I sigh and tell Tom everything about the accident, in as minimal detail as he’d allow. He’s never been a details man, but when it comes to his family, he needs everything. I decided to leave out the part where thepatient tried strangling Steven and what the doctors said could’ve happened if they had been alone. The thought chills me to the bone—the fact that this entire situation could have ended up much worse.
“For now, we’re waiting on some tests to come back before he can go home,” I say into the phone, pacing at the foot of Steven’s bed. “Which they say should be tomorrow.” I fight the urge to look at Steven and see how he feels about this nugget of information. What is home to him? Does he even want to go to a house he doesn’t know? With children who will want to climb all over him but could very well be alien to him?
“So he can’t remember anything?” Dad’s voice is steady, like it usually is, which calms me more than I want to admit. It’s a quality he passed on to his son, the ability to calm the raging storms that tend to explode in my brain so often.
“Just the last fifteen years or so.” I look to Steven, and the number seems to be a gut punch to him, knowing so much life has happened and he can’t remember a single second of it.
“Oh, Emma…”
I clear my throat, trying to drown out the sadness in his voice. The realization that Steven doesn’t remember the majority of our life together…it’s enough to rip me in half.
“They called it retrograde amnesia.” I press on. I can’t let Tom, of all people, with everything he’s enduring, have sympathy for me.
“Is it permanent?” Tom asks, the steadiness wavering as we broach the topic of memory loss. It’s not new territory for him, but it’s not easy either.
“We don’t know. They said to give it time.”
He sighs, and I can almost feel the hot tickle that comes when he does, the familiar sensation of him being right next to me, whispering a silly anecdote in my ear when I might feel anxious or overwhelmed. I know he’d be here if he could.
“Well, let me try to get some things in order,and maybe I can—”
“No, Tom. That won’t be necessary.” I come to a halt under the flatscreen TV showing a sports rundown. He tries to interject, probably wanting to give me a list of ways he can help if he was here, but I barrel on. “There’s not much you can do, Dad. I know that’s not what you want to hear, but other than his memory, they said Steven is in perfect health. We’ll just take it slow and wait to see if anything comes back to him over the next couple of weeks.”
“Emma,” he tries to argue.
“Tom.” I whip a hand to my hip, going rigid at my tone. I never snip at him, but this man can be stubborn, and I can’t let the guilt he’s feeling lead him to make any rash decisions. “Please,” I say softly. “I will update you as much as I can, but for now, we wait.”
The line is silent for a beat as he mulls this over, wrestling with his desire to do what he wants.
“Fine,” he finally says. “But I think we’re canceling next week. His sisters are a mess, and I can’t be held responsible for what they might do, alright?”
“Next week? Next week.” I’m simultaneously confused and conflicted as our travel plans come rushing back. The annual birthday celebration for Steven’s mom is next week, combined with his parents’ 50th wedding anniversary, and an impromptu family reunion that was beginning to brew. Essentially a week of big freaking deals.
“Oh my gosh, Tom, I totally forgot.” I groan, slouching into the rickety chair nestled into the corner of the room. Steven arches a brow at me as I slump back and rest my head against the wall.
“Em, it’s fine. This takes precedence,” Tom tries to reassure me, but I can’t see his side. This could very well be the last celebration they get to have, and Steven might not know me right now, but I know him. And I know that if he knew he was the reason it didn’t happen, he’d never forgive himself.
“N—no. Let me figure some things out,alright?”
“Emma, really…” he hesitates, as if he’s trying to convince himself as well as me with his next words. “It’ll be fine.”
“You know he will never let it go,” I whisper, trying to subtly cover my mouth, but Steven’s eyes are pinned on me, calculating.
“He’s going to have to. My son’s health is more important than some party we can do next year.”
He doesn’t say it, but I hear theifin his tone.Ifwe can do it next year.
“Let me get him home, and we can talk more, alright?” I rub at my brow, letting Tom’s silence act as an agreement, and add, “Don’t cancel anything until you hear from me, alright?”
“Fine. Can I talk to him?”
“Of course,” I answer robotically, like it’s obvious, but then cautiously ask Steven, “Do you want to talk to your dad?”
Steven hesitates but nods. It’s not like he’s talking to the kids. It’s his dad. The man has been the same Texas rancher who hates cell phones and anything about the internet since the ripe age of twenty-one. Nearly fifty years of consistency. Talking to him might be better than talking to me if he needs some kind of familiarity.
I hand the phone over with an encouraging smile and turn to step into the hall.
“Please don’t leave,” he whispers almost desperately.
