New Henry

The jacarandas were in full bloom, silky petals sprinkling the walkway like a violet blanket of snow. Henry watched his feet cut a path through the vibrant blossoms. His gait was unsteady and he walked slowly, savoring the moment. He looked up as a pair of squawking crows flew overhead and settled onto a nearby tree branch. He stopped and turned his face to the September sun, allowing the warm rays to penetrate his skin. He took a long, deep breath, filling up his lungs and marveling over the fact that he was actually standing here on campus, a feat, which for so many years had seemed about as likely for Henry as landing on the moon.

It was always his mother's dream for Henry to go to college. Jessie was a single mom working three part time jobs: cleaning houses, driving a school bus, and waitressing on the weekends, to make that dream a reality. Henry did his part by excelling in school and becoming a near violin virtuoso, sacrificing hours each day to practice when he could have been out playing basketball or hanging with his friends. Had life gone as planned, Henry would have been the first in his family to achieve a higher education. His dream was to eventually perform with the Philharmonic, but, as is so often the case, life seldom goes as planned.

Henry has no recollection of the most consequential night of his life. He's been told the details over and over again so many times that a new web of synapses developed in his brain to trick him into believing he remembers. The truth is, the old Henry died that night and, for the past twenty-six years, a new Henry struggled to be reborn.

It was a Saturday night and Henry had a hankering for some Rocky Road. Jessie gave him ten dollars and he set out for the local grocer. Exhausted after a long week and a double shift at the restaurant, Jessie settled in on the couch, flipped on the TV and quickly dozed off. When she awoke some hours later, she assumed Henry had gone to sleep and she dragged her tired self off to bed. It wasn't until the next morning when she didn't hear the usual melodic strains of Henry's violin that she went to check on him and discovered he hadn't come home.

Even though he was seventeen and almost an adult, Jessie felt that same sickening, stomach dropping panic she'd had at the amusement park when Henry was three. She had turned away for a second to hand the man two tickets for the carousel and when she turned back, Henry was gone. She ran through the park frantically scouring every ride and attraction, chasing after every small boy in a red sweatshirt. She eventually found Henry at the petting zoo, his tiny fingers poking through the metal fence trying to pet the baby goat. She vowed then that she would never again turn away, not even for a second.

Jessie went to the police station and pleaded with the officer for help. “Henry was a good kid,” she said, “not one to stay out late or go anywhere without first checking in with her. If he was missing, it was because something bad had happened. She was sure of it.” Records showed a John Doe had been found beaten and unconscious the night before not far from the grocery store.

Jessie raced to the hospital. When the nurse led her into the room, she was certain it wasn't Henry. The victim's head had been shaved and a piece of skull removed to alleviate the pressure on his brain. She stared at the boy's face, trying to imagine Henry's deep brown eyes and the tiny dimple on his left cheek under the swollen, bruised and bloody pulp that remained. Then she noticed his arm and the moon-shaped birthmark peeking out from under his hospital gown. When Henry was little, she used to tell him he was such a special boy that God had made him out of moon dust.

Henry was in a coma the doctors said he might never wake from. Jessie ignored them all, quit her three part-time jobs, moved in with her sister, and waited by Henry's bedside every day for the next year. She talked to him, read to him, played his favorite violin concertos. Before leaving each night, she would whisper in Henry's ear, “Is it you, Henry? Are you in there?”

After a year passed with no significant change, Jessie reluctantly found a new job. She visited Henry each night when she got off work and all day on the weekends. She continued on this way for years, dying a little bit each day as she reluctantly came to accept that Henry might be this way forever. There was talk of pulling the plug, 'it would be the compassionate thing to do,' they said, but she had vowed never to turn away and wouldn't give her consent.

The worst day of Jessie's life was when Henry was attacked. The second worst day was when Henry woke up. He miraculously opened his eyes to the shock of even the most optimistic physicians, but when Jessie looked into those eyes, she saw that they were empty. Henry didn't know who she was or who he was. He didn't even know his own name.

We are created from memory. We're a culmination of our past. Every experience, every connection, every trauma brings us into being. Everything we encounter in the course of a lifetime leaves its imprint and influences how we perceive the present, what we dream for the future, and who we ultimately become. Jessie couldn't help but wonder what happens if we're robbed of our history? If Henry no longer identified with the Henry from before the attack, who was he now?

It took years of physical rehabilitation for Henry to regain the ability to walk and to talk. It took even longer for his new self to emerge from the wreckage of his mind. He eventually came home but it didn't feel quite like home, not to Henry and not to Jessie. They seemed like virtual strangers living under a shared roof, but Jessie's love for her son was unconditional, and she grew to love the new Henry as well.

He'd lost his memory, but new Henry resembled old Henry in many ways. He was still kind and gentle, he had a raging thirst for knowledge, and when something caught his interest, he wouldn't let it go. There were a few notable exceptions... Jessie discovered new Henry detested chocolate ice cream, especially Rocky Road. He also preferred electronica over violin concertos, his former passion, which broke her heart to pieces.

What Henry now loved were birds. All kinds of birds... magpies, herons, finches and sparrows. His fascination developed during the long, boring, lonely years of his recovery as they flew past his hospital window. Once his motor skills improved, he began sketching birds at home when they happened to settle on his windowsill or he caught them basking in the sun on telephone wires. Jessie bought him a massive book on ornithology and Henry became the Rain Man of birds. He memorized all of their names and could rattle off individual characteristics at the drop of a hat: The Bassian Thrush farts at earthworms to startle them out of hiding. Blue Jays sometimes eat their own eggs and nestlings. Baby Hoatzins of the Amazon are born with tiny claws on their wings and feet.

But his favorite were crows. As commonplace as they were, Henry thought Crows were utterly magnificent. They were known for their adaptability and superior intelligence over other birds, and Henry loved the the way they soared through the air like they owned the sky. He also thought it especially funny that a group of crows was called “a murder” when he had come so close to being murdered himself.

Henry held out his hand as a purple petal drifted down and landed in it. After decades of struggling to reclaim some semblance of a life after all that had been taken from him, Henry could hardly believe that, at the age of 43, he was about to begin his first day of college. He no longer dreamed of playing in an orchestra. Henry's greatest desire was now to become an expert in wildlife biology, to eventually build his own aviary and to spend his days surrounded by exotic species of birds.

As he headed towards the Science Center, a group of students walked past, laughing and chattering. Henry smiled. He'd been alone for so long with only his mother, doctors, and the birds for company. Even though he was more than twice their age, Henry suddenly felt a sense of joy swell within him. These were now his people... the Class of 2019.