Chapter Three

River

It's a Monday afternoon, two weeks after that second visit, and I can already tell what kind of day it going to be from the way Lora says my name before I even reach Chevy’s door.

On good days, she says, “Hey, River,” like I’m another person arriving for a normal visit.

On bad days, she says, “Chevelle is tired,” before I ask.

Today she says both.

“Hey, River. Chevelle is tired.”

I stop beside the nurses’ station. “What happened?”

“Therapy completed two visual-pursuit trials. Her eyes followed a mirror toward the left once. They couldn’t reproduce it on the second trial or after lunch. She also localized toward pressure once.”

“So there was one possible pursuit.”

“Yes. Possible and documented.”

“That matters.”

“It does. It still doesn’t establish reliable awareness by itself.”

I hate how often hospital staff make one sentence hold two opposite things. A response matters, and yet thay response still proves less than I want it too. Her eyes opened, even if she may not being seeing anything as her gaze moves, and nobody can assume she followed anything until it happens consistently.

Lora looks at the paperback under my arm. “Ten minutes today. Low stimulation.”

“I can do ten.”

“You say that now," she says with a cocked brow, obviously not believing me.

“I’m capable of reading a clock.”

“You argued with Norman for twelve minutes because he said your colored-pencil sorting was chaotic.”

“It was a philosophical disagreement.”

She snorts a laugh at that, adding, “It was blue in the green box.”

I leave before she can continue insulting my art-supply philosophy. Chevy’s eyes are open when I enter. I remind myself that her eyes being open doesn’t mean that she's awake in the ordinary sense. I’m finally learning to stop using the words like they’re interchangeable. Her gaze points toward the ceiling, one hand rests against the blanket with the fingers curled inward, while the other is supported on a pillow because her shoulder has begun tightening, and a splint keeps her left ankle aligned so contracture doesn’t make later mobility harder.

“Hey, Chevy. It’s River,” I say, noting that her eyes don’t move. “I only have ten minutes today, so the villain is going to have to laugh more efficiently today.”

I sit and read. Halfway down the second page, her gaze drifts. It doesn’t snap toward my voice, but it moves slowly, stopping near my shoulder, and holding there for several seconds. My mouth goes dry, even as I keep reading using the same volume and pace. Her eyes slide away before I've even finished a paragraph. When the timer sounds, I close the book and find Lora in the hall. “Her eyes moved from the ceiling toward my left shoulder and held about four seconds,” I say. “I didn’t give a command, and I don’t know whether she was following me.”

Lora writes it down. “That’s exactly what you should report.”

“I’m occasionally teachable.”

“Don’t get excited.”

Tuesday morning, Jack is leaning against my car outside my apartment.

“You stalking me now?”

“You stopped answering my messages.”

“I was inside a hospital.”

“You still own a phone.”

“A phone that stays inside a locker when I'm volunteering.”

He pushes away from the car. “Did you call campus counseling?”

“No.”

“You said you would.”

“I said I’d think about it.”

“You think about everything until the deadline rots.”

Fynn turns into the row, parks beside us, and leans across the passenger seat to shove his door open. “Are we doing the silent-brother thing or the loud-brother thing?”

“River is refusing sleep and counseling,” Jack says.

“That tracks.” Fynn climbs out. “Have you tried food?”

“I’m going to work.”

Jack catches the car door before I close it. “School, the bank, and the hospital don’t become healthier because you use each one to avoid the other two.”

“I’m functioning.”

“That word should require evidence.”

I pull the door from his hand. “Move.”

He does, but the campus-counseling question follows me out of the garage.

On Wednesday, my bank shift starts at seven-thirty in the morning. Cheryl brings in some cinnamon rolls that somebody’s daughter dropped off, then spends the next hour trying to make everyone eat one. Annett talks about a date that she went on, that blessedly ended after the man explained cryptocurrency for forty minutes.

Life keeps happening, whether I've had enough sleep to continue functioning or not.

I balance my drawer, answer fraud questions, and help an older customer reset the authentication app he insists the government installed on his phone. I don’t think about Chevy until my break, which makes me feel guilty enough that I spend the break wondering why twenty minutes of ordinary concentration feels like betrayal. At CMU, Dr. Patel makes me show him my weekly schedule, then he crosses out two volunteer windows.

“No.”

“You asked for help.”

“I asked you to review it.”

“I reviewed it. You need sleep.”

“I sleep.”

“You wrote study on three separate nights from midnight to three.”

“That’s not volunteering.”

“It’s also not sleep.”

We compromise on one shorter Thursday visit, which isn’t really a compromise because he’s my adviser and I’m the idiot who asked him to stop me from wrecking my grades. Before I leave, he slides the campus-counseling card across the desk.

“I’m not making the appointment for you,” he says.

“Good.”

“I’m making you carry the number until pretending you forgot becomes inconvenient.”

I put it in my wallet but make no promises to use it.

Thursday afternoon, I walk in planninh to stick to the twenty minute visit instead of my usual forty-five. Chevy’s eyes are closed when I walk in, identify myself then begin the next chapter. Near the end of the visit, her right hand opens against the blanket.

I don’t stop, just keep an eye out as I continue and watch as her fingers curl again. Lora steps into the doorway and asks me to repeat the last sentence at the same volume. I do and Chevy’s hand opens a second time.

Lora calls another nurse. They reduce the room noise, repeat the sentence in a neutral voice, and get no movement. Ten minutes later, the clinical team uses standardized cues and again gets nothing. I stand against the wall while Dr. Reuter explains that the two movements may be purposeful, but they’re not yet repeatable across people and conditions. They’ll document them, continue standardized assessment, and avoid exhausting her. “I saw two openings after the same sentence,” I say.

“So did we,” Lora answers.

“She did it when I spoke.”

“She may have responded to your voice or to another part of the stimulation. We don’t know yet.”

The answer is frustrating, even if we both know she's right.

On Saturday, Chevy shows no eye movement or hand opening during my visit. Her face remains still while I read, and the part of me that had begun treating the previous response like a promise becomes more frustrated that I have any right to be. I don’t get angry at her, but I do get angry at the book, the chair, a monitor alarm down the hall, and myself for feeling disappointed by a woman whose body is doing everything it can to remain alive.

When the visit ends, I take the stairs and find Dr. Patel in the lobby carrying a paper cup and a stack of student files. He’s at St. Mary’s for a pre-health advisory meeting with rehabilitation staff.

“You’re allowed to care about patients,” he says after one look at me.

“I know.”

“But you’re not allowed to build your life or lack there of, around whether one patient improves on your schedule.”

“Nobody told you anything.”

“You’re not subtle.”

He asks whether I called campus counseling. I tell him I haven’t.

“That’s an answer,” he says. “It’s also a bad decision.”

“Do advisers receive a pamphlet of irritating responses?”

“Yes. It’s laminated.”

At Jack’s that night, Fynn repairs a broken cabinet hinge while Jack makes chili that smells capable of removing paint. I tell them Chevy didn’t respond today after two possible hand movements on Thursday.

“That doesn’t make Thursday fake,” Fynn says.

“No. I know.”

“It also doesn’t make today a failure.”

"I know that too.”

Jack points the wooden spoon at me. “You’re learning new words.”

We eat at the small kitchen table. Fynn tells us about the same coworker that's still reheating fish in the microwave, and Jack argues that this should qualify as workplace violence. I laugh harder than the story deserves because ordinary conversation feels like oxygen. Before I leave, Jack taps the counseling card visible through the open edge of my wallet.

“You have the number.”

“I have the number.”

“Use it.”

After the bank and CMU, I stop at the grocery store because Jack will ask what I ate and I’m tired of having the same argument. I buy eggs, bread, apples, and coffee instead of the frozen burritos I came for. The cashier asks whether I want a receipt, and I almost laugh at how simple the question is. Yes or no. One answer means one thing. I say yes, carry the bag upstairs, and put the counseling card beside the coffee maker where I’ll have to see it in the morning.

Before bed, I enter the two possible hand movements and the later no-response visit in my private schedule exactly as they occurred, and then close the laptop. I know that the movements may not mean anything, but I can't help but hope that just maybe it does.