4. Carrie
— ? —
Carrie
The ride to the hospital is a blur. More hands, more lights, more voices shouting things I don’t understand.
At some point, I let myself actually lose consciousness, or maybe my body decides for me, because when I open my eyes again, I’m in a hospital bed, staring up at a white ceiling, and there’s a woman in scrubs leaning over me.
“Mrs. Donnelly? Can you hear me?”
I blink. “Yes.” My voice comes out raspy, wrong. “Where am I?”
“You’re at St. Catherine’s Hospital. You had a fall. Do you remember?”
Do you remember?
I look at her. At her kind, tired face. At the concern in her eyes.
And I make my choice.
“No,” I say slowly. “I don’t... I don’t remember anything.”
Her expression goes clinical. “What’s the last thing you do remember?”
I pretend to think about it. “I don’t know. It’s all... foggy.”
“That’s normal with head injuries. Try not to worry.” She pats my hand. “Your family is here. Do you feel up to seeing them?”
My family. My lying sister. My cheating husband. My parents who will probably take his side.
“Okay,” I whisper.
The door opens. My mother rushes in first, her face puffy from crying, and throws herself at my bedside.
“Carrie! Oh, sweetheart, we were so worried.”
My father follows, more composed but still shaken. And behind them.
Ulises. Playing the devoted husband. His face arranged into an expression of relief and concern that would fool anyone who didn’t know what he’d been doing three hours ago.
“Baby.” He moves to my other side, takes my hand. “Thank God you’re awake. You scared us.”
His skin against mine makes me want to vomit. But I keep my face blank. Confused. Innocent.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “But... who are you?”
The room goes silent.
Ulises’s hand tightens on mine. “Carrie. It’s me. Your husband.”
I stare at him. I let my eyes go wide and lost. I let my voice shake.
“I’m sorry. I don’t... I don’t know you.”
My mother gasps. My father goes pale. Ulises’s jaw clenches so tight I can see the muscle jumping.
“Mrs. Donnelly.” A doctor has appeared in the doorway, the neurologist, I’m guessing, based on the clipboard and the concerned expression.
“I should mention that memory loss is very common with this type of head injury. Retrograde amnesia, we call it. It can be temporary or long-term. The most important thing right now is not to push her.”
“But she doesn’t remember me,” Ulises says through gritted teeth. “She doesn’t remember her own husband.”
“That’s not unusual.” The doctor moves closer, checking a reading on one of the monitors. “Any emotional shock could set her recovery back significantly. I must insist, do not try to force memories. Do not contradict her. Let her mind heal at its own pace.”
Do not contradict her.
I file those words away carefully. They’re my armor now.
Ulises leans closer. His mouth brushes my ear. “I know you’re faking,” he whispers, so quiet only I can hear. “And when we get home.”
The door opens again.
A man walks in carrying two coffees, and for a moment, I don’t recognize him. Tall. Dark-haired. Younger than Ulises, with the same bone structure but softer somehow. Less sharp.
Then it clicks. Tom Donnelly. Ulises’s younger brother. Estranged, mostly, I’ve only met him twice, once at our wedding and once at a family dinner where Ulises picked a fight with him over a slight I can’t even remember now.
He stops in the doorway, taking in the scene. His eyes move from my parents to Ulises to me, and his face changes. Confusion. Concern.
“I brought coffee,” he says slowly. “The nurse said Carrie was awake.”
I look at him. At his kind eyes. At the coffee cups in his hands. At the distance between him and his brother, physical, emotional, years of things left unspoken.
The enemy of my enemy.
The thought is wild. Desperate. Possibly insane.
But I’m done being careful. I’m done playing by the rules. I’m done being the good wife, the grateful patient, the woman who does what she’s told.
“Oh, thank God.” I reach out toward Tom with trembling fingers. “There you are.”
Everyone stares.
“You must be my husband.”