The Sofa, Again
The phone is on the table. The pen is in my hand. Helix has a toy and Poppy wants it, and the small thunder of a Weimaraner negotiating with a border jack who is not in a negotiating mood is happening in the background of what is about to be the worst phone call of my month.
It was a winter morning in Ogden. It did not feel like morning. Winter mornings in Ogden have a way of arriving as the middle of something. The light is gray. The cold has been in the windows since before I woke up. Luis is at the studio. The house is mine and the dogs.
I am on the orange floral sofa.
It’s funny, I didn’t realize until I sat down to write this series how often I kept ending up on the orange floral sofa. Damn that sofa.
The Number
My lawyer is breaking down the first settlement offer.
He says the number.
I know it in my body before my mind catches up. My head drops. My right hand goes to the back of my neck. I sit like that while he keeps going.
He breaks it down. So much for his payment and costs. So much here. So much there. So much for the health insurance lien.
The number gets worse as the breakdown unfolds.
It is about half of what I need to satisfy my health insurance lien. I pull my right leg up against my body. I do not remember deciding to. The pen keeps moving on the page. The neck keeps being held.
The Half-Laugh
Well, I say. What’s next?
Arbitration.
He explains my agreement with my health insurance. I have a “duty to proceed.” They have made clear they will not accept less than what they have paid out unless I demonstrate a good-faith effort.
So I have no choice?
Well, he says. You can pay the remainder out to them yourself.
We both half-laugh.
I do not know if my laugh is warmth or release. It might be both. It might be neither. It is the sound a body makes when the absurdity in the room has nowhere else to go.
He has done this a thousand times. I have done it zero times. The laugh is the only moment in the call where the asymmetry between us collapses for a second.
The system is so screwed up.
Yeah, he says. No kidding.
Do you want me to start?
Yes.
Alright. I’ll tell them to go pound sand, then.
He keeps talking. Five years of medical records. Medical experts. Evaluations. They don’t believe me. That’s the problem with brain injuries. They just aren’t believable.
I write not believable on the page.
Poppy gets the toy. Helix accepts the loss with the dignity of a Weimaraner who has decided he wanted something else all along. The call ends. The phone goes down on the table.
