TANA
He comes around the doorway, his face lifted in hope.
Which I’ve come to recognize after four weeks of the same routine. And like always, when my own expression doesn’t brighten at his appearance, he tries to mask the disappointment with measured politeness. “Hey, Tee.”
He’s said the same thing every time he’s come to see me. “Hey, Tee.”
Like if he says it enough, maybe I’ll get used to the routine. To seeing him like this. To everything that’s insane and unfair and wrong about my life. Like if he calls me by a nickname, it’ll make our relationship seem more real.
Nothing about my life seems real right now.
His gaze shifts to the nurse at my side. I scowl because I don’t even remember her name, and I know she’s told me a thousand times. Details of my day-to-day life still slip away from me from time to time if I don’t write them down, leave myself a note on the phone I was given, or repeat them over and over in my mind. It could be worse, I’ve been told. I could be in a coma, in a vegetative state, or dead.
But none of that consoles me.
I almost think it would be better. Easier to be any of the above. At least I wouldn’t be in this constant in-between state.
With continuous reminders that occur in the form of these visits.
I don’t answer him because I don’t know what to say. Seeing him makes me feel awkward, which makes me irrationally angry. I pick at the threadbare sheets wrapped around my waist. My head begins to throb, and I wonder if it will be long before my next dose of pain medication. I’m not even certain if I’ve had it yet or not, but at least it dulls the edges of my thoughts a little instead of feeling a constant maelstrom of confusion, worry, and anger. I’m so tired of thinking.
“You look beautiful today.” Liar. But he says that every time despite the purple-dark bruises on my face and the gash on my forehead. I’ve studied the face in the mirror above the sink in my hospital room a thousand times trying to imagine what he sees that has him coming back day after day.
Aside from the bruises and bandages and the gigantic scar on my forehead, I don’t see anything special. Flat blue-gray eyes, dark blonde hair in need of a trim and a style that isn’t hospital bedhead. A slightly stubby nose and okay, maybe I have nice lips. But is that worth this amount of dedication?
He edges a hip onto the chair by my side. It probably has an indent molded to the shape of his ass at this point. “Have you had a good day so far? It’s a pretty afternoon if you want to go outside for a walk.”
I don’t want to, not with him. But I haven’t seen the sky all day, so it’s tempting. I waffle between denying him or myself and begrudgingly get to my feet. He tries to help me to the wheelchair, but I collapse into it all on my own. Angrily, I wheel myself out of the room with him following close behind.
“When can I leave this place?” I hate that I have to ask. I should be allowed to go whenever I damn well please. I shouldn’t need anyone’s permission.
“We’re going outside now.”
I stifle the urge to yell. I may not know a lot about what’s happening, but I know acting irrationally won’t do me any favors. “I mean for good. I feel fine.”
“The doctors say you may need a little more time to heal. We’ll know more after we meet with Dr. Rennan this afternoon. It’s this way,” he gently corrects when I turn down a hall I was certain leads to the elevators.
He doesn’t comment when I turn around and wheel past him. “I feel fine,” I reiterate, but there isn’t as much power behind the words, no matter how loud I say them.
Silence fills the space between us on the elevator ride down to the first floor. The lobby area is empty, and I work up a sweat slapping at the wheelchair until the automatic doors slide open and a fresh breeze hits my skin. I turn my face up to the sky, letting the soft afternoon sunlight warm me from the outside in. I imagine it purifying me of the hospital stench.
As soon as I get out of here, I’m going to spend an entire day outside. No monitors. No people. No medicine or bad food or stupid TV—just me, the outdoors, the wide-open sky, and the sun on my face.
Maybe I’ll even camp somewhere, just for a while. The last thing I want to do when I’m well enough to leave is spend more time cloistered away inside four walls and a roof.
“The girls made you some drawings. Do you want to see them?”
There’s that hope again.
“Okay,” I answer without opening my eyes.
“I’m going to put them on your lap,” he says. I try to focus on finding my zen with the sun and the breeze, but it isn’t as easy when he gets close to me. It’s probably the injuries. A couple broken ribs, one hell of a concussion, and a bruised lung would make it hard for anyone to breathe. But curiously, this reaction only happens when he’s around. My head goes a little light, and my chest aches like I’m about to cry, but I never do. And I don’t know why.
I hear paper rustling, a soft whisper next to my head, and his hand brushes against my thighs. The thin pants and shirt that have become my daily uniform do little to protect me from his heat. I’m thankful I’m not hooked up to the monitors anymore because my heart skips a little in my chest, and my calm breathing falters. I pray he doesn’t notice, but he’s already drawing away to give me space.
Opening my eyes, I blink away the floating dots from the sun, and my gaze lands on the drawings on my lap. Then I’m blinking my eyes for entirely different reasons. The girls have painted two family portraits for me. One is a mess of blotches and scribbles. The other is more studied, with a clear knack for art. They’ve both painted the four of us. Alec and me. The two of them in front.
My voice is hoarse when I find it again. “Tell them thank you for me.”
“I will, but you can tell them in person. If you want.”
I shake my head. “I don’t want them to see me like this.”
“We’ve been meeting with a child psychologist, explaining to them about the accident. They both understand, and Dr. Teatree seems to think it would be a good idea for them to see you.”
But what about me?
The thought is selfish and instantaneous. Would it be a good idea for me? Could I handle seeing them?
“I don’t know. I still look like I’ve been hit by a car.” The joke lands flat, which is shocking because Alec always seems to know what to say. He glances away from me, his lips firming into a line. I feel a little bad, but not really. I’m the one with broken ribs and a busted face. I’m a mass of bruises, and the only thing holding me together is the mood stabilizers. Is that really what I want to subject two little girls to? They deserve a mother who’s whole. They deserve the mother they had before the accident.
“Think about it,” he urges after a while, though he’s still not looking directly at me. It’s almost like it hurts him to see me. Maybe it does. “It could help. I could bring them here—”
“No, I don’t want them at the hospital.” Maybe my tone is harsh, but apparently, he needs me to be firm to get the point across. “I’ll see them, but not here. Not like this. When I’m better, and they let me go.”
I don’t know what it is about me, but I have this talent for shutting down even the most innocuous conversations these days. Mentally, I shrug my shoulders because I know, in this case, I’m right. And if the result is that he lets me enjoy the afternoon in silence, even better. Apparently, post-accident Tana is a real bitch.
“I understand,” he says softly, finally. “I’m sorry for pushing you.”
And then I feel like crap, so I look away from him. I wish he’d stop being so goddamn nice to me all the time. Especially when I don’t feel like I’ve done anything to deserve it.
The quiet is back, but at least we’re outside where it feels like I have room to breathe. To be. After a time, Alec begins pushing the wheelchair through the hospital courtyard, and I don’t protest because the change of scenery is so, so welcome. Hopefully soon, I’ll get to see more than this courtyard.
“I’ll take you back up. It’s time to see Dr. Rennen,” Alec says after a while.
I nod silently, and neither of us says anything else as he wheels me back up to my room.
I’ve like the doctor from the moment I met him. He’s the one point of calm in my day where I feel like someone knows what the hell is going on. That’s why it pains me to want to wring his neck.
“What do you mean it may never come back?”
I try for calm but don’t manage it. At all. Anger and disappointment make my voice quaver pitifully. Hot tears threaten, but I blink them away. I won’t cry anymore. I won’t.
Dr. Rennen sits at my bedside and meets my gaze. “I’m sorry, Tana. I wish I had better news. I’d hoped your memory would return within the first few weeks after the accident. It still can, but there are rare cases when it never returns. I know we’ve spoken about how you may remember some of your childhood memories and early adulthood. It’s the more recent memories you’ve lost. You’ll have difficulty retaining new information for a time, but I have every confidence with therapy you can live a normally, healthy life.”
“So I can remember how to do multiplication and tie my shoes or ride a bike, but I can’t remember the man I’m married to or the children I gave birth to?”
The doctor takes off his glasses and cleans them with the side of his coat. “It’s not fair. I’m sorry.”
For some reason—I don’t know why—I find myself glancing up at Alec, who has gone sheet-white. The urge to take his hand overwhelms me, so I grip the material beside my thighs. “Are you saying she may never get her memories back?” Alec’s voice is much steadier than mine, even if he looks like he’s going to be sick.
“The brain is a mysterious thing, but I can’t tell you with certainty if she will. Her short term memory will improve with time and she’ll need to continue her therapy to improve her fine motor skills. But that doesn’t mean she won’t otherwise recover physically. I fully expect to see her running circles around us by next spring.”
Should I miss the woman I used to be? The one everyone seems to know? I don’t know how to feel about this news. A part of me hoped I’d wake up one day with the answers to all the questions in Alec’s eyes. But then there’s a part of me bursting in anger at how all of his hope must have known, deep down, that there wasn’t any. The woman he loved may as well have died, and he’s stuck with me.
A stranger.
I swallow hard. “When will I be released from the hospital?”
“Provided you have somewhere to go to help you to and from appointments and help you transition, I don’t see why you couldn’t be released tomorrow,” Dr. Rennen says in a helpful voice.
My shoulders droop. I don’t even know if I have anyone—anyone other than Alec. “I—”
“Of course she does,” Alec says and takes a step closer to me. He’s got some of his color back now. “She’s coming home with us.”
“I don’t want to be a burden,” I start.
Alec pays me no mind. “You’ll let me know about her appointments and therapy. Is there anything I can do at home to make her comfortable?”
The conversation fades under the sound of buzzing in my ears. I want to speak up, to object, but I realize with growing horror that I have no one else. No one has come to see me aside from Alec. I don’t even know if I have family outside of him and his girls. My girls. Or any friends to speak of. Besides, how could I ask anyone to take me on when I don’t know what the past holds for me, let alone the future?