Forgetting You

I leaned into her embrace and inhaled her scent. A mixture of honey and vanilla invaded my senses. She had used the same scented shampoo and body wash since I was a child, and I was glad of it because the smell was familiar. It made me feel safe, secure . . . protected. There was a lingering feeling in the back of my mind that I hadn’t felt those things in a long time, and I didn’t know why.

“I’m okay,” I repeated as I kissed my mum’s cheek. She pulled up another empty chair right next to my bed. She didn’t sit down, instead she kissed my face again and held me. “I promise.”

I wasn’t sure how much time passed, but when my mother and I separated, Doctor Abara was no longer in the room. It was just me and Mum.

“Where’s Dad?”

“He’s here.” She lowered herself into the chair as she looked over her shoulder. “John! For God’s sake! Get in here.”

Doctor Abara walked in first and it reminded me of my conversation with him before my mum burst into the room. Something was wrong. I knew it was. I could feel it. He was entirely focused on my mother; he wore a serious expression on his face.

“Mrs Ainsley,” he said to my mother. “Your husband would like a quick word outside with you.”

Mum shot to her feet. “Our baby is awake, and he’s outside wanting to talk—”

“Mrs Ainsley,” the doctor interrupted quietly. “Please, go speak to your husband.”

Mum looked from the doctor to me then back to him. My stomach churned when she slowly walked out of the room. The doctor followed her, and I couldn’t hear anything that was being said. I stared at the empty doorway waiting for my parents to come back, and when I heard my mother’s gasp, my body tensed. Fear spread through me like wildfire.

“What’s wrong?” I shouted, not caring that it caused my head to throb. “Mum! Dad!”

My mother came back into the room, but her face was a shade or two paler.

“Please, Mum, tell me what’s wrong. I know something has happened, please. Tell me. I can handle it.”

That was a lie if I had ever told one. I could barely handle what bits of information I already knew. My hands were shaking, and I couldn’t stop it. Mum, who looked a little unsteady on her feet, looked at the doctor, who nodded in what seemed like encouragement. She cleared her throat, came back to my side, and took my hand in hers. She stared at me for a few lingering moments.

“You’re okay,” she stressed on a shaky breath. “That’s all that matters.”

I didn’t believe her; she had never been a very good liar.

“Okay.”

“Your accident caused your coma, but it seems to have caused some memory loss for you too.”

Slowly, I nodded. “Yeah, I can’t remember the accident.”

“And other things.”

“What?” I blinked, confused. “What other things?”

“Baby, you . . . you think it’s 2015.”

Her words weren’t much more than a whisper, but I heard them. I wasn’t sure how long I stared at her, how long it took for me to comprehend what she had said – but when I did, I swallowed.

“Because it is 2015.” I frowned deeply. “It’s March, tomorrow is St Patrick’s Day. Or at least it was, that’s the last thing I remember. Fifteen days have passed by since then.”

Mum began to cry as she shook her head. She opened her mouth to speak but nothing came out. Instead, she gripped my hand tighter.

“No, honey,” she managed to say.

“No?” I swallowed. “What do you mean no?”

“It’s

I couldn’t comprehend what she was saying, and I didn’t even attempt to.

“No.” I squeezed her hand tightly as I shook my head. “I’m twenty-four. It’s the sixteenth of March, tomorrow is the seventeenth – or it was before the accident and my coma. Me and Elliot were coming over for dinner . . . remember? You were gonna cook us a roast, with extra stuffing for Elliot. You remember, Mum, right?”

At the mention of my boyfriend, I prayed that he would show up soon because everything was messed up in my head and I needed him more than I had ever needed him in my life. He was my centre, my rock. I had to have him with me to help me make sense of this. To make sense of what my mum was saying to me.

Mum cried harder and I began to panic.

“Dad!” I shouted. “Daddy!”

I hadn’t called him that since I was a child, but the terror I felt allowed for nothing less than the cry of a little girl who needed her father.

“Noah.” Mum gripped my hand tight. “Listen to me first—”

“Dad,” I gasped when he filled the doorway.

My heart constricted with pain as my eyes rolled over him. He was over six foot tall and had always been a heavyset man with thick black hair and a beard to match. The man across from me now was skinny, bald and freshly shaved. His face was slightly gaunt, and he had aged. He was my dad though; I’d know him anywhere.