“What did he say?” Rafe asks.
“Well, I’ve concluded at this point in time that he was a pill-pushing hack, so I should lead with that. His prognosis was that I have a unique form of OCD. He didn’t think I had an eidetic memory because that’s not technically a proven thing and you can’t prescribe any medication for it; he suggested I rehearsed my memories and gave them strength that way. He made me do these pointless memory exercises, and he thought I would experience something, and then repeat it and reflect on it unconsciously, and basically train myself to remember it.
I tried to tell him that wasn’t what was happening, I don’t remember just certain things, not even just things pertaining to me
; I remember everything. I sat there and told him what he was wearing the first day I sat down in his office, right down to the ketchup stain on his tie from lunch. I told him the titles in order of every book on a shelf behind him that I had only glanced at, but he insisted it was an unconscious behavior, that I wouldn’t know I was doing it. He didn’t care what I had to say though, he just wanted to be right. He made me take these awful antidepressants that gave me these dark, weird-ass dreams. The medicine made me feel terrible. I told him I didn’t need any medication, nothing was wrong with me, and he said he would lower the dose, but I needed to keep taking the pills and give them time to start working. Sometimes my memory is annoying, and sure, I was sad because I had lost people who meant something to me, but frankly, even if the pills would have ever made me stop remembering, it wouldn’t have been worth feeling that way. I tried to explain that, but he wouldn’t listen. He was a know-it-all and I hated him. I finally realized it would be easier to just keep my thoughts to myself and nod in agreement until I could convince my mom I was better and she wouldn’t make me see him anymore. So, that’s what I did.”
“Jesus. That sounds traumatic. How old were you?”
“Thirteen.”
Rafe raises his eyebrows. “You’ve been hiding it from your mom since you were 13?”
“It’s not that hard. It became a habit, and now that I don’t live near her anymore, it’s effortless. She meant well,” I explain, not wanting him to think poorly of her. “She just didn’t know how to handle a pubescent kid with a weird brain.”
Pulling me close, he presses his lips to my forehead. “You don’t have a weird brain.”
“I do, but it’s okay. On the whole, I like my weird brain,” I assure him.
“You haven’t even called your mom,” he realizes. “You haven’t told her you’re married.”
“Yeah… I’ll get around to it. Nothing personal, I’m just not sure she’s going to be super psyched I didn’t invite her. I’ll try to play up the whirlwind Vegas elopement, but it’s been a long week and I didn’t feel like dealing with it. We’ll still be married next week, and the week after that. Eventually I’ll get around to mentioning it to her.”
“Like eventually you’ll get around to picking a side, and registering for classes…?”
Grinning up at him, I tell him, “Fine, I’m piss-poor at following through with things I don’t want to do. I landed myself a rich husband, so I don’t have to do shit now. I’m just going to lie by the pool and eat grapes every day.”
Smirking at me, Rafe tightens his arms around me. “I do like the idea of you nearly naked by the pool any time I want to know where you are.”
“I’m kidding,” I inform him. “I would legitimately go insane without something to stimulate my brain. I would at least need an iPad or a stack of books to keep me company. I’d go nuts stuck inside my own mind without anything new to feed it. It’s a ravenous beast, my mind.”
“We’ll have to take you to a bookstore and get it some new food.”
“You and your bookstores,” I say fondly, leaning up to kiss him.
“Hey, I have a wife now. I have a steady bookstore date for the rest of my days.”
“The rest of my days, you mean,” I say playfully.
Kissing the end of my nose, he says, “You know how I know I married the right person?”
Shaking my head faintly, I ask, “How?”
“Because we can cuddle in bed and joke about me murdering you a week after I actually held a gun to your head.”
“Well, you thought I was a rat,” I offer reasonably. “I’ve seen The Sopranos. I know what happens to rats.”
“Oh, well, as long as you’ve seen The Sopranos.”
I nod my head with mock solemnity. “Every episode. I’m essentially an expert in the field. You should really run all your mob activity by me to make sure it’s legit.”
Rafe shakes his head, tucks me into his chest, and kisses my forehead. “I love you, Virginia.”
My heart swells and I wrap my arms even more snugly around him. “I love you, too, Rafe.”
41
Virginia