The hard truth? I’ve never had a serious relationship. It’s a bit embarrassing, really.
Exasperated, I change the subject.
“Mom.” I pin her with a look, pulling together as much seriousness as I can muster in my groggy state. “I need you to fill in some gaps for me. Can you recap this past year for me? What have I been doing?”
My question startles her, panic flitting across her face. “Well, uh… you seemed content, I suppose.”
I wait for more. Come on, Mom, work with me here.
Looks like I’ll have to be more direct.
“I still work for Quinn & Wolfe, right?”
Her face brightens. “Oh, yes, you’re still there.”
I heave a sigh of relief. So I didn’t get fired. That little indiscretion with the cartoon wolf must have blown over. Wolfe likely doesn’t even remember me.
“Oh my God, did I get promoted? Am I a Lead?”
The panic returns to her face. “I’m not really sure, Luce. You mentioned something about being a dynamo? Your work talk always flies over my head.”
“And what exactly is my job title these days?”
“Uh… designer? You design… things.” There’s a long pause as I see her brain ticking over. “On the internet!” She finally beams, apparently satisfied with her answer. It’s not technically true, but there’s no point in correcting her.
This is agonizing. I’ll need to ask the girls or Matty for specifics.
I suck in a breath. “Did I sell my apartment? Where am I living now?”
“No, you’re still at your place in Washington Heights.”
“What? Why didn’t I sell?”
She offers a noncommittal shrug. “I’m not sure, Luce. You said you had a change of heart.”
God, give me strength. Inwardly I groan, have Mom and I lived on different planets this past year?
Maybe the noisy neighbors moved out, so I didn’t have to? At least when I leave the hospital, I’ll return to familiar surroundings. And hopefully, my memories will come flooding back, revealing why I didn’t sell.
That’s what I’m banking on, anyway.
I switch gears again. “All right, can you tell me anything significant about this past year?”
She reflects for a moment before answering, “I got the kitchen all redone. And you’ve helped me with the garden. We planted delphiniums-they’re coming along nicely-and started an herb box.” She thinks. “Oh, and your cousin Nora? She’s expecting her third. They’re hoping for a boy this time.”
“Great, Mom,” I say, attempting to mask my disappointment.
That’s it? That’s all the life updates she has for me?
Since Dad passed away, I’ve tiptoed around her. Anything resembling a real-world problem was neatly swept under the proverbial rug, leaving me to solve it. Instead, she opted to immerse herself in the garden. A silent agreement was reached; Mom would bury her head in her hydrangeas, and I would handle the ugly realities that life tossed our way. Post-funeral, she was more engaged with bugs on her roses than Dad’s will. The brunt was mine to bear.
But communication has clearly gone downhill this past year-this is far worse than I imagined. I clearly didn’t tell her anything.
My heart nearly stops when her hand shoots up to cover her mouth.
“Oh God, Lucy!”
“What?” I demand, pushing myself up from the bed.
“You don’t remember.”
“Remember what?”
“Mrs. Forry from down the street died.”
“Oh, for the love of…” I slump back into the pillows. “I can’t even remember who she is.”
“She had that dog you liked so much, Buddy.”
“Oh yeah… right.” Odd, considering my dream, but not really relevant. I’m not heartless, but I haven’t seen Mrs. Forry in two decades.
“I’m twenty-seven now,” I blurt out, the statement sounding alien to me. “How did I celebrate?”
“Oh! You, Priya, and Libby went to the spa then had dinner afterward. And you and I had dinner at Captain’s Crab in town.”
So that’s it? Am I the most boring person alive?
“Lucy.” Dr. Ramirez knocks before entering the room. “Are you ready to discuss your treatment plan?”
“Is it a magic pill that will bring my memories back?”
She smiles gently. “I wish I had better news, but we must consider all possibilities. We’ll provide you with the necessary support if your memories don’t return.”
Oh my God. I hadn’t even considered the possibility that my memories might not come back.
I manage a weak smile because if I don’t, I’ll cry. And by cry, I mean bawl all over the floor, kicking and screaming.
“Let me guess: the future is fabulous?” I quip, waving the pamphlet at her.
“I can’t promise that, but things will become easier, Lucy,” Dr. Ramirez says, standing by the bed.
“But some people remember, some don’t? Which type am I?”
She hits me with one of those trust-me-I’m-a-doctor smiles. “Unfortunately, the brain isn’t that predictable. Each case is unique, and we approach them accordingly.”
“But why am I missing a whole year, not just the night at the Plaza?” I question, trying to make sense of this new reality.
“Sometimes, our brain tries to shield us from painful memories. It’s a protective mechanism. Maybe there’s something from this past year that you’re not quite ready to confront yet.”
Dread rises up in my chest.
Mom clasps her hands together dramatically, eyeballs aimed at heaven, as if begging for some divine intervention. Helpful as always.
I work on swallowing the emotions lodged in my throat. “I think I could use a top-up on that morphine, doc.”
As far as scariest moments in my life go, this ranks high.
Because right beyond that hospital door is a year’s worth of change waiting to flatten me the second I step out.
JP
Every damn time I think life has settled into a predictable rhythm, it drop-kicks me in the balls. Again.
My steps echo ominously through the corridor of the neurological ward.
I should have been here sooner. All of this-it’s on me. I thought I had already done enough damage before the accident. Because evidently, smashing her heart to smithereens wasn’t enough. I had to go ahead and have a crack at her body too.
“Mr. Wolfe, you’re back,” the nurse chirps, falling in step beside me. Her eyes linger a beat too long, irking me. “Can I get you anything?”
I grunt out a terse “no,” trying to fend off any idle chit-chat. It’s not her I’m pissed at, but Lucy’s dicey state has me on a razor’s edge, my temper one misstep from boiling over. I feel like a fucking pressure cooker.
Nearing the door to Lucy’s room, I grip the handle, when a woman’s voice freezes me in my tracks.