Chapter 5
Five
SIX MONTHS AGO
I’ve been in this hospital bed for three days.
Three.
I’m more than over it.
But my doctor has this worry wrinkle creasing down the very middle of his forehead every time he looks at me. It mimics the same wrinkle that my parents and Fran have.
“I assume since you’ve invited most of my family here today that you’re sending me home.” I cross my arms over my chest and study the man. Dr. Strouse—messy gray hair, foggy gray eyes, and a white coat as if he’s straight out of the geriatric version of Grey’s Anatomy.
“Patience, sweetheart,” Mom tells me, her palm rubbing my shoulder. “You’ll get to leave soon enough.”
“Rosalie,” Dr. Strouse says. “You said the last thing you remember was—”
“Leaving the concert,” I huff. I’ve already said all this.
“Fran and I got Pathfinder tickets. Our favorite indie band was in Reno.” I look at Fran, waiting for her to back me up.
“Why doesn’t Fran have to wear a hospital gown?
” If I was in an accident, so was she! I literally haven’t been in a bra for three days.
Fran’s lips fold in on one another. For once, my best friend doesn’t have anything to say. She bites on the end of her thumbnail, her face looking tired and as if she’s aged overnight.
“Guys,” I say, looking from Mom to Dad to Grammy to Fran. “I’m fine. Seriously, I feel completely—”
“Rosalie,” Dr. Strouse says, standing at the foot of my bed. “Have you heard of retrograde amnesia?”
“Retro—” I scoff and glance from this joker to Mom and Dad. “I’m fine.” I glance over to Fran—she will roll her eyes at his nonsense. She has to. “I don’t have amnesia.” That’s the dumbest thing I’ve heard all week. “Sure, there are a few fuzzy moments around the concert, but I remember.”
But stupid Dr. Strouse goes on. “Retrograde amnesia doesn’t affect your ability to make new memories. It doesn’t affect your short-term memory. There’s semantic memory and episodic memory. They’re different. It’s quite fascinating.”
I sneer. “I’m sure.” But my tone tells him that I don’t find him funny or fascinating.
He takes the paper on his clipboard and folds it like an accordion, creating three sections.
“You can remember everything before the time lost.” He taps the paper at the back of the accordion.
And you’ll have no problems retaining your new memories.
” He taps the front. “But this time, in the middle”—he points to the center of his homemade accordion—“it’s lost.” He shakes his head.
“There is no telling if it will come back or not.”
“I don’t have—”
“Rose,” Fran says, her voice cracking. “The concert was six years ago.”
Dr. Strouse nods. “Six years, three months, and two days to be exact.”
I blink, my friend coming in and out of focus. “No, it wasn’t.” My heart skips and my breaths feel short. They’re wrong.
“Yes.” Dr. Strouse lifts his head and peers around at my mom, dad, grammy, and Fran.
“Is there something we should be doing to help her memory?” Dad says, his eyes glued to the doctor.
“The key is low pressure. There’s no rush in bringing her memories back. She’s going to need rest and a lot of it. Limited screen time and a gradual return to her regular activity. If the memories are going to come back, they’ll come. Forcing it won’t help her.”
“If,” Dad says, looking to Mom for help. Dr. Strouse talks to Dad. Dad looks to Mom, but what about me?
“Hello! I’m right here.” I wave my hand in the air before letting it fall back to the hospital bed.
“Rose,” Mom says, her tone a mix of tearful and scolding. But I can’t help but speak rudely. This guy is talking crazy.
“Where’s Ty and Jackie?” I bark. “If I had amnesia, my siblings would be here.”
“They wanted to be, sweetheart.” My mother’s eyes fill with tears and she picks up my hand, holding it in her own. “But the doctor thought it might be startling to see them.”
“They aren’t the kids you remember,” Dad says, supporting this chaos. “They’re both adults now.”
But I don’t listen. “And where’s Robert?” My voice cracks. “I have amnesia and Robert’s missing it? I don’t think so!”
“Robert who?” Dad’s brows narrow.
I scoff. I’m going to boycott my family if I’m ever allowed to leave this hospital bed. “Robert Pattinson! The soon-to-be engineer, not the vampire. My long-time boyfriend.”
“Oh.” Dad sheepishly turns to look at Mom again, who pulls her hand from mine and looks at Fran. Which only confuses me.
My Fran—who does look a little different, but not really older. She’s simply more beautiful. She bought that new foundation online.
“Robert is…” Fran gives a slow shake of her head. “Not here.”
“Because I don’t have amnesia. Or he would be.” My mouth is dry. My head aches, and I seriously need these people to stop talking cracked.
She swallows. “Sweetie, you and Robert… You aren’t—” She shakes her head. “You broke up a while ago.”
“Me and Robert?” I look around at my family. What for the love of Pistol Pete is happening?
Grammy trots over, and now that I’m looking, it’s hard to deny the wrinkles around her mouth and eyes. They are deeper. They’re more prevalent than they should be. She looks tired. It’s enough to make me hyperventilate.
Grammy takes my hand in her wrinkled one. She brings my fingers to her lips and presses a kiss there. There’s a faint rhythmic tremor wobbling in Gram’s hand. My mind is playing tricks on me, trying to see things that shouldn’t be there. “He was never good enough for you anyway.”
Before I even realize it, there’s a tear on my cheek. “Yes, he was.”
“No,” Fran says, so stern that I feel almost scolded. “He wasn’t.”
I sniff and look back at Grammy. “Where’s Gramps?” He should be here.
Fran whimpers, but Grammy doesn’t lose eye contact with me. Her eyes are tearful, but her words are strong. “He’s watching over you from heaven, sweet girl. In fact, I’d wager he’s the reason you weren’t killed in that awful accident.”
“Grammy,” I say, my voice weak, my chest pounding. I pull my hand away from hers. She can’t be saying—
“He’s been gone a little over a year, my Rosalie.”
“No.” This time, my voice breaks. No. No.
More tears spill, and I look at Fran on my opposite side, pleading, “Take me home. Please, Fran. Let’s just go home.
” I want my home. I want my bed. I want the peace of just me, Fran, and our apartment.
And maybe we don’t live in that little apartment on Tulip Street anymore, but she’ll know where we do live.
But even this simple question makes my best friend cry. She covers my hand with hers, and that’s when I see it. The gold band and pretty diamond on Fran’s left hand wink up at me.
“We don’t live together anymore,” I whisper, reality suddenly a boulder settling on my chest.
She shakes her head, one tear escaping and slipping down her cheek.
“You’re married? You got married and moved out.” I am alone. So very alone. My best friend got married without me, left me, and now I’m alone. How could she do that to me?
The fact is, she didn’t. I was probably there. I was probably happy and supportive and all the things that a best friend should be and do.
I just don’t remember any of it.
If I try hard enough, maybe I will remember. I attempt to conjure Fran in a wedding dress. Fran walking down an aisle. I try to picture her husband… But none of it will come. I can’t even form a blurred, pixelated version of this day. All I’m doing is making my head hurt worse.
Retrograde amnesia is getting harder and harder to deny.
“I’m alone.” The words come out, but just. My body is doing its best to hyperventilate.
“You aren’t alone. We’re all here and so is—” Fran says, glancing at the hospital room door.
Grammy holds a hand out, stopping Fran from continuing. “Low pressure, dear. We’ve given her a lot to process in a very short time.”
My chest heaves. I feel as though I can’t quite take in enough air.
The pressure of all this information feels anything but low; it’s pressing on my chest, it’s suffocating me.
“Yes. That’s enough,” I say. I peer around at my family, somehow feeling a little angry with them, too.
Everyone has moved on without me. No wonder Ty isn’t here; he’s no longer a fifteen-year-old kid.
He’s twenty-one! He’s older than I should be.
The thought has me pulling in a gasp. “I don’t want to hear anymore. ”
A tear streaks Mom’s cheek, and she shares a look with Fran.
“No,” I snap when Mom opens her mouth to speak. “Is anyone else dead?” I say with so much unfeeling that I regret it the minute the words are out.
“No,” Mom whispers.
“Then I don’t want to know anything else,” I say, unable to keep the harshness from my tone.
“Rosalie—” Mom protests.
“No. None of you are allowed to tell me more unless I ask for it.”
And then I have my first ever debilitating panic attack.