Leon
It’s late, but I can’t fall asleep. The hospital is too loud. My nose and throat are sore from where the feeding tube was inserted, and don’t get me started on how uncomfortable the bed is.
I’m restless and need to get up.
I’ve been lying here for nearly four weeks, and I need to move, stretch my muscles, and get my blood flowing again.
Dismissing the doctor’s orders, I gingerly swing my legs over the side of the bed, sitting up carefully, mindful of the catheter and the IV lines taped to the back of my hand. Then, I plant my feet firmly on the floor. I’m not calling a nurse for help, and the last thing I want is to make eye contact with the nurse who adjusted my catheter.I was adamant that it was coming out, but apparently, it’s a critical part of my recovery, and I’ll have to retrain my bladder again.
I was surprised to learn they didn’t remove my Prince Albert piercing and used a smaller, more flexible catheter to accommodate the piercing tunnel. I could have done without the detailed description, which made my balls draw up into my body, and it sounded painful to insert, worse to remove,apparently. Now,thatis a moment I might not want to remember.
In contrast, I would love nothing more than to remember the woman who claims to be my wife; the woman I haven’t stopped thinking about since she left my room. Half-startled, half-heartbroken, she looked as if I had cut her wide open with a blade.
The fear in her was palpable, and the tears that fell from her big, beautiful eyes were enough to stop my heart. I hate that it’s me who caused all the hurt and pain, and all I want to do is make her feel better. Reassure her that everything’s going to be okay, but I can’t because I don’t know that.Not even the doctor knows when I will regain my memory. I’m a little pissed about that, if I am being honest. How the fuck do they not know this shit?
I grasp the metal IV pole to support myself, the catheter bag attached to the bottom of it, glaring up at me, reminding me that my body isn’t functioning quite right yet.
Taking a step, my legs still feel unsure of what to do after being underused, so I move slowly, hoping my brain and body coordinate, the wheels of the IV pole rattling against the floor as I push it ahead of me.
The short walk to the adjoining bathroom takes longer than I expect, and as I move, I stretch out my stiff back that feels like it’s seized up from lying down for so long. I flick on the light, the bright bulbs threatening to burn out my retinas. Since waking up, every light feels too bright, voices seem louder, and talking feels harder than I expected. Even sounds seem distant, as if I’m underwater and slightly muffled.
I walk toward the mirror above the vanity, release the metal pole, and hold on to its sides to keep from falling.
Yes, I’m jaded, and I was confused and felt slightly disconnected from reality when I first opened my eyes. Catheters and weakness aside, physically, I’m fine.
Mentally? I thought I was until I met Erika.
Then, boom. My world expanded and threw a curveball my way. My attention drops to the gold band around my ring finger. I have a wife. I’m still in shock. Our encounter has left me sad and frustrated, and I hate that my brain isn’t responding as I expected it to.
Surveying myself in the mirror, I turn my head to the side and part my hair where my scar from my temple disappears.
The doctor said I am lucky to be alive, and without Erika’s quick response, I would have died.They told me for a minute I was dead. Not breathing. And yet, I don’t remember her. Was she there like they said she was? Was she on the yacht with me? Is that the truth?
Fuck.
I run my fingertips over my new scar; the edges are angry-looking and raised in places, now a permanent reminder of my accident. Placing the strands back over it to hide the evidence of my messed-up mind, I talk to my reflection. “Remember, Leon. Remember her. Why can’t you remember?” I close my eyes and do my best to find any memories of us together, but there’s nothing but a vast expanse of white, blank canvas.
Any flashbacks I have involving friends, there’s no Erika. She’s just not there. Gone. Slipped out of my mind like grains of sand through my fingers.
How can that be when Buster and Ash both confirmed that I’ve known Erika since I was twenty-two?
It sounded like a lie, but it’s not because my mom and dad said the same thing.
She’s real.
“Erika Johansson,” I say her name out loud to help jog my memory, then get frustrated when I, yet again, come up short. There’s just nothing there. Not even a shadow of anything.
I flick off the bright lights that are fucking annoying the hell out of me as I pass by on my way back to the bed, using the IV pole for support, then I lift my cell phone off the over-the-bed table and slowly lower my ass on the edge of the mattress that feels like it was made to torture patients rather than for comfort.
My fingers hover over the keyboard on my screen, unsure if I should do what I am about to.
Hell, I don’t know if I can do or say anything right now without hurting her again.
I have a wife.
One I don’t have a single memory of it. Not even a glimmer.
And she’s beautiful, smart. A doctor.
