Chapter 3 #2
There was nowhere to go. I walked to the window, which overlooked a service roof crowded with ventilation units.
“What do you call it?” I asked.
“Retrograde amnesia.”
“Is it permanent?”
“We cannot know yet.”
“When will you know?”
“There is no reliable timetable. Memories may return quickly, gradually, incompletely, or not at all.”
I turned.
“He remembered Leah’s name after we told him.”
“That may indicate he retained the new information. We’ll test that. His ability to form new memories is as important as the loss of old ones.”
“You said he remembers facts.”
“Some facts. He knows where he grew up. He remembers his training. He recalls Denver and his employment there. The missing period appears to include approximately the last six years, though we have not established a precise boundary.”
Five years with me.
Our first kiss.
The apartment.
Marlowe aging beside us.
Christmas mornings. Hospital visits. Vacations. Fights. Apologies. Thousands of ordinary nights.
Gone behind a boundary no one could see.
“He looked at me like I was no one,” I said.
No one answered.
“Can I tell him?”
Dr. Venn exchanged a glance with Dr. Bell. “We’ll involve a neuropsychologist. It is important that information be introduced carefully. Patients can become frightened or overwhelmed when confronted with a life they don’t remember.”
“He needs to know I’m not a stranger.”
“He needs accurate information, yes. But he may not experience it emotionally in the way you hope.”
My throat tightened.
“He loves me.”
“I believe you.”
“No, you don’t understand. He—”
My voice failed.
Dr. Bell spoke gently. “Reid, the loss of autobiographical memory does not make your relationship unreal. But for Noah, waking into a future he cannot recall will be terrifying. He may need distance while he learns what has happened.”
“Distance from me.”
“Possibly.”
I stared at the floor.
Leah came to my side.
“What can we do?” she asked.
“For now, be calm. Answer questions honestly. Avoid forcing recollection. Do not test him repeatedly or tell him he should remember. Familiar objects, photographs, music, and routines may help, but they can also cause distress.”
“When can I see him?” I asked.
“Now, if you feel able.”
I almost laughed.
Able had nothing to do with it.
Noah was asleep when I entered.
For the first time since the accident, I was grateful.
I sat in my usual chair and studied his hand on the blanket.
Five days earlier, that hand had gripped my shirt in our kitchen.
Five years of touching lived in my body. I knew how his palm fit against mine. I knew the pressure of his fingers at my waist, the drag of his nails along my back, the absent movement of his thumb when we held hands in public.
He knew none of it.
I should not have touched him.
The doctors had warned me that familiarity could become intrusion when only one person remembered it.
Still, I placed my hand beside his.
Not over it.
Beside.
Close enough that our little fingers nearly met.
“I don’t know how to do this,” I whispered.
His breathing remained slow.
“I know how to repair things. I know how to find a fault in a circuit no one else can trace. I know how to keep a boat afloat in weather that should sink it.”
I looked at the narrow gap between our hands.
“I don’t know how to be loved by you when you don’t remember choosing me.”
His fingers moved.
Not toward me. A reflex, perhaps.
I stayed.
When Noah woke, pain crossed his face before awareness.
His eye opened. He looked at the ceiling, the monitors, then at me.
Wariness appeared.
I sat back to give him space.
“Hi.”
He swallowed. “You.”
“Yes.”
He searched my face. “Reid.”
My heart lurched.
“You remembered my name.”
“Told me.”
“I know.”
His gaze drifted to the window. “You work here?”
“No.”
“What are you?”
The question could have meant my profession.
It could have meant something else.
“I own a boat-repair yard.”
He frowned.
“In Greyhaven,” I added.
“Where?”
“Oregon.”
He looked at me again. “Why are you here?”
I had rehearsed a hundred answers in the hallway. None of them survived his expression.
“Because you’re important to me.”
His eye narrowed slightly.
“How?”
My pulse beat in the fresh wound inside me.
“The doctors want to explain everything when you’re rested.”
“Tell me.”
“You were in an accident.”
“Know that.”
“You’re thirty-three.”
“No.”
He said it with quiet certainty.
“You are.”
“No.”
“Your birthday was in March.”
He turned his face away. “I’m twenty-seven.”
“I know that’s what it feels like.”
His breathing changed. The monitor quickened.
I stood but did not approach.
“All right. We don’t have to talk about it.”
“Why’re you here?”
“Because I care about you.”
“Family?”
The word nearly undid me.
“Not by blood.”
His eye closed.
“Then what?”
I could not lie.
“I’m your partner.”
His eye opened again.
Confusion deepened.
“Business?”
“No.”
The silence grew.
I forced myself to say it plainly.
“We live together. We’ve been in a relationship for five years.”
He stared at me.
“No.”
The word was softer this time.
“I know you don’t remember.”
“No.”
“It’s all right.”
“No, it’s not.”
His voice sharpened with pain. He tried to shift and gasped.
I moved instinctively toward him.
He flinched.
I stopped.
That single recoil hurt more than anything the doctors had said.
“I won’t touch you,” I said.
He turned his face toward the wall.
I called the nurse and left before he could see me break.