Chapter 16
Simeon allowed himself one last glance at his wife before he closed the bedroom door with a soft click. A sigh seeped out of him, pulling all his energy with it. He forced his feet to carry him down the hallway but paused outside his office to stare down his recliner. Apparently, it was going to be his bed for the foreseeable future. At least it would be more comfortable than that hospital chair. He could still feel the cricks in his back after a week of sleeping in it, but it had been a small price to pay to be near his wife. Of course, he’d been looking forward to sleeping in his own bed again. To curling up close to Abigail and holding her.
But it had only taken one look at her face as she’d stared at that bed to know that wasn’t going to happen. It should have occurred to him sooner, really.
For all intents and purposes, he was a stranger to her. Of course she didn’t want to sleep in the same bed as him.
So he’d sleep in the recliner. For now. Until she got her memories back.
And he’d do everything possible to make sure that happened.
A surge of energy propelled him down the stairs. He needed to find all their pictures. And go to the grocery store. And make her favorite meal. Anything he could do to remind her of the past might help trigger her memories. So he was going to do it all.
Two hours later, he’d gathered every picture in the house onto the dining room table and was just putting the finishing touches on the enchiladas when the doorbell rang. Simeon gave the enchilada sauce a quick stir, then turned the burner off so it wouldn’t get overdone.
He hurried toward the door before whoever was there could ring again. Knowing his family, it was probably one of his siblings coming to check on Abigail even though he’d told them to give her the day to get settled in. He couldn’t be mad, though—not when he was so grateful for the love and support they’d shown her all week.
In fact, now that they were here, maybe he’d invite them to stay for dinner. The more people who shared memories with Abigail, the better.
He pulled the door open. “Zeb.”
Though Zeb was four years younger than Simeon’s thirty-eight, he looked like he’d aged a decade in the past five days. Lines marred his forehead, and thick smudges edged his eyes. He was in uniform, which Simeon guessed meant he hadn’t taken any time off.
Simeon stepped back from the door. “Come in.” He’d been trying to get ahold of his brother, but Zeb had been ignoring his calls and hadn’t stopped by the hospital.
Not that Simeon didn’t understand.
Zeb wasn’t one to talk about his feelings on the best of days, but this . . .
It would have been too much for anyone. Even Simeon. If their situations had been reversed . . . He could barely handle thinking about it.
Zeb stepped inside, rolling and unrolling what looked like a stack of papers.
“How are you doing?” Simeon asked.
Zeb shrugged. “I’m fine.”
Simeon nodded. If Zeb were a client, he’d probably push harder against the obvious lie, but he knew Zeb well enough to know that was all he was going to get right now. His better course of action was to convince his brother to stay—to show him they were there for him.
“Come sit down. I made enchiladas. I was just going to wake Abigail up, and—”
“I can’t stay,” Zeb interrupted. “I just came by to— Uh.” He cleared his throat as if he were uncomfortable. “To give you this.” He held the rolled up papers out to Simeon.
“What’s this?” Simeon took them.
“I’m sorry, man. They found it in the car after . . .” Zeb cleared his throat again. “I wasn’t sure what else to . . .”
Simeon eyed him. Zeb wasn’t a loquacious man, but he didn’t usually struggle to say what needed to be said.
Simeon unrolled the thin stack of papers.
Law Office of Zelensky and Baker.
Simeon blinked at the letterhead. What was this?
His eyes flicked to Zeb’s grim expression and then back to the paper.
His gaze skimmed to a heading above a block of text. Petition for Divorce. Abigail’s name stood out in bold on a line beneath that. Under it was a little “vs.” And then Simeon’s name.
“Oh.” All the air left him, as if someone had popped his lungs.
He took a step backwards, looking for something to lean against. But there was nothing.
“I didn’t realize you two were . . .” Zeb’s voice sounded far away.
Simeon couldn’t stop staring at the stupid piece of paper. “I— We’re not. There must be some . . .” His mouth was too dry to finish the sentence.
He kept reading. The date on the paper was May 8. The day of the accident. Had she had these drawn up that morning?
He shook his head. Of course she had. They hadn’t just magically appeared in her car.
“Are you okay?” Zeb stepped closer.
Simeon laughed ironically and rubbed a hand over his hair. “I have no idea.”
Zeb shifted. “She didn’t say anything about them?”
Simeon shook his head. “She doesn’t remember anything.”
“Yeah. Dad told me.”
Before Simeon had time to consider whether it was a good idea, he lifted the papers in front of him and tore them down the middle, once and then again. And again.
Zeb eyed him. “You’re not going to tell her?”
Simeon shook his head. “What good could it possibly do? She doesn’t even remember me, let alone this.” He shook the scraps of paper. “If I asked her why she wanted to get a—” He choked, unable to say the word. “She was in such a depression before the accident. That’s all this was about.” He waved the papers again.
Zeb pressed his lips together in that look Simeon knew meant he disagreed, but he nodded. “If you think that’s best.”
“I do.” Simeon balled the fluttering papers in his hand. “Do me a favor and don’t mention this to anyone else either, okay?”
This time Zeb’s disapproving look was accompanied by a grunt.
“What?” Simeon asked, in spite of himself.
“Not telling us about Abigail’s miscarriages didn’t go so well. And now you want to keep more secrets.”
“It’s not a secret.” Simeon rubbed wearily at his face. “I just don’t want anyone looking at Abigail with resentment, wondering why she wanted—” Man alive, he was never going to be able to say that word. “If she’s going to get her memories back, she needs everyone’s full support and love.”
“So you think she’ll get them back?” Zeb asked.
Simeon’s sigh cut the edges of his lungs like glass. “I hope so.”
“But then won’t she remember . . .” Zeb gestured at Simeon’s hand, fisted around the remnants of the papers.
Simeon stared at the crumpled mess. “Yes. And we can deal with that then.” Hopefully by then he’d know how to convince her that she’d been wrong to give up on their marriage. He’d remind her of how perfect they were together.
But that would only work if she got her memories back. If not . . . He couldn’t let himself go there.
“I guess I should go.” Zeb’s voice startled Simeon out of his thoughts. “I have to finish up a couple of things for the funeral.”
A fist slammed against Simeon’s solar plexus. The funeral.
His brother still had to bury his wife.
“Is there anything I can do?” he asked.
Zeb shook his head. “Nah. Thanks.” He turned to the door.
Simeon followed him. “Listen, I know you’re not big into talking, but anytime you need to . . .”
“Yeah, I know, man. Thanks.” Zeb trod across the porch and down the steps, his movements purposeful as always. It wasn’t until he got into his police cruiser that his shoulders slumped and he ran both hands over his face.
Simeon closed the door so as not to intrude on his brother’s grief.
He ran up the stairs and buried the crumpled papers deep in his office trash can.
Then he took a shaky breath and went to wake Abigail for dinner.