Page 95 of Bean
The next morning, we had breakfast in the hotel and then headed to the NIH, where we would meet Dr. Woods. We didn’t have to wait long in the somewhat sterile waiting area. Dr. Woods was a grandfatherly type who looked like Albert Einstein’s long-lost son, and he immediately put me at ease. “Call me Alfred,” he said, shaking my hand firmly. “If you can remember it.”
“Probably not.”
“No worries, I won’t take offense. Coffee?”
We settled in his office, which was as messy as Tameron’s room, and he grabbed a little recorder. “Do you mind if I record our conversations? That way, I can fully engage and listen rather than having to take notes, and my assistant will later make a summary of what we discussed.”
“No problem at all.” I liked it better, actually. It meant we were having an actual conversation rather than what felt like an interrogation.
“Before we start, I want you to be mindful of your own triggers. Don’t venture into anything that could trigger a strong reaction, okay? I’m not here to traumatize you, just to study your brain.”
I nodded. “Thank you.”
“Okay. What can you tell me about the accident?”
I took a deep breath. An hour later, I had shared everything I could, though I had to fall back on Nash for a lot.
“It was smart of you to bring a friend who knows you this well,” Alfred said—not that I had remembered his name, but he’d reintroduced himself a few times when he realized I was lost.
“He knows me better than I know myself.”
Alfred pointed at Nash’s chin, now covered in a rainbow-colored bruise. “What happened there?”
I shrunk a little. “I hurt him.”
“It was an accident. I got too close when he had an anger attack,” Nash corrected me.
Alfred looked from Nash to me, and a smile bloomed on his face. “Friends like that are rare.”
Didn’t I know it.
The next step was a series of MRIs. The first was like the one I had done plenty of times before. Despite the racket, I fell asleep, taking a much-needed power nap.
The second batch was functional MRIs, where I had to perform certain activities while they measured my brain’s response. He had me repeat words, read words in French, recite something from memory—I chose Psalm 23, which was still a comfort to me even after everything that had happened—and then look at the faces of people, familiar and unfamiliar.
We returned to the hotel exhausted, even Nash, though he’d spent most of the day waiting for me, reading. “Doing nothing is tiresome,” he told me.
After devouring a room service meal, I dragged myself into bed and fell dead asleep.
The next day, I had another round of MRIs, this time the special multidimensional ones that promised to offer more insights into those…astro-something-or-other brain cells.
When it was all done, we met with Alfred in his office. “Thank you so much for your patience, Bean. I know those tests are not fun.”
“They’re not, but if it can help someone, even if it’s not me, it’ll be worth it.”
“Will he get any results?” Nash asked.
“I can give you the first results right now, but the more detailed ones will take a while. We need time to study your MRIs and compare them to others, both healthy brains and brains with similar injuries, to see the differences.”
“Did you see anything concerning?” I asked, shifting to the edge of my seat.
“Your brain injury is severe, Bean. I’m not gonna lie to you. Honestly, it’s a bit of a miracle you survived. I credit the trauma team at the hospital you were brought to with realizing the extent of the damage and immediately taking measures to contain it. If they hadn’t done that, you wouldn’t be sitting here.”
I blew out a breath. I knew this, of course, but hearing it filled me with gratitude—a much-needed perspective after my pity party the other day. “I’m so grateful for their quick actions.”
“What’s also fascinating to see is that your brain is still recovering. I see a distinct difference between the scans Dr. Hanley sent me and the batch we did. That’s remarkable, especially considering the extent of your injuries.”
I frowned. “So there’s still a possibility for improvement?”