Murder on the Mind Read Online Free

injury association. Probably none of the info will apply to you, but it might give you some answers.”
    Back in my hospital room in New York, I’d been impatient with Dr. Klehr’s explanations. The stocky man smelled of stale cigarette smoke, and looked like he over-indulged on cheeseburgers and fries. We hadn’t built a trusting doctor/patient relationship in the short time I’d known him. He and Richard had been exchanging professional pleasantries when I’d interrupted them.
    “Can you just give me the bottom-line diagnosis?”
    Nonplused, Klehr turned. “Mr. Resnick, you suffered a classic coup-contrecoup injury.”
    “Which means?”
    “The injury occurred in a part of the brain opposite the point of impact. The injured tissue resulted from changes in pressure which traveled through your brain. Very simply, you’ve suffered some brain damage.”
    Klehr kept talking, but I didn’t hear a word.
    Brain damage? How could something like that have happened to me—be that wrong with me?
    Dr. Klehr paused; I picked up the sudden silence.
    “It sounds a lot more ominous than it really is,” Richard said.
    I’d looked at him in disbelief.
    “You were lucky,” Klehr continued. “The swelling was minimal. You haven’t suffered seizures.”
    Yeah, that made me feel lots better. I couldn’t get past that phrase “brain damage.” Did that mean I’d never balance a checkbook again, or was I likely to go out and kill for kicks?
    “What does that mean?”
    “Memory loss, as you’ve already experienced. And you might notice a loss of emotional control. One of my patients cries at McDonald’s commercials. You might get angry easily.”
    “Is this permanent?”
    “Perhaps, but not necessarily.”
    “When will I know? How can I tell? When can I go back to work?”
    He shrugged. “I wouldn’t push it. An injury like yours takes time to heal.”
    “Weeks? Months?”
    “We’ll talk later. You’ve got enough to think about for now.”
    With a few parting words, Klehr left us alone. Richard chattered on, refusing to even consider worst-case scenarios.
    I’d eyed him with distrust. He’d already known. Klehr explaining the extent of my injuries to me had been just an afterthought.
    Was paranoia a side effect of a bruised brain?
    I fingered the envelope, hefting its bulk. “Thanks, Brenda. I’ll look it over later.”
    Much later.
    * * *
    After dinner, Brenda played barber, trying to even out my hair. It would do until it grew back in.
    Later, with Richard safely holed up in his study and Brenda off to her meditation class, I sat alone in the spacious, well-lit dining room. The large manila envelope Brenda had given me sat before me on the polished oak table. The return address read: Brain Injury Association of Buffalo. That in itself sounded life-altering. Swallowing my fear, I tore open the flap, spilling the contents across the table.
    Most of the brochures heralded the virtues of long-term care for family members suffering severe head injuries or strokes. Only a family with Richard’s financial resources or fantastic insurance could afford those medical wonder-palaces.
    Was Brenda trying to shame me into counting my blessings? No, she wasn’t petty. Besides, thoughts like that painted me as a prime example of the self-centered personality changes indicated in one of the booklets.
    After skimming the material, I was grateful I’d emerged from the mugging mostly intact. Still, two punks had taken my life—maybe my independence—from me. So what if it wasn’t much of a life. It was a comfortable rut that, with the new job, just might’ve gotten better. The possibility that I might never again work in any kind of meaningful profession terrified me.
    A little blue booklet caught my eye: a ‘How-to-Handle’ manual for families of the brain injured. As I skimmed it, the things that seemed to apply to me practically jumped off the page. Yes, I was irritable and overly emotional, as proved by my refusal to