Chapter 4
REID
I spent the night in the family lounge because I could not bear the apartment and was not permitted to remain beside Noah.
Leah found me before dawn, sitting beneath a window with a paper cup cooling between my hands.
“You told him,” she said.
“He asked.”
“How did he react?”
“He didn’t believe me.”
“That makes sense.”
“I know.”
“He’s confused.”
“I know.”
“He wasn’t rejecting you.”
I looked at her.
“He moved away from me.”
Leah sat in the chair opposite mine. “Reid.”
“He looked afraid.”
“He woke up injured in a hospital six years ahead of where he thinks he belongs. Anyone who tells him something impossible is going to frighten him.”
“I’m something impossible.”
“For now.”
The distinction should have comforted me.
It didn’t.
At nine, a woman introduced herself as Dr. Lena Whitcomb, a neuropsychologist specializing in traumatic memory disorders. She wore burgundy pants, soft shoes, and no white coat.
“I’ll be working with Noah through the next phase of his recovery,” she said. “And with you, if you’re willing.”
“I’m willing.”
“Good. I’ve reviewed his imaging and spoken with the medical team. His case is complex, but there are encouraging signs.”
“What signs?”
“He retained your name overnight.”
“He was told several times.”
“That still matters. It suggests his short-term learning system is functioning.”
“So he can remember new things.”
“We believe so, though fatigue and pain will affect consistency.”
She led me into an empty consultation room.
“There are a few principles I need you to understand. First, do not ask Noah to perform love for you.”
I stiffened.
“I wouldn’t.”
“You may do it without realizing. Asking whether he remembers a trip, a kiss, a promise. Watching his face after showing him photographs. Telling him how he used to feel and waiting for him to confirm it.”
“I want to help him.”
“I know. But every failed attempt can become a test he believes he is disappointing.”
The thought made me feel ill.
“What should I say?”
“Facts. Simple, consistent facts. Let emotion come from him at his pace.”
“He asked what I was to him.”
“And you answered honestly.”
“He panicked.”
“He may panic again. Truth is still preferable to deception, but truth needs room around it.”
I rubbed both hands over my face.
Dr. Whitcomb waited.
“What if he never wants me near him?”
“That is a possibility you should prepare for.”
I lowered my hands.
She did not soften the words, which I respected and hated.
“His autonomy remains intact,” she continued. “He cannot be expected to accept intimacy from someone he experiences as a stranger, even if that person has loved him faithfully for years.”
“I wouldn’t force him.”
“I believe you.”
“He’ll need somewhere to go after the hospital.”
“Yes.”
“He lives with me.”
“The apartment may be useful because it contains familiar context. It may also be overwhelming. We’ll evaluate that later.”
“I can use the other bedroom.”
“That may help.”
“I’ll sleep downstairs if he wants.”
“Reid.”
“I can rearrange everything.”
“You will not be able to eliminate his distress by making yourself smaller.”
The words landed hard.
“I can try.”
“You’ll need support of your own.”
“I don’t need—”
“You do. Not because you are weak. Because grief is occurring inside a relationship that technically still exists.”
I looked toward the closed door.
“He’s alive.”
“Yes.”
“I should be grateful.”
“You are allowed to be grateful and devastated at the same time.”
My eyes burned.
I looked away until I could trust my voice.
“What do we do today?”
“We establish orientation. Name, age, location, year, injury, work, relationships. We’ll assess what he remembers and what new information he can retain. I would like you and Leah present.”
“What about photographs?”
“A few. Nothing overtly intimate at first.”
“He’s already been told.”
“Knowing a fact and seeing physical evidence of it are different experiences.”
I thought of the photographs on my phone.
Noah asleep against my shoulder on the ferry.
Noah laughing with flour on his face.
His hand in mine at Caleb’s wedding.
A picture from our anniversary, his mouth against my cheek while I tried not to smile.
“What should I choose?”
“Images that show his current life clearly. Home. Work. Friends. You together, but not sexualized.”
“We don’t take sexual pictures.”
A hint of amusement touched her face. “Many people do.”
“I’m not many people.”
“No. I’m beginning to understand that.”
She asked about Noah’s family, work history, friendships, and life in Denver. I answered until the chronology blurred.
At twenty-seven, Noah had been closeted at work, estranged from his father, and convinced he would never return to Greyhaven.
He had not met me.
He had not learned to sail.
He had not adopted Marlowe with me from the county shelter.
He had not stood in our kitchen one winter night and said, almost angrily, that he loved me because admitting it terrified him.
Dr. Whitcomb took notes.
“Was he open about his sexuality at twenty-seven?”
“Privately. Not at work.”
“Did he accept it?”
“He knew who he was. He didn’t always believe it was safe to be known.”
“That may shape his response to your relationship.”
“I know.”
“He may experience being told he has a male partner as exposure rather than reassurance.”
I closed my eyes.
I remembered the first time Noah held my hand outside the yard. We had been walking through the Saturday market. His fingers brushed mine twice before he finally caught them.
He had looked straight ahead, jaw tight.
I asked whether he wanted me to let go.
He said, “Don’t you dare.”
Years later, he reached for me without thinking.
Now even that courage might be gone.
When we entered his room, Noah was awake.
The bandage had been reduced, revealing a shaved strip along the left side of his head and a curved line of surgical staples. Bruises darkened his cheek and throat. His left arm rested in a rigid brace. The blankets were tented above his pelvis to keep pressure off the injury.
He looked exhausted before we began.
Dr. Whitcomb introduced herself and explained that she wanted to ask questions to understand what his brain was doing.
Noah looked at me.
I stayed near the wall.
“You can ask him to leave,” she said.
His gaze moved back to her.
After a long pause, he shook his head.
Relief left me dizzy.
Leah sat on one side of the bed. I took the chair near the window, far enough away that Noah would not feel surrounded.
“Can you tell me your full name?” Dr. Whitcomb asked.
“Noah James Bennett.”
“Do you know where you are?”
“Hospital.”
“Which city?”
He hesitated. “Denver.”
“You’re in Greyhaven, Oregon.”
His mouth tightened.
“What year is it?”
He gave the year he believed it to be.
Dr. Whitcomb placed a laminated calendar on the table.
Noah read the date.
His face lost color beneath the bruises.
“That’s wrong.”
“The calendar is current.”
“No.”
“What feels wrong about it?”
“All of it.”
Leah shifted, but Dr. Whitcomb gave her a small signal to wait.
“How old do you believe you are?”
“Twenty-seven.”
“You are thirty-three.”
Noah stared at the calendar.
His breathing grew shallow.
“Six years?” he whispered.
“Yes.”
“What happened?”
“You moved back to Greyhaven several months after the time you remember. You took a position at Callahan Marine Works.”
His gaze flicked toward me.
“You built a life here,” Dr. Whitcomb continued. “The accident injured areas of your brain involved in autobiographical memory. Right now, you cannot access much of the last six years.”
“Cannot access,” he repeated. “Meaning gone.”
“Not necessarily. Memory is not stored like a row of files in one cabinet. Injury can interrupt the pathways used to reach it. Some people recover substantial portions. Some recover fragments. Some have lasting gaps.”
“When?”
“We don’t know.”
His right hand tightened in the sheet.
“What do I remember?”
“That’s what we’re learning.”
Dr. Whitcomb asked about his childhood.
He named his elementary school, the street where they lived, the dog he had at twelve. He remembered Leah breaking her wrist on a trampoline. He remembered their mother’s habit of burning Sunday pancakes.
He remembered electrical formulas and certification standards.
He remembered how to test a circuit.
He did not remember Greyhaven’s rebuilt waterfront, though it had opened four years ago.
He did not remember Marlowe.
He did not remember Caleb or Owen.
Each absence seemed to take something physical from him.
Leah showed him a photograph from the previous Christmas. Noah stood beside her in our apartment, wearing a paper crown and holding a ruined pie. Marlowe sat at their feet, waiting for disaster to become food.
Noah studied it.
“That’s me.”
“Yes,” Leah said.
“And you.”
“Yes.”
His attention moved over the room in the background.
“Where?”
“Your apartment.”
He looked toward me.
“His?”
“Ours,” I said.
The word escaped before I could make it neutral.
Noah’s expression closed.
I corrected myself. “The apartment where you’ve been living.”
Dr. Whitcomb nodded slightly, encouraging the adjustment.
Noah touched the edge of the photograph with one finger.
“Dog?”
“Marlowe,” Leah said. “He’s yours and Reid’s.”
“Don’t remember him.”
“He remembers you,” I said.
Noah looked at me.
I wished I could take the sentence back. It carried too much need.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
The apology shattered me more efficiently than anger could have.
“You have nothing to apologize for.”
His gaze dropped.
Dr. Whitcomb changed the subject, asking about his job in Denver.
Noah answered with increasing certainty. He remembered the warehouse layout and the names of supervisors. He remembered an apartment with unreliable heating. He remembered driving west to see Leah one Thanksgiving.
Then she asked, “Were you dating anyone?”
His eye sharpened.
“No.”
“Had you dated men before?”
A long silence followed.
Leah looked down at her hands.
Noah’s jaw flexed. “Why?”
“I’m asking because relationships can help us establish the timeline.”
He stared at the blanket. “A few.”
“Were you open about being gay?”
“At home.”
“And at work?”
“No.”
“Were you comfortable with your sexuality?”