She nods and disappears.
We sit there for another hour. Maybe two. I don’t know anymore. The monitors beep. Marco breathes. Ben runs out of stickers and then just sits cross-legged on the floor next to him, holding Frederick.
I try to remember what Marco looked like the night before.
The thought hits me suddenly.
Without warning.
I can’t picture his face.
Not the way it was before the attack. Just the way it was after. Torn open. Blood everywhere.
No. Wait. That’s not right either. I can’t actually remember what it looked like after the attack. The image is there but it’s... blurred. Fuzzy around the edges like my brain decided to pixelate it for my own protection.
All I can remember clearly is putting myself between him and Ben. Making sure she couldn’t see. Pressing her face into my jacket and whispering don’t look don’t look don’t look.
And the bear spray. I remember that. The orange stream hitting the bear’s face. The sound it made. Half scream half roar.
But Marco’s face? Gone. Blank. A void where the memory should be.
When your brain decides to protect you by deleting the worst parts but also deletes the good parts too because it can’t tell the difference anymore.
My face goes hot. Panic rising. I can’t remember his face. Can’t picture the way he smiled when Ben made a joke. Or the way his eyes crinkled when he laughed. Or the exact shade of olive in his skin.
All of it. Just. Gone.
Already.
“I need to—” I stand up too fast. The chair scrapes. “I need air. I’ll be right back.”
Ethan nods. Takes my spot next to Ben without a word.
I make it to the hallway before my knees give out. End up sitting on the floor with my back against the wall because standing seems like too much effort.
And then I’m just crying. Balling my eyes out.
A doctor walks past. Different one. Older. She stops when she sees me.
“You okay?”
“Fine.” The lie comes automatically. “Just needed a minute.”
She studies me for a beat as I wipe the tears away. Then sits down next to me. Right there on the floor in her white coat and everything.
“Family of the bear attack patient?”
I nod.
She smiles patiently. “Thought so. You have that look.”
I frown. “What look?”
The grief-stricken, tears streaming down my face look?
“The one people get when they’ve seen something their brain can’t process yet.” She leans back against the wall. Matches my position. “It’s normal.”
“Is it?” I tell her. “I can’t remember his face. Not at all. Neither his face before, nor after, the attack.”
