Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
Scott
I f my heart had legs, it would be dancing. She remembers us playing Hangman on the couch. She remembers me massaging her feet. Well, she can’t see my face but somehow, my instincts tell me she knows it’s not Drake. He’s acted standoffish and not like a husband would since she’s been in here. A husband would know to rub her back and her hair, to adjust her pillows, and when she needs water. And a husband certainly wouldn’t jerk away from her when he feels his baby kick for the first time.
After Nurse Nancy gives us a stern warning not to elevate her heart rate, we continue our game, and I don’t ask what made her so hot. Could she be remembering having sex on the couch the morning before she fell?
She finally guesses the correct answer with one leg left. “Wild As Her?” She pauses. “Are you trying to say I’m wild?”
“Yep, you’re wild in the best ways. Do you know who sings the song?”
Her eyes roll up and d own and from side to side. “I don’t. But it’s a newer country singer. Do I like country music?”
I pull up the song on my phone. “You tell me.”
“Why did you pick that song?”
“You’ll have to figure that out on your own.”
We both let it go, and her monitors creep back down to normal beeping levels.
“I bet I have some shit-kicking boots, and I’m positive I like country music.” She smiles as she talks, obviously pleased with herself. The width of her smile matches mine. “Scott, thanks for not pressuring me.”
“I’m used to it.”
She swats my forearm. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“In my career and as a volunteer for search and rescue, I have to be patient. That’s all. You need to sleep. They’re going to do an MRI tomorrow, and we don’t want any swelling.”
“Okay, can I ask you one more question?”
I nod.
“What do I do for a living? For a job?”
“I’m really not supposed to say. If you have a memory that gets close, I’ll confirm it for you.”
“Do you always play be the rules?”
“One of us has to.” I mutter under my breath.
“What?”
“Nothing. But yes, I usually follow doctor’s orders.”
“That doesn’t seem like much fun.”
My lips lift on one side, giving her a crooked smile. I say, “I promise you; you think I’m fun.”
She seems to blush, as we both act like we’re fifteen again, and I’m here for all of it. After knowing someone yo ur whole life, those first-time feelings are few and far between unless it really is a first like having a baby. As scared as I am that she won’t ever remember our life, our chemistry is bubbling. It may be under the surface, but we both feel the current running between us.
She mumbles, “I bet I do.” Her eyes flutter closed, so I tuck the journal under her leg like she had it when I came into the room. When I’m sure she’s asleep, I find a bottle of lotion in the cubby hole and lather her up. Her dry skin soaks it in as I push the moisturizer between her toes and maybe an inch into her cast.
Part of me wants to raise her gown and rub it over her baby belly, but it seems like that would be an invasion of her privacy. And even though I’ve rubbed emollients and vitamin E over her body every night since we found out she was pregnant. It has been my way of being dialed in to her pregnancy, wanting to feel her skin stretching and changing day by day.
I realize I haven’t looked at the photos on the camera, so I sit back down beside her and pull the camera into my lap and change the setting to view. The most recent photo is a breathtaking— one of the gorge. She took it from below looking up as streaks and shades of purple blanket the terrain. My wife is very talented, and it’s always amazed me that she can be still to take photos or write, but the rest of the time, she’s hell on wheels. Always going. Always wanting to be spontaneous. Wanting to reach the stars.
When she chose hang gliding as her phrase for Hangman, I knew my Wynter was in there and desperately trying to claw her way out. She knows who she is at her core; she just doesn’t have her memories. But if today is an i ndication, she’ll get them back.
I click through forty pictures from the gorge, and the last one is, by far, the money-maker photo. But before she traveled to the gorge, she took pictures of the Love Lock Bridge from underneath. The place where we stood and declared our love for the first time.
Another photo of an empty outside table at The French Kiss coffee shop where we go every Sunday morning.
Another of the elementary playground, specifically the spinning merry go round. On one of our first official dates, we went to the movies and afterward, I didn’t want it to end so we parked at the end of Main Street, bought ice cream, then walked to the playground. We lay back, and I moved us in circles with my toes pressing to the ground. She talked about all the days we had wasted being friends with benefits.
I assured her, “We haven’t wasted a single day. It’s gotten us to this point.”
But now, I know having to wait for her to come around meant something. It prepared me to be patient for this very moment in time. And patient is what I’ll be. I’ll keep playing games with her like I always have. I won’t pressure her. I didn’t then, and I won’t start now. But what I will do is make sure she knows I love her, even if she thinks it’s in a “friends” kind of way.
Placing the camera in the cubby, I lay my head next to her arm on the bed, trying to think of why she took photos of our places. The coffee table book isn’t about us—it’s about Kissing Springs. Unable to figure it out, I drift to sleep with thoughts of our beginnings.
She turned onto her side on the merry go round and ran her fingers through my thick head of hair. It felt so good, almost like I can still feel it.
I’m awakened by a flurry of movement.
“Hey.” Wynter ruffles her fingers in my hair, and now I realize I wasn’t dreaming—she was playing with my hair. “You’re drooling. I know I’m the sexiest patient alive, but you don’t have to drool.”
She hasn’t lost her sense of humor, still making light of situations so it’s not awkward. It’s a gift she has—putting people at ease. I lift my head, grab a tissue from her tray, and wipe my mouth. “Sorry, I must have fallen asleep.”
“They’re taking me for my MRI. Why don’t you take a break and send in Drake? Did he go to work?”
“No, sorry. I thought the nurse told you he has the flu, so he’s unable to come see you.”
“Oh, okay.” She bites her bottom lip, and her brows dig into the center. This is her “thinking” look. “I think he likes pineapple juice when he’s sick. Tell him to pick some up, and I hope he feels better. Wait, I can tell him. Where’s my phone?”
Her head flits around the room.
“We haven’t recovered your phone yet, but we did find your car at the gorge. Major and Maverick picked it up last night.” She raises an eyebrow, and it hits me that she doesn’t know who I am talking about. “Maverick is Mark’s older brother and Jessica’s husband. Major is my older brother.”
Wynter gestures with her head. “Oh. Sorry, I don’t remember them.”
The transport nurses come in and unhook her from the monitors. “Don’t worry about it. It’s only been a few days. I have no doubt you’ll get every memory back, and some of them you may want to forget.” She rewards my humor w ith an eye roll and a small chuckle.
While she’s gone, the doctor comes in and asks me to follow him to the waiting room. I gather Wynter’s parents, and the four of us sit in the corner.
The doctor touches his fingers together in a triangle before he says, “Good news, if the MRI comes back normal, we’re going to release her. She told the nurse that she feels she will remember more at home. Playing games with Scott has triggered some memories. However, she can’t go home with you, Scott.”
“Why?”
“Let’s take her to her parents’ home. She’ll feel safe there. Until she realizes she’s not married to Drake. It may make her feel awkward going home with you.” The doctor makes sense but I scoff in understanding.
“Nurse Nancy does home health care and is available to help since Wynter’s wound still needs changing, bathing, and monitoring in case anything changes. Can you afford in-home care?”
“Absolutely,” I volunteer.
“Please take down photos of weddings, engagements. It’s fine for there to be family pictures or pictures of friend groups but none of Scott and Wynter by themselves until she knows Drake isn’t her husband. Plus, since Drake has the “flu,” it will make more sense why she’s going home with her parents. Any questions?”
“Thank you, Doctor.” Wynter’s mom grabs his hands and holds them. “In your opinion, how long will it take for her to get her memory back based on what you’re seeing?”
“There’s no way to tell but if she’s having glimpses of her past, it shouldn’t be long before she pieces everyth ing together. A week? Maybe a month? But there are no guarantees. I’ll be setting up a physical therapist and a psychologist starting next week.”
He pushes his hands against his knees. “I’ll go read the MRI and be down to let Wynter know. Fingers crossed the MRI is clean.”
After he disappears through the hospital doors, I blow out a whale’s breath. “I guess you need to go home and erase me.” I hang my head, tears banging under my lids.
“Oh, Scotty, honey. We could never erase you, and neither could Wynter. But we’ll go home and move our stuff upstairs so she can have our bedroom.”
“No. I want her in her room. I’ll take her up and down. Being surrounded by her high school stuff may help her memory. I’ll stay in the guest room if that’s okay?”
“Of course. Let us know when you’re on your way.” And after a giant squeeze, Wynter’s mom and dad head home to Kissing Springs.
Last night, I texted everyone and asked them to go home and get some rest. Even Drake went home, which is exactly what I need—time with Wynter alone and not having to worry about Drake and whatever is going on inside his head. If he thinks that Wynter will ever love him like she loves me, he’s wrong. Dead wrong.