I had to look away from him, or the differences between now Lincoln and before Lincoln would heighten. And one of them was bound to disappear when he remembered.
The neurologist’soffice smelled of stale coffee and pungent air freshener. A nurse had already taken Lincoln’s vitals: blood pressure a bit elevated, pulse normal, pupils reactive. As we sat in a too-bright exam room, Dr. Steinberg tapped a tablet with her red manicured nails and asked Lincoln to list the months of the year backward.
Dr. Steinberg nodded. “We’re around seventy-two hours post injury. Any nausea, vision changes, ringing in the ears?”
Lincoln shrugged. “No ringing. I feel dizzy sometimes, but it goes away quickly.”
She jotted that down. “And your full name?”
“Lincoln Maxwell Carter.”
I slouched in a chair next to Lincoln, who, even when focusing on the questions, kept stealing glances my way. Especially after I refused to hold his hand.
“Any memory returning?”
He didn’t answer right away. “No… not really. Sometimes, I recognize a name or get this deja-vu feeling, but nothing makes sense yet.”
Dr. Steinberg tapped her pen against her tablet. “You may continue having gaps or partial returns for a few more days—maybe even weeks. Patients describe sensing something that’s just out of reach or at the tip of your tongue. We’ll keep monitoring your short-term recall and executive function.” She sighed. “Is there a reason why you decided to leave the hospital so early?” Her expression was professional, yet not unkind.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“With such a pervasive gap, it’s advisable to stay for a short period of observation.”
I rolled my lips, then hissed, “The doctors insisted on a quick discharge.”
She arched her brow. “Do you remember the name of the doctors?” She looked at me. Lincoln provided their names. She hummed, made a note, then added, “For his recovery, I recommend light cognitive tasks, minimal screen time, and at least two more weeks before returning to work. I’ll send paperwork to the employer on file to supplement with the ER provided.”
“I can’t work?” he asked.
“Not yet.” She smiled.
“What about emails and looking at files?” he asked, a bit too eager.
“You’re still easily fatigued, as evidenced by your bouts of dizziness, and your prefrontal processing is impaired. You need your ability to focus and decision-making intact to fully operate,but reviewing emails and such, for no more than an hour a day should be okay. Exercise caution if you start experiencing symptoms.”
“I’ll be fine,” he muttered.
“You’re missing a decade worth of memories. This is serious,” I said before I could stop myself. Dr. Steinberg raised an eyebrow. Lincoln’s head turned. “Besides, why are you interested in looking at your emails?”
Lincoln didn’t say anything, his eyes shining in a way that made my heart beat faster. I lowered my gaze. He squeezed my knee with his left hand.
The doctor examined Lincoln’s physical responses. “Physically, you’re doing well, Lincoln. For now, I am not concerned about the memories. Let’s see you again in a week, unless?—”
“Doctor….” He fidgeted, pulling at his collar. His hand moved from my knee, and he intertwined our fingers. I fisted my other hand underneath my tote bag so Lincoln wouldn’t see. “Whatever I’m feeling…. Can I trust it? Are my feelings real?” His gaze flicked to me before returning to the doctor.
The doctor focused on Lincoln’s light-blue eyes, her own soft with empathy. “That’s a valid question, Lincoln.” She smiled. “You’re feeling disconnected from your past. Your brain is working to rebuild connections, and that can make feelings feel… borrowed. But as things stabilize?—”
“No, Doctor.” He shook his head. “You misunderstand. My feelings are clear as day.” He inhaled deeply. “It’s the world around me that doesn’t make sense, and I want…” He paused, his thumb worrying the nails of his middle and index finger over my knuckles. “Ineedthese feelings to stay.” He inhaled deeply, shakily. “I have a sense that… I might lose more than I’ll gain when I remember.” His unfocused stare was on me.
Dr. Steinberg stretched her hands, palms down, on her desk. “Memory loss doesn’t erase who you are. Your feelings are yours. Trust yourself, often patients find memory loss freeing: the pain leaves; their self-perception becomes clearer.”
The words hit me heavily. She addressed them to Lincoln, but she meant them for me. If only his memory loss could erase the sharp edges he’d carved into me with every careless word. His pain had vanished while mine stayed rooted, blooming poisonous in the cracks of me, as if the universe had chosen him for mercy and me for remembrance.
“So be patient with yourself,” the doctor added, then turned to me. “You should as well.”
I nodded, not promising anything.
9
