Chapter 32 #2
“You know Owen won’t let him fall.”
“I know.”
“You’re still watching.”
“Yes.”
She smiled gently.
“Caleb would be the same.”
Noah returned several minutes later, leaning more heavily on the pole.
He did not sit.
“Ready.”
We said the final round of goodbyes.
At the car, he accepted help into the passenger seat.
I fastened the belt when his fingers fumbled.
He did not object.
“Good?” I asked.
His smile came slowly.
“Very.”
“Too long?”
“Maybe five minutes.”
“Heroic compromise.”
He closed his eye.
“I like Talia.”
“So does Owen.”
“He looks terrified.”
“Promising sign.”
“And Caleb.”
“What about him?”
“Happy.”
“Yes.”
Noah turned his face toward me.
“I want to be around for that baby.”
The words carried more weight than I expected.
“You will.”
“I want to remember being around.”
My chest tightened.
I put my hand over his.
“Then we make photographs. Videos. Journals.”
“That isn’t the same.”
“No.”
He looked toward the tavern windows.
“But it is something.”
“Yes.”
He fell asleep before I pulled onto the harbor road.
At home, he woke enough to climb out of the car and then leaned against me.
“I can do stairs.”
“You can.”
“I don’t want to.”
That honesty felt like trust.
I turned my back and crouched.
“Arms around me.”
He laughed sleepily.
“You’ll hurt yourself.”
“I am stronger than I look.”
“You look enormous.”
“Useful.”
Noah climbed onto my back with care, his injured leg hanging straighter while his uninjured leg hooked around my hip.
I stood.
He pressed his face into my neck.
“Captain.”
“Yes?”
“Do not drop your boyfriend.”
“Partner.”
“Boyfriend when you carry me.”
I took the stairs one at a time.
Inside, I intended to lower him onto the couch.
He tightened his arms.
“Bed.”
“You need medication.”
“Bed first.”
I carried him down the hall.
When I set him on the mattress, he pulled me forward.
I caught myself before landing on his hip.
Noah smiled with his eye closed.
“Good day.”
“Yes.”
“Future didn’t win.”
“Future is not the enemy.”
“Bad future.”
I brushed his hair back.
“It isn’t here.”
He kissed my jaw.
Then fell asleep before I removed his shoes.
Sunday belonged to recovery.
Noah slept late.
Ate breakfast.
Slept again.
By afternoon, he had enough energy to leave the apartment but not enough for people.
We drove to a quiet park north of Greyhaven where a paved path followed the dunes. The wind was cold enough for jackets, though sunlight warmed the grass.
Noah used the powered chair for distance.
He objected less now.
We spread a blanket near the overlook.
Marlowe lay between us with his nose pointed toward every scent coming from the picnic area.
Noah stretched on his back and took my hand.
For a while, we watched clouds move.
“What happens this week?” he asked.
“Work tomorrow. Priya Tuesday morning. Dr. Whitcomb after.”
“Scans next week.”
“Yes.”
“I hate MRI machines.”
“I know.”
“Every sound feels like construction happening inside my skull.”
“I’ll be in the waiting room.”
“You always are.”
He squeezed my hand.
“If the scans are stable, appointments move to every other week.”
“Yes.”
“That feels like leaving school early.”
“You dislike school.”
“Exactly.”
He looked toward the sky.
“Dr. Whitcomb said memory recovery becomes less predictable after six months.”
“She said it does not stop on a schedule.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
He sighed.
“I want to know whether to keep waiting.”
“For everything to return?”
“Yes.”
I turned onto my side.
Noah watched the clouds.
“What if waiting is not the work anymore?”
“What is?”
“Living.”
His mouth moved faintly.
“That sounds like something you rehearsed.”
“I thought about it while you slept fourteen hours.”
“Only eleven.”
“I checked.”
He smiled.
“The missing years still matter.”
“Yes.”
“I don’t want to pretend they don’t.”
“You shouldn’t.”
“But maybe I don’t have to stare at the door all day.”
The image tightened my chest.
“No.”
“If memories come, they come.”
“Yes.”
“If they don’t…”
His fingers closed around mine.
“We make new ones.”
The phrase could have sounded shallow.
It did not, because he was choosing it.
“Like this?” he asked.
“Cold grass. Dog breath. Your chair making a strange noise.”
“It does not.”
“It squeaks.”
“Maintenance issue.”
“Electrician.”
“Not mechanic.”
“You repaired the wheel last week.”
“I was proving versatility.”
I kissed his knuckles.
“What number is this?”
“What?”
“Date.”
He considered.
“Seven?”
“We lost count.”
“No starting over.”
“Agreed.”
“No first-date rules.”
“Good. I hated pretending not to want to take you home.”
“You failed.”
“Completely.”
Noah turned onto his side facing me.
“What do we do for date eight?”
“Dinner.”
“Original.”
“Candles.”
“Dangerous near the dog.”
“Film.”
“Comedy.”
“Your choice.”
His eye narrowed.
“I don’t know modern films.”
“Then I choose.”
“That is not my choice.”
“You choose from three.”
“Manipulative.”
“Efficient.”
He leaned closer and kissed me.
Marlowe made a protesting sound when our arms displaced his head.
We laughed.
The moment fixed itself in my mind with unusual clarity.
Not because it was dramatic.
Because I finally understood Noah’s desire to record good days.
I wanted this one held somewhere beyond memory.
Sun on his face.
Salt in the air.
His hand warm in mine.
The chair parked beside the blanket without shame.
On Tuesday, Priya tested his balance, while a cognitive rehabilitation therapist assessed his attention, word retrieval, and task sequencing.
Noah complained through all of it.
She called the complaints a positive sign of cognitive stamina.
He complained about that too.
Dr. Whitcomb read the newspaper profile before we arrived.
She also read the sources Elliot cited in the final paragraphs.
Noah sat across from her with his arms folded.
“Will I get dementia?”
She did not offer false certainty.
“Your risk profile may differ from someone without a severe head injury.”
His jaw tightened.
“That means yes.”
“It means risk is not diagnosis.”