It’s been chaotic since I stepped into the pit, and for the first time all day, I’ve finally managed to steal a moment to myself. I no longer use any of my spare time to nourish or rehydrate myself; instead, I spend every available moment hunched over research papers on recent advances in understanding dissociative amnesia. Some I’ve already read, some new. I can’t tell one from another anymore because I’ve read so many, and none of them say anything different.
We’re following Leon’s rehabilitation plan and doing everything right, and he still isn’t regaining his memory as quickly as I had hoped.
It’s hard not to ask him every day if he remembers anything, but I have to bite my tongue, because giving him time and space are the only things that will help him work things out. After each therapy session, he’s always tired and sleeps for a worryingly long time. I explained to him that his body needs to heal and that sleep will help with that.
Even though he’s been sleeping a lot, he’s still exhausted. Working out like a crazy man hasn’t helped, but I understand how it helps him stay busy. It has become his new focus, andhe’s looking fitter and healthier than ever. If only his memory muscles were as strong as his abs.
Something I haven’t shared with anyone is, what if, eventually, he remembers me, and he feels nothing?
I’m already in mourning for the loss of our relationship that existed; I don’t think my heart could take any more heartbreak.
Loving him from a distance was easier than living beside him as a stranger. For years, we survived being only friends, and now, how do I go on being married to someone who doesn’t even recognize my face?
The only thing that is keeping me going is hope. Hope that part of me might return to him. That’s why I need to give him space, even when it hurts. Demanding that he remembers me won’t get me anywhere. If anything, it’ll push him away, and that’s the last thing I want.
Leon’s text sparked hope within me. He had a breakthrough.
He remembered the coin, my favorite color, and the stethoscope he bought. I don’t care that he didn’t remember it was for me; it’s progress. The therapy, journal, and logging memories are starting to work, I think.
Doris from reception taps me on the shoulder. “Erika, someone’s here to see you.”
I lift my head and come face-to-face with someone I never want to see again for as long as I live.
“Huck?” His name sputters from my mouth as if I’m disgusted. I am, and it leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. “What are you doing here?”
“You changed your number. I wanted to see you. To apologize.” He fumbles over his words.
“For?” He never once visited me at work when we were together. What a tool.
“Cheating on you,” he says softly, looking remorseful, but it’s calculated and disingenuous, his smirk giving him away.
Doris gasps, then expresses her disapproval with a tut. “I don’t buy it.”
I agree.
“Remember when we—” he starts, but I cut him off.
“Oh, no, you don’t. Don’t ever go there. We’re done. I’m married now, and I don’t want to see you, and as you can probably tell from the beds that are full of patients, I’m busy.” I look along the line of beds across from the doctor’s station.
“Please, Erika, just give me two minutes of your time,” he begs.
He doesn’t deserve to breathe the same air as me.
“No.” I don’t want to talk to the cheating bastard. “I want you to leave, and if you don’t, I will call security.”
“Your job is the reason we never had a relationship.”
“You’re pathetic, Huck.” The ignorance of this man. He avoids taking responsibility for anything.
“I heard Leon had an accident.”
Oh, great, he’s going there, is he? “He’s fine,” I lie.
“I heard he’d lost his memory.” Huck keeps pressing me to get a rise.
“As I said, he’s fine.” My temperature rises, making my palms clammy.
“That’s not what I heard.”
