“And now?” Please don’t say it, please don’t say it.
Her eyes flick to the floor, a tear dropping, splashing against the marble. “Now, I don’t know if this will ever work, and what if you never get your memory back? What then? I don’t think things will ever be the same. They’ll be different, and I’ll have all these memories of you that you won’t have of me.” She stifles a sob, brushing away her tears as if not wanting me to see her distress.
“We’ll make new memories. Together again.” My voice is strained as I beg for that to happen, because I might not know her in my mind, yet the connection I feel is as if there is an invisible thread sewing our hearts together, tethering us. While my memories might not be there, with overriding certainty, my soul knows her: my twin flame.
I feel the pain she feels. When she enters a room, I feel her energy. In the short time I’ve known her, I know what each of her smiles means and every intricate nuance in her voice.
She lifts her head and swipes her finger along her lash line, pretending it’s not a tear when I know it is. “I know, and I want to make this work; I do. And I’m trying, Leon. I really am trying.” Her words sound desperate, tormented, quickly choking over each syllable, and doing everything she can to hold it together.“I’m trying to be patient, and put my doctor’s hat on so I can be here for you and give you the support you need, but my heart is involved and I have all of these feelings I don’t know what to do with and all I want to do is run into your arms and tell you how much I love you and how much I want the old Leon back.” She punches her hand to her chest. “My Leon. I want him back, and I want you to remember, and that sounds so selfish.” Her voice cracks, her emotions take over, and she breaks down.
I rush to her and fling myself around her shaking frame. “I’m so fucking sorry, baby. I’m so sorry. It’s not your fault.” Not usually one for crying, my throat thickens as emotion makes me feel like there is a cannonball stuck in my esophagus.
“So then why does it feel like that, Leon?” she stutters, holding on to me like I’m her life buoy.
“Because you’re trying to find someone to blame.” I hold her close, letting her cry, soaking the fabric of my T-shirt. “It was an accident, nothing more. People have accidents every day. Even you know that as an ER doctor.”
Her tears subsided, and only then do I lean out of our embrace, the sight of her red-rimmed eyes gutting me to my core.
“You’re overthinking,” I tell her.
“And you’re not thinking at all.” She makes a joke about my lack of memory, smirking sheepishly.
I laugh. For the first time since I woke up in that hospital bed, I’m really laughing because, what the fuck did I do to deserve losing memories of what I’ve been told is the best thing that has ever happened to me?
Her shoulders shake from laughter too, and it feels good to find light in the dark, even if it’s only fleetingly.
“We need time, Erika. That’s all I’m asking for. Time.”
“And patience. I need to learn to be more patient.”
“How long did you say we waited to admit how we felt about each other finally?”
“Over twenty years,” she confirms.
“Then I think we are two of the most patient people I know. And I’d wait a lifetime for you, baby.”
There’s a moment of silence, then she finally says the words that make me so damn happy. “I want to move in, Leon. I think I should be here with you, living under the same roof as a couple,as husband and wife. It wouldn’t feel right not being here with you.”
I’m going to remember her even if it’s the last thing I do. “That’s the best thing I’ve heard all day, baby.”
“We’re in this together.”
Together.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
Leon
It’s been a week since Erika moved in, and gradually, surely, we are learning to live together as I try to piece my mind back together while she works harder than anyone I know. Even harder than me. Not that I have done much work over the last few months, if any at all, but doing a few calls with clients now and then has been good, slowly getting me back to work while Nigel and Mark do everything else for me until I feel well enough to go back full-time.
I open my journal, something my therapist advised me to keep, and read the last page I wrote, rereading a few words that stand out, then reading some of them out loud.“Coin. Yacht. Las Vegas. Husky. Husky.” I repeat the last word, as if saying it again will spark the clear image of a Siberian husky dog that blasted into my mind and has been doing so since yesterday.
I didn’t mention it to Erika in case it’s not relevant, but somehow I think it is.
Until I’m certain, I’m keeping quiet.
I write the wordhuskydown in today’s journal entry again.
It’s important. I know it is.
