Lisa Genova - Left Neglected

LEFT NEGLECTED

LEFT NEGLECTED

ALSO BY LISA GENOVA

Still Alice

Gallery Books

A Division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

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New York, Ny 10020
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright 2011 by Lisa Genova

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Gallery Books Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020.

First Gallery Books hardcover edition January 2011

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Manufactured in the United States of America

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Genova, Lisa.

Left neglected : a novel / Lisa Genova 1st gallery books hardcover ed.

P. cm.

1. Life change eventsFiction. 2. Self-realization in womenFiction. 3. BrainWounds and injuriesPatientsFiction. 4. Psychological fiction. I. Title.

PS3607.E55L44 2011

813.6dc22

2010025568

ISBN 978-1-4391-6463-1

ISBN 978-1-4391-6467-9 (ebook)

For Chris and Ethan

I think some small part of me knew I was living an unsustainable life. Every now and then, it would whisper, Sarah, please slow down. You dont need all this. You cant continue like this. But the rest of me, powerful, smart, and determined to achieve, achieve, achieve, wasnt hearing a word of it. If, once in a while these kinds of thoughts did manage to wiggle into my consciousness, I shushed them, scolded them, and sent them to their room. Quiet, little voice, cant you see I have a million things to do?

Even my dreams began tapping me on the shoulder, trying to grab my attention. Do you even know what youre doing? Let me show you. But each dream was elusive upon waking, and like a slimy fish captured in my bare hands, it slipped out and swam away before I could get a good look at it. Strange that I can remember them all now. In the nights just before the accident, I think my dreams were trying to wake me up. With all that has happened, I honestly believe that they were guidance sent from a spiritual source. Messages from God. And I ignored them. I guess I needed something less fleeting and more concrete.

Like a traumatic smack to the head.

Survivors, ready?

Jeff, the distractingly handsome host of the reality television game show, smiles, stretching out the wait, knowing hes making us crazy.

Go!

I am running through rain forest. Bugs are colliding with my face as I race. Im a human windshield. The bugs are grossing me out.

Ignore them. Hurry.

Sharp branches are smacking and slicing my face, wrists, and ankles, cutting me. Im bleeding. It stings.

Ignore it. Hurry.

A branch snags my favorite, most expensive silk blouse and rips it from shoulder to elbow.

Great, I cant wear this to my morning meeting. Fix it later. Hurry. Hurry.

I reach the beach and see the planks of driftwood. Im supposed to make a raft. But I dont see any tools. I swat around in the sand with my hands. I cant find any tools. Then I remember the map that Jeff showed us for a second before lighting it on fire. He grinned as it burned. Easy for him to be so happy with his belly full of food and his April-fresh clothes. I havent eaten or showered in days.

Mom, I need help, Charlie whines at my waist. Hes not supposed to be here.

Not now, Charlie, I have to find a red flag and a set of tools.

Mom, Mom, Mom! he insists. He pulls down on my ripped sleeve and tears it clean through the cuff.

Great, now its definitely ruined. And I dont think Im going to have time to change before work.

I spot a red blur above the flat beach about a hundred yards away. I run toward it, and Charlie follows, begging desperately, Mom, Mom, Mom!

I look down and see shiny pieces of green and brown everywhere. Glass. Not sea glass. New glass, jagged and sharp. Shattered bottles cover the beach.

Charlie, stop! Dont follow me!

Im doing a good job avoiding the glass while I run, but then I hear Charlie losing it and Jeff laughing, and I misstep. A piece of green glass carves deep into the arc of my left foot. It kills and is bleeding a lot.

Ignore it. Hurry.

I reach the red flag. Gnats are swarming in and out of my nostrils, mouth, and ears, making me spit and gag. Not the kind of protein Ive been craving. I cover my face with the palms of my hands, hold my breath, and pace out twelve steps west of the red flag.

I dig with my hands amid a frenzy of gnats, find the box of tools, and hobble back to the planks of driftwood. Charlie is there, squatting, building a castle out of broken glass.

Charlie, stop that. Youll cut yourself.

But he doesnt listen and continues.

Ignore him. Hurry.

Im about halfway through assembling the raft when I hear the wolves howling.

Louder. Louder.

Hurry!

The half raft isnt strong enough to hold both of us. Charlie screams as I pick him up, ripping him from his glass castle. He kicks and punches me as I wrestle him onto the half raft.

When you get to the other side, go get help.

Mommy, dont leave me!

Its not safe here. You have to go!

I push the half raft out onto the water, and the strong current grabs it. Just as Charlie floats out of sight, the wolves start tearing through my trousers and my favorite shirt, ripping my skin apart, eating me alive. Jeff is smiling as Im dying, and I think, Why did I ever want to play this stupid game?

My human alarm clock, my nine-month-old son, Linus, wakes me with a bleating Baaabaaa! over the monitor before I die.

The actual alarm clock reads 5:06, about an hour before the time I set it for. Resigned to getting up now, I click the alarm mode to Off. I honestly cant remember the last time I woke to the sound of bomp, bomp, bomp, instead of to the stirrings of one of my three kids. And the snooze feature is an even more distant memory. Mornings of bargaining for brief but luxurious extensions in bed. Just nine more minutes, and I wont shave my legs. Nine more minutes, Ill skip breakfast. Nine more minutes, morning sex. I havent touched that button in a long, long time. Well, Charlie is seven, so it has to be about seven years. It seems like forever. I only bother to set the alarm clock every night now because I know, I just know, that the one time I dont, the one time I decide to rely on my little cherubs to wake me, itll be the morning I have some critical deadline or a flight I cant miss, and theyll all sleep in for the very first time.