Ava held the cup of pills and the water bottle in her hands as if she wasn’t sure what to do with them.
“Do you want me to open that for you?”
She held out the bottle, and my chest loosened. She trusted me at least that much. Maybe she could remember. I had no idea.
I broke open the seal and unscrewed the lid. When I passed it back, she took a sip, still holding the pills in her palm.
“Do you want to take those?” I asked.
Her eyes searched our small space, the privacy curtain, the small table by her side, the white sheets on the narrow bed.
“Ava?”
She set the cup of pills on the bed and held the bottle with both hands. When I shifted to pick up the pills beforethey were knocked off, she recoiled, holding the bottle close to her.
“What do you know?” I asked.
Her gaze met mine, and I realized my question was too big.
“Do you know the rest of your name? What comes after Ava?”
After a long moment, she shook her head from side to side.
“It’s Roberts. Your name is Ava Roberts. You’re a photographer.”
Her eyebrows drew together at that.
“You take pictures with a camera.”
She nodded, understanding registering.
“When you have seizures, you sometimes lose your memory.”
Her face crumpled into confusion again.
“You can’t remember people or things that happened in your life.”
She gazed down at her water bottle.
“Do you still have the headache?”
She nodded.
I held up the cup of pills. “This is medicine to make the headache go away.”
She held out her hand.
“Don’t chew them. Swallow them like you do the water.”
She shook the cup, rattling the pills, then dumped them in her lap. She picked up one and examined it closely. Then she put it in her mouth.
It stuck there, and her eyes widened with alarm.
“Drink the water, and it will push it down,” I said quickly.
She took a swig, and her shoulders relaxed as it went down.
“Can you do it again?”
