Chapter 16 Emma
Chapter sixteen
Emma
Hours go by before we finally have a moment of peace. Tests, scans, consults. Everything under the sun just to confirm what we already know.
My husband doesn’t remember me.
“How long will that take?” I ask as the lab technician takes a fifth vial of blood from his hand.
My stomach is queasy as I watch her remove the needle, but I stay glued to Steven’s side, and he’s let me.
Even though he can’t remember our entire marriage, he’s been able to piece together the first few months of our relationship.
And that’s brought both of us some comfort.
“I don’t know,” the lab technician responds, “maybe a few hours. I’d ask the nurse.” He doesn’t seem very keen on answering anything else, so I hold my tongue and the avalanche of questioning that’s threatening to unleash on anyone wearing some sort of badge that walks into this room.
“Thank you,” Steven mutters as the tech wraps his arm and leaves with the gallon of blood he just drained.
“Are you alright?” I grimace at his arm, assessing his face for any sign of dramatic blood loss.
“It was just a few vials,” Steven reassures, like this is natural for him. “They’d have to take way more to cause damage, don’t worry.”
“How do you know I’m worrying? I’m fine.”
He places a hand on my bouncing knee. “I have a hunch.”
It’s jarring to see how well he can read me, even now when his memory has been wiped clean. And who knows if he’ll get it all back. But as we sit here, and his hand grazes my bare skin, it’s as if nothing has happened.
“I worry a lot,” I whisper, staring at his hand. His dark skin is smooth and rich against my pale, unshaven legs, but the prickles don’t seem to bother him as his fingers brush back and forth.
“How come?”
His question throws me. Not because it’s hard to answer, but because it’s coming from him.
Steven hasn’t asked me something so simple, yet deep, in a very long time.
Our conversations, especially over the last six months or so, have been hijacked by general housekeeping and parenthood roles, leaving no room for deep.
“What is there to worry about?” he adds.
I can’t help but gape at him, and he laughs.
“Right.” He gestures to his head. “I just mean, is our life…” He struggles to find the words. “Is it hard? Husband getting attacked aside and all, do you have a lot to worry about?”
A self-deprecating laugh slides out of me, and as much as I want to tell him the truth—that he has a wife with horrible postpartum and even worse generalized anxiety—now is not the time.
“I have a normal amount for our situation,” I say, which isn’t a lie. If we look at the statistics, I am considered a normal level of anxious with my diagnosis—at least according to Ellie, anyway.
Steven must accept this answer as sufficient, or he doesn’t want to press too hard, because he nods and lets his eyes flutter closed.
“Are you tired?” I ask, reaching to touch his cheek, but I hesitate. How would he feel if I touched him?
He opens one eye and sees my hand, still hovering near his cheek, and I retreat.
“Sorry. I didn’t know if you’d want me…” I let what he just witnessed speak for itself and stop talking. Embarrassment heats my cheeks.
“I do.” He says it like it surprises even himself. “I do want you to.”
I smile, letting my hand settle where the curve of his jaw meets his neck. The long line of muscle tenses and stretches as he rests his head back against the pillow.
“Are you tired?” I ask again, brushing my thumb around the edge of his bruised cheek. The purple tint of his skin covers half of it, nearly blending in with his familiar dark circles. His exhaustion, him running himself into the ground, for us, got him here.
“My head just hurts a little.”
“And you’re smiling about that?” I arch a brow at the smile now pulling at his lips.
“No.” He laughs. “I’m just happy, I guess.”
“What an odd time to be happy,” I say as he sinks deeper into the pillows, his hand still firmly gripping my knee.
“Maybe it’s the brain damage.” I immediately choke out a gasp at my words, the insensitivity rolling over me like hot acid.
“Oh my gosh. I’m so sorry. That was…ugh. ” I cover my face, and he laughs again.
“Or maybe it’s the company making me happy.”
Groaning into my hands, I disagree with him. The bed moves and sheets rustle before his hands are encircling my wrists as he uncovers my now beet-red face.
“Hey, don’t worry, it was funny.” His smile is genuine as his hands move to clasp mine in his lap. “Are you the funny one in our relationship?”
I snort out a laugh. “The kids don’t think so.”
He stills at this, and his hands go lax.
“Sorry.”
Tense, unnerving silence stretches between us before he finally asks, “When can I see them?”
I hadn’t thought about this. Not that I don’t want the kids to see their dad, but I hadn’t even thought about how to tell them—or if I was even going to tell them.
“I, uh…I don’t know.”
Before we can get into the weeds about the kids, my phone starts ringing across the room. I jump to grab it, already bracing myself for Ellie panicking over something Josie-related or Benny calling to say the boys got into another fight at jiu jitsu. But it’s neither.
I hesitate when I see my screen then show it to Steven. His eyes widen when he sees that it’s his dad is calling.
I rarely miss a call from his dad. Not out of obligation, but because talking to him is always heartwarming and leaves me feeling more peace than before. I think that’s why I answer without checking with Steven first.
“Hey, Tom,” I answer, shrugging at Steven, who mouths what are you doing? “How’s it going?”
“Emma…” Tom Jones, my father-in-law, grunts on the other line. “Tell me what’s going on.”
I gnaw on my lip, unsure what all he might know. The only people I’ve told are Ellie and Liam. The latter, unfortunately, because he wouldn’t stop calling. And knowing my luck, both of them would feel obligated to call Steven’s parents.
“What’s going on?” I repeat, looking to Steven as if he could help guide this entire situation. He shrugs at me, and as if the bruise on his forehead is enough to knock some sense into me, I realize I have to handle this without him.
I sigh and tell Tom everything about the accident, in as minimal detail as he’d allow.
He’s never been a details man, but when it comes to his family, he needs everything.
I decided to leave out the part where the patient tried strangling Steven and what the doctors said could’ve happened if they had been alone.
The thought chills me to the bone—the fact that this entire situation could have ended up much worse.
“For now, we’re waiting on some tests to come back before he can go home,” I say into the phone, pacing at the foot of Steven’s bed.
“Which they say should be tomorrow.” I fight the urge to look at Steven and see how he feels about this nugget of information.
What is home to him? Does he even want to go to a house he doesn’t know?
With children who will want to climb all over him but could very well be alien to him?
“So he can’t remember anything?” Dad’s voice is steady, like it usually is, which calms me more than I want to admit. It’s a quality he passed on to his son, the ability to calm the raging storms that tend to explode in my brain so often.
“Just the last fifteen years or so.” I look to Steven, and the number seems to be a gut punch to him, knowing so much life has happened and he can’t remember a single second of it.
“Oh, Emma…”
I clear my throat, trying to drown out the sadness in his voice. The realization that Steven doesn’t remember the majority of our life together…it’s enough to rip me in half.
“They called it retrograde amnesia.” I press on. I can’t let Tom, of all people, with everything he’s enduring, have sympathy for me.
“Is it permanent?” Tom asks, the steadiness wavering as we broach the topic of memory loss. It’s not new territory for him, but it’s not easy either.
“We don’t know. They said to give it time.”
He sighs, and I can almost feel the hot tickle that comes when he does, the familiar sensation of him being right next to me, whispering a silly anecdote in my ear when I might feel anxious or overwhelmed. I know he’d be here if he could.
“Well, let me try to get some things in order, and maybe I can—”
“No, Tom. That won’t be necessary.” I come to a halt under the flatscreen TV showing a sports rundown.
He tries to interject, probably wanting to give me a list of ways he can help if he was here, but I barrel on.
“There’s not much you can do, Dad. I know that’s not what you want to hear, but other than his memory, they said Steven is in perfect health.
We’ll just take it slow and wait to see if anything comes back to him over the next couple of weeks. ”
“Emma,” he tries to argue.
“Tom.” I whip a hand to my hip, going rigid at my tone. I never snip at him, but this man can be stubborn, and I can’t let the guilt he’s feeling lead him to make any rash decisions. “Please,” I say softly. “I will update you as much as I can, but for now, we wait.”
The line is silent for a beat as he mulls this over, wrestling with his desire to do what he wants.
“Fine,” he finally says. “But I think we’re canceling next week. His sisters are a mess, and I can’t be held responsible for what they might do, alright?”
“Next week? Next week.” I’m simultaneously confused and conflicted as our travel plans come rushing back.
The annual birthday celebration for Steven’s mom is next week, combined with his parents’ 50th wedding anniversary, and an impromptu family reunion that was beginning to brew.
Essentially a week of big freaking deals.
“Oh my gosh, Tom, I totally forgot.” I groan, slouching into the rickety chair nestled into the corner of the room. Steven arches a brow at me as I slump back and rest my head against the wall.