“Atta girl.” They both punch the air in synchronicity.
“I’m going to make him remember me.” I don’t care that he doesn’t even know my middle name anymore, or how many times we’ve had sex, or that I once used to have a dog named Oscar. He doesn’t need to remember because I’ll tell him. Fill him in on every part of our lives, our special friendship, and remind him of all the things that bind us together as husband and wife.
Through one story at a time, I’ll make him remember me.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Leon
“Are we all set?” Erika claps her hands together, looking around the hospital room, double-checking that we’ve packed all of my belongings.
It’s been a week since I woke up, and today I’m finally going home. With my bladder retrained, I can now piss on my own, but damn, it’s felt like one of the longest weeks of my life.
Although I’m going to miss waking up next to Erika’s smile every morning, because since I woke up, she’s been by my bedside, staring at me as if willing me to remember her. That first night, I didn’t think she was going to come like she said she would after our first text conversation until, at seven o’clock in the morning, she crept into my room and wrapped her hand around mine as if she had always been there.
I didn’t let on that I was already awake.
I also didn’t respond when she whispered she was sorry it had taken her so long to show up and that she had to change out of her scrubs before coming to see me.
Then there was a moment of complete silence, as if the world didn’t exist outside the four walls that kept us apart from everyone else. When she snuggled into me, she apologized forstaying away and said she was here for me,for better or worse. Vows we must have said when we got married. Things that I have no memory of, and that aggravates me more than I’m comfortable with. It disturbs me how powerless I am against the thick cobwebs that stifle my mind, their sticky Velcro-like grip, clingy and adhesive, that I can’t untangle myself from.
It couldn’t get any worse. A whole week has passed, along with three therapy sessions where I talk through my thoughts and emotions connected to my memory gaps. Despite how gentle the therapy is, I still don’t remember anything about her before the accident in Bora Bora.
I lift the four photograph albums Erika made this week and run my hand over the words on the cover: ‘Our Story’.
Not only has Erika worked a sixty-hour week, but she’s also visited me every day like clockwork, made the photo albums of us, me, our friends, reliving stories from our past, retelling events, funny moments, the places we’ve visited, the treks we’ve gone on together, parties, people we’ve met, and every time she unpicks those stories, I can see them vividly, minus her.
No soft blur.
No faint echoes.
Nothing.
It’s strange to me that she’s physically here in person but no longer part of the story of my life mentally. And I hate it. I hate not knowing, the uncertainty, or the extent of my memory loss.
At times it’s overwhelming, and yesterday, I had, what I can only describe as a panic attack. It was as if I had been hit by a supersonic tidal wave of shock at having a wife, then grief for all the great things I’ve been told we’ve done together, but can’t recall, combine that with the sadness and frustration I’m holding inside, and it’s all becoming too big to contain.
When the nurse saw me struggling to breathe, she talked me down off the ledge, then explained that it was normal tofeel overstimulated. My brain is trying to take on too much information at once.
Dr. Gilbert also broke it down for me in simple terms, explaining that my brain is at war with itself. While the main part of my neurotransmitters is sending and receiving signals at the right time and in the right pattern properly, the other small part of them is too weak, too slow, and out of sync, so my neurons are failing to fire. Those neurons are the tricky little fuckers that are causing my memory issues, and every morning I wake up, I pray that the day will be better, and that a shimmer of the past will appear. But still, nada.
I’ve kept my feelings to myself because I see the pain in Erika’s eyes, lingering there like a bad smell; she’s hurting, frustrated with herself, as if offended by my cluelessness about who she is.
Although I can see precisely why the old Leon fell in love with her. She’s fucking perfect.
“C’mere.” I beckon Erika to come to me as I set the photo albums back down on the bed.
Looking nervous, she pushes her hands into the back pockets of her tight jeans, which make her look like a supermodel. With legs for fucking days, I keep pinching myself, asking myself how I got so lucky.
Erika and I haven’t kissed or hugged properly, only the ones I wake up to, and as soon as she senses me waking up, she disappears faster than I would like, as if she doesn’t want to shape my feelings or overstep. In fact, I love any and all affection she’s willing to give me.
I make the first move, offering her my hand.
Tentatively, she places hers in mine, and I pull her toward me. “Thank you,” I say, looking deep into her beautiful eyes.
“For?” She looks confused, brows dipping.
“For this week, the stories, the photo albums. I’m very grateful.”
