But I don't see your suitcase, and we need to talk to the nurse before we take you home in that nice van your daddy bought.” She spoke as if Scott were a baby.

“Tell Skye to quit
looking
!” Scott said, struggling to spit out his angry words.

“I'm not,” Skye protested, her heart pounding. “And anyway, what am I supposed to do, keep my eyes shut for the rest of my life?”

“Yes!” Scott shouted.

“Why don't you go wait outside in the hall, Skye,” her
father told her hurriedly. “Just humor me,” he added in a whisper. “I guess Scott feels self-conscious about the way he looks, or something.”

“Well, that's not
my
fault,” Skye whispered back, but she felt relieved as she slid from Scott's emotion-jangled room into the brightly lit hallway. She slumped gratefully into a green vinyl chair and closed her eyes.

Three whole days with Scott. What were they letting themselves in for?

“Skye,” a pleased-sounding voice said. “Just the girl I wanted to see.”

Skye reluctantly opened her eyes. In front of her stood Scott's social worker, Ms. Santina – who seemed nice enough.

“I wanted a word with you before Scott goes home,” Ms. Santina said, and Skye found herself following the woman down the hall and into her determinedly cheerful office.

“Sit down, Skye,” Ms. Santina said, smiling. “So, how are things going?”

“Great,” Skye said cautiously.

“Scott's going home for a couple of days, and you probably have some questions about that,” Ms. Santina said, looking sympathetic and attentive in advance.

“Not really,” Skye said, shrugging. “I mean, I'm glad and everything,” she added, lying.

Ms. Santina waited, but Skye didn't say anything more. “Have your parents explained to you exactly what happened to Scott, and what to expect from here on out?” the woman finally asked.

“Not really,” Skye said again. “They've been a little busy,” she added, in case she'd sounded critical.

To Skye's surprise, Ms. Santina threw back her head and laughed. “Understatement of the year,” she finally said. “To put it simply, Skye, Scott suffered what is considered a moderate brain injury. When he crashed the car, the impact caused his brain to slam forward into his skull, and then sort of bounce back and forth, like a yolk getting knocked around inside a raw egg. So there was internal swelling of the brain at both sites of impact, and some internal bleeding. The pressure built up inside his brain while he was unconscious – which was probably for about half an hour or so, it's hard to tell exactly. Surgery was necessary to reduce that pressure, of course, and stop any further damage from happening.”

“But he's not okay yet,” Skye said, stating the obvious.

“Well, no, he's not,” Ms. Santina said. “He's progressing
nicely, but there's still some memory loss, which is very common with brain injuries, and some cognitive problems, in addition to the physical injuries Scott suffered in the accident.”

“What kind of problems?” Skye asked, frowning.

“There's some language impairment,” Ms. Santina said. “Reading and writing are difficult for your brother at this point, but we expect that to improve in time. But he also has problems with verbal communication, and that makes him feel very frustrated. He'll use inappropriate words, and so on.”

“You mean swearing?” Skye asked. “Because he did that before. A
lot
.”

“Not that kind of inappropriate,” Ms. Santina said, smiling again. “I mean more like mixing his words up in a pretty significant way. So, let's see,” she continued, glancing down at some notes. “Scott will have to have more speech therapy, once he comes home for good. And occupational therapy, and physical therapy, too. He'll need a lot of help.”

“My mom can't do all that,” Skye said, her voice shaking a little. “She hates making dinner, even. I think maybe Scott should just stay here with you guys.”

“He can't,” Ms. Santina said. “I totally hear you, Skye. It's just that the lucky ones get to a point where they can go home and continue their rehab there. There will be therapists
coming over to help out, though. Don't you worry about that.”

“You think Scott is one of the lucky ones?” Skye asked, struggling to make it sound like a casual question.

“I do,” Ms. Santina said, nodding. “But I want to prepare you for what to expect over the next few months. Scott is aware he's been in an accident, but only because we've told him so. He doesn't remember much about it, though, and he doesn't really know yet how serious it was.”