But I can’t.
So I close my eyes until there’s a soft knock at the door. Dr. Ellicott steps inside. “Grace? Nurse Robin says you’re experiencing some aphasia.”
Does she expect me to say something? In my head, I’m screaming, “Yes. Nothing I try to say comes out sounding like actual words!”
The doctor skirts the bed, comes around to the other side, and takes my hand. “Can you understand me, Grace? If so, squeeze once.”
I do, and she nods, her lips curving into a hint of a smile. “That’s good. Now, follow my finger with just your eyes.”
This is harder. But I manage without the room spinning out of control. “Excellent. The bone fragment was in your left temporal lobe. That’s the language center of the brain. When we removed it, we had to excise a very small amount of healthy tissue in addition to the adhesions and scar tissue that had started to form around it.”
“Why can’t she speak?” AJ asks. He’s in full Ranger mode. Protective. Demanding. Unwilling to put up with any bullshit. If I had the strength, I’d smile. Some things never change.
The doctor takes a small pen light from her pocket and checks my pupils. A tiny whimper escapes my lips, the pain shooting straight through my skull like a blade.
“Think of it like road work,” she says, apparently satisfied now that she’s blinded me. “We just ripped up a section of the highway and didn’t put up any detour signs. So Grace’s brain has to figure out a whole new route from here to home. That takes a little time.”
“How much time?” he demands.
Despite the halos currently turning everything around me blurry, I can sense AJ’s eyes on me. The laser focus he always seems to have where I’m concerned is grounding in a way I desperately need right now.
“I can’t say for sure, but things usually even out within two or three days. We’ll watch for any swelling, any worsening headaches, and any changes in Grace’s pupillary response. Trust me, Mr. Stone, your wife is right where she needs to be. And she’s doing just fine.”
I want to say something. Anything to tell the doctor this isn’t “just fine.” I’m so damn tired. I just want AJ to hold me. But I can’t ask him to. Even if I could, I’m covered in wires and sensors and too weak to move.
“I’ll have a speech therapist come by in the morning. Until then, rest, Grace. This is the worst of it. It gets better from here.”
After a moment, I hear the click of the door, and let my eyes drift closed.
AJ squeezes my hand. “You’re safe, darlin’. I’m not goin’ anywhere. I’ll be here all night.”
Safe. I hold onto that one word. It’s my lifeline. The only thing that matters. I’m safe, and AJ won’t leave me. Even if I can’t speak, he’ll do it for me until I can.
The next time I open my eyes, the room is quieter. Someone dimmed the lights, but the steady hum of the monitors hasn’t faded. AJ still has a hold of my hand. Tightly enough, it feels like if he lets go, my entire world might unravel.
I squeeze his fingers, and his head snaps up. His eyes—red-rimmed and raw—soften the second he focuses on me.
“Hey, darlin’,” he whispers. “You with me?”
I try. God, I try so hard. The word in my head is as clear as glass.
Yes.
But when I open my mouth, it tangles and collapses on my tongue, escaping in a garbled mess that sounds more like “smythiea” than anything else.
AJ doesn’t flinch. Just leans closer, his thumb tracing patterns over my knuckles. “It’s okay, Grace. You’ll get there.”
Bitter frustration coats my tongue, cementing it to the roof of my mouth. Tears prick at my eyes. I want to tell him I love him. I need to. He has to know I’m still…me.
With my free hand, I point at him, my fingers trembling, then rest my palm over my heart.
“A…ayjun…” The sound warps, fades. My chest aches with the weight of all the things I can’t say.
“Shhh.” His hand cups my cheek, and the warmth helps steady me. “You don’t need the words, Grace. I know what you’re trying to say.”
That’s not enough. I open my mouth to try again, but he presses his finger to my lips.
“I love you? Is that what you’re tryin’ to say?”
