Chapter Twelve
“There’s no real change since your last visit. Your wife has what’s called retrograde amnesia affecting her episodic memory.”
“Episodic memory?” his dad asked.
Cujo listened carefully.
“Episodic memory contains your own autobiographical information. Semantic memory, the part that stores general information, like the current president or where Africa is, for example, isn’t generally affected.
Memory doesn’t come back chronologically.
You might remember a decade ago or you might remember last week.
Evelyn remembered her maiden name and some of her youth. These are all positive signs.”
“What happens next?” Cujo asked. Would she move in with one of them? Connor lived too far away. Devon had the kids. He worked all day. Would it be too much for his dad to take on?
“She needs to stay here until she starts rehabilitation. As the police informed you, no identification was found on her, so we don’t know where to send her yet.”
Her married and maiden name had led the police to dead ends four years after she left Miami. She’d graduated from Boston University, and then disappeared.
“What else can we do?” His father was frustrated by the progress being made.
“Keep visiting. Talk to her. Show her photographs, share memories. It’s less for treatment and more to help her feel secure. But don’t push. Don’t discuss negative experiences, it could trigger her subconscious to resist the return of current memories.”
The doctor left them outside her room.
“Dad, can we talk?”
Alec nodded. “Sure.”
“I’m sorry.” Cujo started. They’d always been really close, and even if they couldn’t agree on the role his mom would play in their lives going forward, he didn’t want to destroy the bond they shared. “I hadn’t thought about this from your point of view. I was just being selfish.”
“I’m sorry, too, Brody. I should have shared more about your mom as you got older.” His dad grabbed his hand and turned to face him. “The funny thing is, you are so like her, without me ever saying a word.”
Cujo followed his dad into the room, surprised when he leaned over and kissed his mom’s cheek, like he’d been doing it for the last twenty years. Even more surprised when she blushed.
“Hello, boys,” she said. Her voice was a lot smoother than it had been the first time they met.
Thankfully the blood had dissipated from her eye, leaving a dull purple cast. Remembering the doctor’s explanation of petechiae being a result of the botched strangulation made him feel sick to the stomach.
Some of the dressings on her head and face were gone, revealing shaved and stitched patches.
Evidence of how fast and hard the doctors fought to keep her alive.
The small improvements showed progress, but the injuries were still extensive.
“I brought some photos of the boys when they were younger,” his dad said, reaching inside his jacket.
Evelyn held them with reverence. “Which one of you was Batman?” She angled the image toward Cujo.
“Dad,” he groaned. “You brought Halloween?”
It was disconcerting. His mind struggled to reconcile the woman in the hospital with the mom who’d left them. He wanted to like this woman, even help her. But what if they invested all this time with her, grew to like her even, for her to recover her memory and leave them all over again.
Evelyn chuckled, a difficult feat with the wiring across her jaw. She looked through more of the photos, pausing periodically to ask for the story behind them. When she asked more questions about his work, he pulled out his phone.
“Where is this?” she asked.
“It’s the tattoo studio I own. Second Circle.”
She tapped the next one. “Is that…? I feel like I know that place.” Zephyr had fallen asleep with her head hanging off the end of the sofa at Dad’s place. He’d grabbed the shot before lifting Zeph into a more comfortable position.
“Anything specific grab your attention?” He didn’t want to feed her memories.
“No.” Evelyn rubbed the bridge of her nose. “It’s a weird déjà vu feeling. Like I’ve been there before. But it’s all like that. Snapshots in my mind. I see faces. Two huge tractors. There’s a blue and white building. I’m wearing a ridiculously colorful outfit…”
He knew what she was talking about. The picture hung in the hallway for years. Guess that’s what happens when you got married at Miami City Hall at the start of the eighties.
His mom stopped on another photo. She studied it. Whatever she was looking at made her wince. Then she gasped and looked away.
“Evelyn, are you okay?” Alec leapt from his chair by the side of her bed.
The phone slipped from her fingers, and Cujo grabbed it before it hit the floor.
“Yes. No. My head hurts. I … I think this is too much.”
“Brody, we should let her rest. Please ask for the doctor on your way out.”
Cujo informed the nurse’s station, and then headed to the elevator. Curious, he pulled up the last photograph his mom had seen before the pain.
Drea.
He thought about the night they’d shared.
She’d been everything he hoped. Willing, flexible, and open-minded.
And smart. And sassy. And a whole lot more.
He should be home, wrapped in his sheets with Drea, trying to figure out whether their first time together was a sign of things to come, or a fluke of nature.
Not stuck in this fucking hospital.
What was he doing? He scrubbed his hand over his head. He’d slept with her and then poured his heart out to her. Had he just been carried along in the moment? No. That couldn’t be it, he wanted to be with her too badly.
When the elevator finally arrived, he stepped inside.
The more time he spent time with his mom, the more he was reminded that love wasn’t enough.
He could see his dad’s desperation to reconnect with her, and worried about the pain it would cause him should she leave them again.
There was potential for that kind of intensity between him and Drea.
It was more than flirting and fun. It was fucking chemistry.
Perhaps he should ease back a little and keep a distance between them. Slow things down and see how it developed. She deserved it all. A relationship. A family. A sense of belonging. That wasn’t something he could guarantee.
Fuck. He kept coming full circle.
He exited the elevator and walked toward the parking lot.
Hospital hallways were the same everywhere.
He thought back to checking in for his surgery.
Pajamas, paperbacks, secret stash of Twinkies for when the hospital meals didn’t live up to his standards.
Trent stood with him, and the two of them checked out the nurses while his dad took care of the paperwork.
His phone buzzed.
I’m working late at the café. Want to come for dinner? Drea.
But he couldn’t. Everything his mom had told him rattled around in his brain. Might as well put his head in a blender and set it on full speed.
Only work would drown out the noise in his head.
Drea would have to wait.
* * *
Her shift at the café had come and gone without a response to her text. It wouldn’t normally concern her, but Cujo was usually quick to reply. She hoped it had nothing to do with his mom.
It doubly sucked because it would be a while longer before her day and night shifts colluded to provide twenty-four glorious hours off work. While a good chunk of those hours would be filled with the usual stuff, she hoped Cujo would be able to spend some time with her, perhaps even go on a date.
Drea wasn’t going to worry about him yet. Forty-eight hours ago they’d promised to stick together when it got hard, and she was going to have faith in that.
She pushed the drink cart toward the staff elevator. It was so slow, she contemplated breaking house rules by jumping in the customer elevator.
It had been difficult to rouse her mom before her shift at José’s, so much so that she’d popped home between jobs to check on her. She’d ask the doctor if there was anything her mom could take to be more comfortable.
Her phone vibrated in her pocket. Cujo, she hoped.
Gilliam. Disappointment settled in her tummy. She opened the email. Apparently the DEP person had checked the site. It was nice of Gilliam to send the report to her, but she didn’t understand most of it. The summary all seemed very positive.
… Within tolerance levels … no evidence of … satisfactory precautions …
Who was she to argue with science?
She exited the elevator and walked to penthouse suite 1480, struggling to stop the cart from pulling over to the left.
Why did she always end up with the cart with the wobbly wheel?
Two bottles of scotch, a bottle of vodka, and a bottle of tequila plus all the fixings, were rattling around on the tray.
Assuming the guests were from the area, it would be quite the tip. Europeans were crappy tippers.
A huge man stood outside the double doors to the penthouse suite. He wore a quality suit, and a name badge stating he was ELROY KING. HEAD OF SECURITY. She felt like a lab rat under his intense scrutiny.
“Room service,” she said cheerily, burying the sense of unease.
King didn’t acknowledge her but proceeded to poke through the contents of the tray, looking for lord knows what.
Three solid knocks on the door and it opened.
“Finally,” a thin man in a blue polo shirt drawled. “We placed this order ages ago.” Drea pushed the cart over the metal strip of the doorway, the bottles clanked against one another, threatening to fall.
“I’m sorry, sir. The kitchen and bar are very busy this evening.” Her blistered feet were testament to the number of guests.
“Set up over there.” He pointed to a small wet bar. She pushed the cart clumsily, freaking wheel, into the corner. Several men were seated around a large oval table as she walked by.
“The Canadians are taking the stance proximity is the issue. Keeping it away from the masses makes it more palatable…”