Chapter 3
“Ford, I’m going to ask you some questions, if that’s okay with you,” the doctor asks as my best friend stands by the hospital bed. I settle on a careful nod, gaze locked on Ashley.
“I can leave,” Ash says reluctantly. I can tell the idea of leaving me makes him nauseous. In all honesty, it makes me nauseous too. I widen my eyes in panic, throat burning with the words I cannot push out just yet. No, please. Don’t leave.
It’s not just his friendly face; his comforting presence. There’s something else, deep down, that makes me desperate to keep Ash here.
The doctor reads my face and turns to Ash with a reassuring smile. “You are welcome to stay.”
In response, Ash does not move. He plants his feet on the ground, a few steps away from the hospital bed. His stare runs up and down my body, as if trying to convince himself I’m actually here, in the same room with him.
“How old are you?” the doctor asks in a neutral tone.
Easy, I just turned twenty-seven. I try to hold up two fingers on my left hand but I feel the burn of my sore muscles. My arm trembles in the effort and the sting cuts through the fog in my mind.
Twenty-seven.
The more I think about it, the more wrong it sounds. I feel my confidence vacillating and the next number is more of a wiggle of the same hand. Bile is pooling at the base of my throat. What did I do for my birthday? Wasn’t I alone?
“Do you know what day it is?”
Somehow breathless, I scan around for a clue. How am I supposed to know what day it is? I barely know where I am; why I am in a hospital.
“Mond-?” I openly guess because today feels like a Monday. This task feels like a bad day at the office, when everyone is calling in sick and you have to do the work of three people.
The lines on the doctor’s forehead deepen and his shoulders sink lower. “Month?”
My eyes find the only window in the room and I look at the frosted glass. The day is sunny outside, but I can’t really tell the season. It must be summer, I remember. In a voiceless whisper, I attempt the most summer month I know. “July?”
Beside the bed, Ash stiffens as his hands curl into shaky fists at his sides.
The doctor makes a note of something, confidence replaced by worry. “Can you remember what year this is, Ford?”
“…enty-two.” It is more a question than an answer.
With a sigh, Ash deflates completely. He sits down on a chair by the bed and wraps an arm around his chest, blue eyes dark and unreadable.
“And do you remember what happened?”
No, of course I don’t remember, Twat. I shake my head. It’s a sudden, unexpected movement that makes me groan with pain. Ash’s gaze is back on me but he’s not actually seeing me. His expression is one I have seen thousands of times growing up, scared and young and helpless.
“Do you remember being in an accident?”
I don’t have an answer to that, either. Accident. It doesn’t ring any bells. So I simply close my eyes, trying to think of something. Young Ashley. Water. Anything.
The silence is uncomfortable until the doctor finally speaks again. “It was a rather serious one.”
And from there, I’m back floating in the labyrinth. Cars and lorries on the highway. Heavy traffic. Speed limit. As the doctor keeps talking, the fog clouding my brain lifts slightly. A crash: glass and metal pieces flying everywhere; blood spilling from my best friend, lips grey and cheeks hollow.
With firm hands and firmer words, the doctor catches me up whilst inspecting my body.
“Three instant deaths.”
Those words, I hear clearly. I’m not one of those fatalities—at least I think.
“You were in a medically induced coma. You suffered what we call a traumatic brain injury. There was a bleed that we managed to fix surgically, but the swelling in your brain required a temporary shunt to relieve pressure and drain the excess fluid. We removed it once things stabilised, but we will perform some follow-ups to make sure the fluid levels are staying normal.”
I can feel Ash’s gaze on me as the doctor continues to speak.
“The impact from the accident also caused something called a pneumothorax. There was a build-up of air in your chest, which caused one of your lungs to collapse so we worked to take the pressure off your lung.” This time, the doctor points at a hidden tube poking out from under the hospital blanket.
“Drainage is minimal and the patient is breathing on his own, let’s plan removal in about twenty-four hours. Book a chest X-ray please.”
The last part is spoken to the nurse and she’s still not taking notes, but she tilts her head to the side in a quiet agreement.
My head is spinning as I follow the tube transporting fluid to a canister.
“The olecranon—the point of your elbow—was fractured and your leg muscles showed several strains alongside some minor contusions. We decided that heavily sedating you would be the safest option while your body heals.”
When the doctor is done, I exhale deeply through my nose. I don’t remember any of that. I don’t even remember the name of the doctor. There are flashes, but I’m sure they do not belong to me. They’re made of the same substance as the water dream.
“Mr. Bergman was in the car when a truck hit you.”
At that, I turn to my best friend. Mr. Bergman. There is no blood on Ash’s face, but I catch a cut about three centimetres long on his forehead. His long messy hair is covering half of it, but there is no other sign on his body that he was injured.
“…glad’s fine.” I push out with a small, painful smile.
I watch as Ash’s face falls, the air flowing heavily through his nostrils as he tries to control himself.
“Ashford, did I understand correctly you said this is 2022?” the doctor asks again.
In my head, it sounds correct.
“And what’s the last thing you remember?”
Inspecting the hospital room, I try buying some time to find the correct answer. I focus on the doctor in front of me; on the nurse and then; on the blank wall. For some reason, my instinct tells me to dodge Ash’s stare.
I take a deep breath but I keep my mouth shut. I was alone on my twenty-seventh birthday. I’m not supposed to be speaking with Ash. Other than this, I’ve got nothing. I don’t even feel like having a pint.
Ash stands up and without thinking twice he walks closer to my bed.
“Ford, we are in 2024.”
???
After a long silence, the doctor asks to see Ashley outside. The nurse follows them until I’m alone in the room.
“…predict the neurological outcome.”
“How is this even possible?” It doesn’t even sound like Ash. I don’t mean to eavesdrop, but the door is open and Ash’s voice is loud in the corridor. I can’t help but listen to my best friend, whenever he speaks. He has a way with words. He’ll complain about English yet always find the right ones.
The doctor’s voice is lower, the tone is gentle, understanding, but I know something’s really wrong with me.
“I assume a lot has happened in about two years,” the doctor is telling Ashley.
“Physically, he’s recovering quite well.
I expect he’ll be ready for discharge in about three-to-four weeks.
The neurologist will be informed and we will be expecting to see Mr. Hale for a regular follow up twice a week.
In the meantime, try not to overwhelm him with information he doesn’t remember.
Stick with what’s out in the open; what hasn’t changed since his last memory. ”
Ash’s voice sounds small and weak and I cannot understand what he says.
“I recommend being gentle. Forcing memories onto him may cause him to become frustrated and anxious. You said he has experience with anxiety?”
A pause, where all I have to do is ignore the rapid heaving of my chest.
“Do you have any more questions?" the doctor is asking, then.
“How could this happen?”
“Retrograde amnesia is not uncommon among patients the likes of Mr. Hale. The trauma of the accident was extensive and his brain is now having issues accessing information…”
It’s too many gigantic words, too many complicated concepts, so I stop listening to the doctor. I lost some memories? How is this even possible? They must be somewhere, if I just work harder. I thought this happened only in films—in awkwardly constructed TV shows.
I feel the headache crawl back under my skin, or maybe it never left.
I look outside of the window and find myself wishing more than anything that it would rain.
That’s what always gets a dramatic moment going, isn’t it?
The clouds darkening the sky, the wind blowing the dry leaves around in the most chaotic circles.
The lightning, the looming tension that is so high—when the first drop of rain finally starts falling, it’s a relief.
I keep my eyes on the window and it feels like it should be raining.
My heart is already pounding in rhythm with the inexistent thunder.
The blood in my veins is rushing just as rainwater down the sewer.
And it’s just comically correct that instead of a grandiose storm, my dramatic curveball is accompanied by clear, blue skies.
Maybe if I stare at the window long enough, the storm will come.
It doesn’t. Instead, there’s sunshine outside the window and outside my hospital room. Ash’s voice is echoing down the corridor.
“Will he ever regain his memories?”
“Only time will tell, Mr. Bergman.”
I pretend to be asleep when Ash walks back into the room. Everything is still, perfectly silent for a long moment. Then, finally, Ash lets out a muffled sob and sits back into his chair, next to the hospital bed.
“What are we going to do?” he asks as his warm hand rests on my left hand.
I’m about to open my eyes again, tell him that I did not forget him—that no matter what, he’s still my best friend. I’ve got to say something, anything.
In the end, I don’t.
“I can’t go through all of it again. I cannot.” Ash exhales, dropping his head down onto the mattress.
I have no idea what it means.
It must be hours before someone else comes in. I don’t sleep, but I’m not fully awake either. My breathing matches Ash’s and for a while, everything is fine.
“Mr. Bergman. I didn’t know you were still here.” The nurse sounds far, far away.
“Please don’t call me that, Lindsey. And you know I’ve been here the entire time.”
Lindsey, the nurse, chuckles, and says, “You must really love him.”
Ash doesn’t reply, or if he does, I do not hear it.
Of course my best friend loves me. That isn’t new information. We have been friends for over twenty years. If he didn’t love me, I’d kill him. Although for some reason, I can’t seem to shake the feeling that Ash should not be here.
Still, as I doze off into a dreamless sleep, I wonder at the earnest tone Lindsey used, at the silence that followed.
It’s so unlike Ashley to be still.