He has color in his cheeks again.
He looks more relaxed. Happier.
A knot in my chest I didn’t realize was there releases.
He’s doing okay. Maybe better than okay. Even good.
I worried about him for months after his last therapy appointment. I even thought about looking up his address and stopping over to check on him. But I never did, partly because that wouldn’t have been professional, and partly because I didn’t want to push myself on him if he didn’t want me there.
“You look happy,” I blurt.
Indy’s face jolts. “What?”
“Happy.” As I struggle to a seated position, he slips his arm behind my back and helps me up, then arranges the pillows behind me. “You look happy.”
“Um.” He stops. “I guess I am.” Another pause. “But I’m not worried about me right now. How areyoufeeling?”
The question brings me up short.
It was easier to focus on Indy—a known factor in all of this—than the other things I don’t know.
Like, where am I? Because a glance around the room tells me I’m not at home. I’m in a bedroom, yes, but it’s decorated in warm greens and beiges, not the soft roses and grays back home.
And if I’m not at home, why aren’t I?
Why do I feel so strange?
Why does my head hurt?
And why is Indy here?
“Indy…” This time my voice quivers. Pressure builds behind my eyes. My nose prickles. “I don’t understand. What…” A lump lodges in my throat. “What…”
“Bea.”Indy perches on the edge of the mattress. He takes my wrist, cradling it gently, and rests his finger above my racing pulse. “I’m sorry. I know this is hard.”
“What’shard? I don’t know what’s going on.” A tear sneaks free and trickles down my cheek. “Where am I? Why are you here? Why can’t I remember?”
Pain pinches his features. He draws in a deep breath, then lets it out slowly. “You were hurt. That’s why you’re having trouble remembering. But the doctors said it’ll come back. It just might take?—”
“Hurt?” I touch my forehead instinctively, wincing at the contact. With the pain, a memory pokes at me. Not fully emerged, but wedged right below the surface.
“Be careful,” Indy scolds, catching my hand and lowering it to my lap. “You have a cut there. You don’t want to start it bleeding again.”
Hurt? Cut? Bleeding?
Another frustrated tear escapes. And another.
“Ah, Bea. Don’t cry.” Indy takes my hand again, stroking his thumb across the back of it. “It’s going to be okay. I promise. As soon as you remember, I’ll explain?—”
Frustration shifts to anger as I snatch my hand away from his. “Remember what?” My voice pitches close to a shout. “Justtellme!”
The rise in volume makes my head throb. Pain slashes behind my eyes.
“Bea,” Indy starts. “I can’t?—”
I slam my eyes shut.
Through the darkness, another image emerges.
