But with it I’ve still felt blank. No sign of any lost memories coming back.
Until this afternoon.
When an armless Spider-Man figurine was abandoned outside, it surface damp from the afternoon drizzle. The moment I spotted it, something flushed over me—awareness maybe? An instinct I was unaware of until I was moving across the yard to grab it, scooping it up and wiping the dirt off. Then suddenly Isawa little hand gripping it. A familiar hand. And a high-pitched laugh echoing through the air. Sawyer’s laugh.
It was a memory. In and out like a flickering neon sign. Until finally it stayed on, replaying in my head again and again. Sawyer jumping and laughing the moment we gave it to him on his fourth birthday. It hit me so hard my chest ached, and the lightness I had been feeling settled. I wasn’t overjoyed anymore.
I was focused.
Now I’m hovering over photo albums scattered across the kitchen bar, convinced this will unlock more.
“Maybe you should take it easy?” Emma murmurs as she stirs the pot of spaghetti.
A dull throb pulses through the center of my head, settling in the spot where I more than likely have a bruise from the accident. I shut the albums, reluctantly, but knowing if no other memories have come from the two hours I’ve scoured over them, they won’t come. Not yet at least.
“You’re right, I’m sorry.”
I shove the albums to the side and take her in. Her brown hair is twisted up as high as the length will allow, a few strands escaping to frame her face. She looks tired today, more than usual, but still radiant in a way I can’t compare to anything tangible. If I did, I’d feel ridiculous. But she’s radiant, and the sight of her is comforting.
I wish I could remember everything about her.God, let me remember.
The boys’ laughter floats in from the living room, the sounds mingling with the baby noises Josie makes from her mat on the floor. Emma’s eyes dart in their direction as she chews on her lip before turning back to the pasta.
“Let me do it,” I say, sidling up next to her. She hesitates in handing over the spoon. “It’s just pasta, I think I can handle it.”
“It’s not that,” she laughs. “I just…do you think it’s safe?” Her eyes drift to the pot of boiling water then back to me.
“I don’t have the mind of a child, Em. I’m still a whole adult in here.”
She laughs again, louder this time. Pink fills her cheeks, and she bites her lip as she finally relinquishes the spoon.
“Go have fun with your kids.”
Her gaze snags on mine as her mouth drops open, and I realize I may have said something wrong. There’s something heavy there, maybe another thought she’s not ready to share with me. Curiosity slowly tugs at my chest, like the tightening of a knot. I want to ask her about everything. About us.I want to beg her to tell me everything about who we were. The feeling hovers between us for a moment before she turns to go.
Not before she stops in the doorway and whispers, “They’reourkids.”
The grin that spreads across my face is pathetic, and I don’t even care. My heart is too big for my chest.Ourkids. I grip the edge of the counter as if I might float away.
As I stir the pasta, my phone dings with an email.
Approval of Medical Leaveflashes across my phone. I scan the message, and although I’m unfamiliar with the sender or information provided, it’s clearly an official letter. I guess it makes sense to not let a man be a doctor when he doesn’t remember actually being one.
Attached with the letter is a photo, a group of doctors and nurses holding up a sign that saysRemember us, Dr. Jones.I snort and pocket my phone. It’s not in there long when it buzzes with a phone call.
“Hey, Dad.”
“Hey, boy.” His low, country timbre is like a sudden balm to my soul. With all the good moments with Emma and the kids, I didn’t realize talking to someone I remember is also something I need right now.
“Just checking in. How’s the head?”
“Still attached.”
He chuckles, and the sound relaxes me. I click the stove off and lean against the counter, pasta steam simmering around me. “Thank God for that. You sound good.”
“Thanks. I’m feeling good.”
“Have the…has anything…” He can’t bring himself to ask the question. Probably because he knows the answer. If the memories had come back, we would’ve called him already.
