The Beginning of After

clinked.
    “Don’t be a smarty-pants,” said Nana. “Suzie may not have been a barrel of laughs, but you often came home looking a little happier. Maybe not happier. More . . . comfortable. At peace. Has she helped you?”
    I thought of the moments in Suzie’s office when she’d say something, and I’d repeat it in my head, and stash it away in a mental file cabinet where I could find it easily in the future. I pictured her staring at the window and thinking of what to ask me next, and never looking bored with my answers. Thanks to her I was now on Volume Two of my journal, filled with long ramblings and short random thoughts, with sketches and doodles, with collages made from magazines. When a notion got stuck half-formed in my head, I knew how to coax it all the way out so I could get a good look.
    “Yes, she’s helped me,” I said, realizing for the first time that it was true. “But lately, it feels like we’re going in circles. We keep rehashing the same things over and over. Maybe I just need a break.”
    Nana nodded. “Perhaps you could just call her when you need her.”
    “I can do that?”
    “Laurel, of course you can do that. You can do anything you want.”
    “Thank you,” I said, my nose tickling and my eyes burning. I was not afraid to let a few tears come.
    “You don’t need to thank me, sweetie.”
    “I mean . . . thank you. For everything, Nana. Thank you for everything.”
    And then Nana looked at me with such love. The kind of look that feels embarrassing, and unnecessary, and maybe like it would be better spent on someone else because how could I possibly deserve it? I’d gotten this look from my grandmother occasionally before the accident, and a lot more since. I’d always glanced away and let it hit the side of my face, to avoid looking back at her.
    But this time I didn’t do that. This time I did look back at her, with my own version of it.
    Almost two hours later, we went back to the Palisades Oaks. I honestly think we set the record for the slowest eating of a Denny’s meal in history.
    Etta came down when they called up to Mr. Kaufman’s floor. She had been crying more—I could tell from the dried mascara streaks—but she smiled a bit as she walked off the elevator.
    “David’s out in the garden,” she said, then added, “it went well.”
    “So how is he? Gabriel, I mean,” asked Nana.
    Etta shrugged. “He’s alert. His mind is a little foggy, and he can’t remember much. Everything’s in bits and pieces, but the doctors say that’s normal. Hopefully as time goes on the pieces will get bigger and, you know, come together.”
    “And physically?” Nana wasn’t shy about this stuff. It was not unfamiliar territory to her.
    Etta’s face darkened a bit. “They’re still doing tests, but they don’t think he’ll ever walk again. Right now he has some use of his arms and hands; they say that’s a good sign.” The sun hit her in the face, and maybe it inspired her, because she said, “But you never know with Gabe. He’s a tough nut. He could surprise them all.”
    We just nodded. Etta smiled a bit at me and said, “They tell me you came to see him back in October.” I nodded again. “Do you want to see him now?”
    Nana looked at me sideways, her lips pressed tightly shut like she had to make a real effort not to speak for me. Several long moments passed.
    Finally, I asked, “You said David’s in the garden?”
    “Yes, he started going on about the smell and he needed some air.”
    “I’ll go find him,” I said, and walked away from Etta and Nana. The situation was bizarre enough so that it was a valid answer to the Seeing Mr. Kaufman question. It all fit somehow, in its weird, peach-colored way. The truth was, it didn’t feel right to go upstairs without going through David first. I’d bristled at his permission before, but now I wanted it.
    I went down a long hallway, following a sign marked THE OAKS GARDEN , and pushed open the door at the end of it. I found myself stepping out onto a big patio, surrounded by bare bushes and leafless potted trees, the dusty flagstones edged with pockmarked slush piles.
    In the middle of the patio was a fountain, all angels and urns, and sitting on the edge of it was David, smoking a cigarette.
    He saw me and lowered his cigarette hand to the ground like he was trying to hide it. “Hey,” he said.
    “Hi,” I answered, and went to sit next to him. We hadn’t talked much since he’d arrived