Chapter 13
When Doctor Parker finally pats my back and sends me home with a reassuring smile, I almost cannot believe it. Despite the sun coming through the window, the early September morning smells like school supplies and hatred.
My eyes stay unfocused on the white hospital wall while Parker and nurse Lindsey discuss the final details.
“No strenuous activity for you boys for about another week,” Parker tells me with a wink.
I can’t even begin to think about strenuous activities.
I can barely think about sharing a home with Ash. I nod dutifully anyway.
“Your memories will come back. Take it easy.”
I’m not as hopeful. I can stand, I can pee and I can almost shower on my own, but anything else is too much. Walking is draining, people are exhausting and I’m tired of hearing that my memories will come back. The entire hospital’s a big old broken record of liars.
The last few days I have gone through every photo on my phone, playing and replaying every video and reading every message.
Some things ring a bell—something faint and far away that I can’t grasp—but most don’t. It’s frustrating, having a phone full of moments that I can’t place in the real world.
And when Ash picks me up and I follow him out and to an unfamiliar car, I’m not even sure where we’re headed. I don’t ask. I inspect the car and it might as well be the car of the accident. Not that I would remember.
Ash catches my stare. “It’s a rental. Didn’t want the bad memories back before the good ones.”
I chuckle, then spend the entire ride looking at Ash.
I watch the sharp jawline, the nose that Ash insists is too thin, the icy blue eyes focused on the street.
He’s tapping his fingers on the steering wheel and although the radio is turned off, he’s humming a low tune to himself.
I follow his Adam’s apple up and down and then a new, unexplored thought crosses my mind.
How much new music have I forgotten? And has Ash’s neck always been this kissable?
He hits the brakes stopping at a traffic light and there’s a soft warm feeling in my stomach that has nothing to do with the sunny day outside and has everything to do with the man sitting beside me.
Hugging the elbow sling to my chest, I wish I was brave enough to ask the list of questions I have been meaning to ask Ash. I want to know more about the accident, about the adoption process and most importantly I want to know more about us.
But I don’t know where to begin. And every time I start speaking, I get lost in a laugh, in a wink and then, I get lost when Ash stops the tapping and rests his hand on my knee instead.
“Are you doing alright?” he asks, flashing me a smile that has no business being so relaxed, positive and hopeful.
With a nod, I fight the instinct to squeeze Ash’s hand.
Instead, I look out and I’m not surprised we’re in Sheffield.
Deep down, I knew this already. I recognise the green hills in the distance, the red bricks and finally I recognise the neighbourhood.
When I do, I’m glad Ash’s hand is still resting on my thigh.
The weight of it is grounding and the warmth is real—alive.
My voice is surprisingly calm when I ask, “I moved into your house?”
Ash chuckles. “Ford, babe. You’re not ready.
” He sighs, parking the car in the driveway before jumping out.
I try to ignore the way the endearment makes me feel but it is impossible.
Sure, Ash has called me babe before, but never unironically.
It’s like a cosy blanket on a cold winter, a hot tea on a rainy day.
Circling around the car, Ash gathers my stuff from the back and opens my door.
The ground is wet, but not slippery. I manage two steps before I notice a figure sitting on the little bench by the entrance, waiting for us.
It’s a young woman with short hair and long lashes, holding a tin box of shortbread in her lap.
I recall her visit when I first woke up at the hospital, but that was weeks ago when I was barely able to exchange a couple of words before falling back asleep.
“Hi.” The woman stumbles to her feet.
Beside me, Ash doesn’t move. “Everything alright?” His voice cracks in a weird, desperate way and suddenly, I’m worried sick. Is it Winnie? Did something happen? And why the shortbread?
“Oh yes, Ash, of course. Sorry, I didn’t mean to worry you.
Either of you.” The woman walks towards Ash and hands him the tin.
“Everything is just peachy, Ash. This is a welcome home gift. I wasn’t sure when you were going to be home, so I just waited here a bit. Everything’s fine. Everyone’s safe.”
She meets my eyes and her kind reassurance makes me feel guilty. Am I the reason Ash needs so much gentleness? I wish I knew who this woman was, wish I remembered, wish I understood the soft way Ash reaches for her shoulder and squeezes delicately.
Ash thanks her and as quickly as she appeared, she’s gone. Ash turns to look at me and the woman with the shortbread is quickly forgotten. He’s so handsome, it hurts everywhere.
This time I accept the hand Ash is offering as he leads me inside the most wholesome townhouse I have ever seen. The semi-detached extends on three floors and a tall hedge separates the entry from the neighbour’s.
“Please let me know before you have a heart attack,” Ash warns me with a kind smile.
I almost have one, but then I remember to breathe slowly and think of Dr. Bakari.
This might not be my choice now but it was my choice at some point in my life.
I remember to breathe when I see Ash’s living-room and spot the details that make it our living-room: the records displayed on the wall, the toys on the floor, the black pillows on the orange couch.
I remember to breathe when Ash guides me to the dining-room and kitchen, where I spot a black kettle and the black mixer my dad gifted me years ago.
Both are a hard contrast to the colourful decor that clearly was chosen by Ash.
I almost choke when Ash drags me upstairs.
I need to take multiple breaks but eventually we make it to the first floor.
When Ash asks me if I want to see the second floor where Winnie has a bedroom and a playroom I shake my head.
Walking is draining but stairs are the scariest so far and I don’t think I can manage another staircase.
There’s worry in Ash’s eyes but he says nothing and instead gives me his arm. I hold onto it as we continue the tour. I almost have a heart attack again when Ash shows me a large bedroom that clearly belongs to us, but I must breathe. I must think about my choices.
The walls are light blue, matching the bedsheets.
There is a fireplace on the right of the bed and a giant mirror on the left, next to a big window.
A basket with some colourful pillows and blankets is pushed to the side.
Beside it, a tall plant. I have never been able to keep anything alive, so I know immediately this is not mine.
Not my choice, not under my control. Yet something I must have agreed to.
Some things I do recognise as mine. Ash doesn’t say much to fill the blanks but he points at things sometimes, a shaky finger hopefully raised up.
In our bedroom he shows me one of my guitars and in the hallway he shows me a family portrait of himself, Winnie and I.
The frame is black and white and it’s nearly unpleasant hanging on the neat white wall.
One side of me wants to stop time, take a photo to make sense of it later.
I tell myself I don’t need to: everything is here. Everything belongs to me. To us.
Finally, we make it to the second bedroom, a neutrally decorated room with its own bathroom.
The curtains are beige and the bed is facing the window.
Opposite of it there is a creamy chair and another green plant in surprisingly good shape.
Compared to the rest of the house, the room is deeply impersonal, out of a design magazine.
A tall mirror, a soft carpet and a quote from Shakespeare framed above the bed.
I watch the beige comforter as Ash chooses his words carefully, “I didn’t know if you wanted to sleep in the same room, so I prepared you the guest room. Winnie is with your dad for a couple more days so you can get settled in.”
I blink back tears, grateful but at the same time, somehow, disappointed. “You don’t want to sleep with me?” I joke and it’s an intrusive thought that knots my stomach.
“Oh, I want nothing more,” Ash says and disappears down the stairs, leaving my cheek flushed and my heartbeat irregular.
It’s home, but it’s not.
After I wash my face in the beige bathroom I leave the guest room to go hunt for fresh clothes in the main bedroom.
Opening the closet, I immediately realise I have chosen the wrong side.
A line of colourful shirts stares back at me, pinks and greens and even stripes that I would never wear.
I spot a white shirt with yellow pineapples that I have seen Ash wear only once and a pile of graphic t-shirts, too.
Right at the top, the University of Birmingham logo reminds me that Ash is the same person I have always known and that this isn’t some sort of alternative reality. Once again, I breathe.
I pick something black and safe from my side of the closet and leave the room hurriedly, closing the door behind me.
I wonder if in 2024 I have finally learned how to do laundry properly, with all the colours Ash wears.
And the realisation that I must have is the most unsettling realisation of all.
In 2024, Ashford Hale can use a washing machine.
A sense of pride spreads in my chest, immediately followed by the bruising awareness that if asked, I would not be able to accomplish anything successfully in my current state.