“That’s aggressive.”
She shrugs, waving me out the door. “Be back before dinner.”
The drive is easy enough. The map leads me straight to Starbucks, and I take my time ordering, sitting on the patio while the cold air stings my cheeks. It’s oddly familiar—this spot, this table, the smell of burnt espresso in the air. I snap a picture of the white iron table and the pile of napkins stamped with the green mermaid and send it to Liam.
Me: This might work. I feel like I’ve been here before.
Liam: It’s Starbucks. Everyone’s been there before.
Me: Helpful.
Liam: Keep going. You got this, bud.
I’ve only been away for thirty minutes, but I still feel guilty enough to check in with Cindy. I send her the same photo with a smile emoji. She sends a thumbs up in response, and I take that as permission to carry on.
I turn off the navigation this time and just drive. For a moment, I let myself believe my brain remembers more than it lets on. A flash of my mom comes to mind—an older, unrecognizable version, her eyes cloudy with confusion. I see the search party, the flashing lights, Dad calling me at work. I think she was doing this exact thing, wanting to go for a drive, and decided she could remember where she was without help. It hits like a faint echo, here and gone before I can hold onto it.
At the next stop sign, I type it down quickly, like writing it might keep it from slipping away again. Then I keep driving. Trees blur by on my left, the city hums on my right. People zip past on scooters, ignore crosswalks, live their lives like nothing’s missing. Then I feel compelled to follow a street along a wide curve, merging onto the highway for a mile. As I do, I see a sign for the hospital, and my chest tightens. This route feels engrained. I move on autopilot as I pull off and glide into a physician parking spot.
Me: I found my route.
I text Liam ecstatically, minding the fact that I don’t necessarily remember doing this every day, but knowing it’s a habit that is strong enough to bypass the vacancy in my brain is still worth mentioning.
I sit there for a long while, coffee cooling in my hand, watching the ER doors swing open and shut as people come and go. People in scrubs rush past, different blues and blacks, meeting an ambulance with a stretcher. Chaos blends with purpose as I watch them slide the patient over. My fingers twitch knowingly. I’m supposed to be out there.
A doctor in a white coat gestures wildly, and everyone listens. A swell of pride fills my chest with the instinct to lead, to heal. I squeeze the steering wheel, leaning forward as if I can actually hear what they’re saying.
I have to fight the urge to stay in my car as they rush the patient inside, going so far as to locking my doors, as if that will stop me. I rub at my jaw, my head, my neck. Irritation hot on my skin.
I stare at the closed glass doors, knowing full well my purpose is in there, caring for people, healing people. And I can’t even heal myself.
Liam says getting angry won’t help my brain, but what am I supposed to feel? Anger seems to be justifiable at this point. So many moments that should be familiar, comfortable, but they just leave me grasping for things I can’t reach. The first moment I held Josie, not recognizing her, no matter how hard I tried. Last night with Easton, the heart-wrenching way he looked at me.
And Emma.
Being with her felt like the first time. It was magnificent and consumed me from the inside out. If it were possible to float out of my body, I would have. I was that happy.
Then I was angry. The moment she fell asleep wrapped around me, I was seething, furious at the life we have together that I can’t remember. Not knowing parts of Emma is enough to rip me apart. I want every single piece of her, to know her and love her completely. No matter how incredible being with her feels, there are still parts I don’t get. Because I’m still a stranger.
Every piece of my life is right in front of me, and I can’t reach it.
I tear out of the parking lot, tires screeching like they’re angry too. The smell of burnt rubber and a cloud of smoke are all I leave behind as I disappear onto the highway. My throat burns, my eyes sting, and I wave a sheepish apology when I almost cut someone off. They have some choice words, muffled by their closed window. I wince, slowing the car and my breathing down.
“Calm down, Steven,” I tell myself, letting the cold air flood the cab when I crack the window. It slaps my face and my mind back into focus.
The next exit isn’t familiar, but something about it feels right. I take it anyway. The road winds past a stretch of open fields and a line of brick buildings. The black pavement is stark against the red-and-white brick. The sign across the top reads Glendale High School.
I pull in, painfully slow, like I’m a creep. When I park, I immediately regret the decision. I’m a random grown man loitering in a school parking lot.
Before I can get out of here, the bell rings. A crowd of kids fills the halls and the outer sidewalk, some rushing to their cars, others weaving around the building. My chance to leave evaporates as the line of cars in the lot stretches to fifteen in seconds.
The desire to escape fades even more when my eyes land on the largest office window in the corner of the building. People I recognize move inside. Benny and Ellie sit at a table, unwrapping sandwiches. The tall blond guy from the hospital lingers in the back, sipping coffee. The girl with curly hair bounces around like an Energizer Bunny, impossible to miss.
A glow of warmth moves through my chest, like my heart recognizes these people and finds comfort in knowing them. But that warmth cracks wide open when Emma walks in. I’ve suddenly set foot on the sun, everything inside me burning at the sight of her. Her hair is looser than when she left this morning, reading glasses hanging off the center of her blouse. Shetakes a long drink from her coffee. It’s the same one she left the house with. Is she only now getting the chance to finish it?
My stomach gives a quiet grumble as my Americano settles—a small, selfish reminder of how different things are for her and me. In the last two weeks, I can count on one hand how many cups of coffee Ididn’tfinish. For Emma, it’s the opposite. She’s pulled in ten different directions. The kids, the house, her job,me. Everyone needs something from her, and somewhere in all that noise, her coffee goes cold. Forgotten.
Maybe that’s what’s happened to us. Maybe we’ve gone cold too. Are we that coffee she so desperately wants but maybe feels selfish for taking the time to enjoy it? Am I really so blind that I haven’t noticed her pouring herself out bit by bit for everyone else, until there’s nothing left for her? For us?
