by Roya Carmen
He crushes me into his arms, stealing my breath away.
A week passes, and the mother bear still hasn’t found her cub. The anxiety is still there but has faded a little. I still think about him every hour of the day. I think about Bridget too, and his children. Please, I beg God. Please, let him live. Not for me, but for them. I don’t think I’ve ever prayed to God as much as I have in these past few days.
I try to go on with my life as best as I can, awaiting the end of the story, the happy ending. I still believe in a happy ending. I’m not willing to give up on him. Gabe hasn’t managed to get too much information from Bridget. There have been no new developments. He says Bridget seems to be holding up, sounding unemotional, almost business-like on the phone.
She must be stronger than I am. If it were me, I would be falling apart.
We’ve all been thinking about him. Chloe and Claire ask me daily if he’s getting better. My heart sinks every time I have to tell them I don’t know. Claire even made him a ‘get well’ drawing.
I carefully pin it on our refrigerator door with a colorful cat magnet. My eyes well up as I take in the details of it. It’s so sweet. I can tell she put a lot of effort into it.
Weston sits up in a hospital bed. His black scribbled head is way too large for his body and his legs are much too small. The big curved line on his face marks his happiness as he holds a bouquet of colorful balloons. And there’s Claire standing beside him, her hair in a high ponytail. She wears the same smile, and holds purple flowers. And Tokyo the giraffe is there too, tucked in the corner. And I stand on the other side of the bed, wearing a Peter Pan collared blouse and a huge smile. And my smile is the biggest of all — not just a curved line, but a full row of teeth, gap and all.
I sigh every time I walk past it. I would really love to be able to give it to him.
I just want him to wake up.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
…granny panties and all.
The girls and I are working on Halloween costumes. Chloe is a tiger, not a cat. Evidently, the distinction is very important. And Claire is a fairy, but not Tinkerbell because Tinker is green, and she’s purple. The day is unusually warm and I’m thrilled we’ll be able to trick or treat without heavy jackets covering our costumes. I’m wearing my Snow White dress again. It’s my signature costume. Every year, I pin my hair into a bob and slip in a red silk hair band. I like to twirl into my classroom. The kids eat it up. Apparently, I look exactly like the critter-loving singing princess.
I trail behind the girls as we make our way from house to house. We chat with the neighbors a little as they fill the girls’ pillowcases with sugar filled treats. Gabe is hanging back at the house, handing out candy. Every year, he wears this terrifying mask which I beg him not to wear. And then he wonders why we don’t get many kids.
When we finally get home, the sun has set and the sky is dark.
Gabe shoots the girls a smile. “How did you do, kitty cat?”
Chloe frowns. “I told you, I’m a tiger.”
Claire holds up her bag high. “Look at all this,” she squeals as she runs into the living room with her shoes on. She dumps her loot on the floor.
Gabe seems edgy when he turns to me. “I’ve got news.”
I stare at him, slack-jawed. “What?”
“Bridget called while you were out. Weston’s awake.”
My whole body seems to lift but I don’t like his expression. There’s something more to it. “How is he?” I blurt out, not speaking fast enough. “Is he fine? Is he…”
Gabe bites his lip. “Yes, he’s fine. He’s just not quite all there apparently.”
My stomach drops. “Oh no.”
“No, it’s not that,” he’s quick to clarify. “He apparently can’t remember the accident at all and…other stuff.”
I feel the relief pool within me. “Thank goodness he’s fine.”
A heavy load has been lifted. I feel like I’ve been pulled out from the rubble, and can finally breathe again.
“Bridget says this kind of thing is common with head trauma.”
“Is it permanent?”
“She’s says it’s usually temporary. They call it post-traumatic amnesia. She expects him to be back to normal within a few days.”
I peel off the heavy Snow White dress. “But other than that, is he fine?”
“Yeah, it looks like he’s good to go.”
I don’t think I’ve ever been so relieved. “Is he out of the hospital?”
He shakes his head. “Oh no,” he says. “I think he’ll be there for a while. Tests and recuperation and stuff.”
I picture him, lying on his white hospital bed, bouquets and cards sit on a desk nearby, Bridget and his children by his side. The vision brings a smile to my face.
“Does he remember Bridget? His kids?”
Gabe is already digging into the girls’ stashes. “Yeah, it’s the accident he doesn’t remember or the events leading up to it…”
“Daddy!” Claire is not impressed he’s eating her prized full-sized Kit Kat bar.
“Gabe,” I scold. “You are evil.”
“Just one bite,” he tells Claire. She glares at him. Chloe, being the clever girl she is, has brought her loot to her room.
I think about Bridget. About the way she looked at me the last time we saw each other, with pure contempt in her eyes. I wonder if she’ll let me see him.
“Do you think we could go visit him?” I venture carefully. I’m still not sure how Gabe feels about all this. I’ve said my goodbyes. It was all settled, until…
He sighs. “I think we should wait a day or two,” he suggests. “I’ll talk to Bridget about it.” He seems a bit upset and I wonder what he must be feeling. Knowing that Weston is all better and back in my life can’t be easy for him.
“Sure.” I say. “It can wait.” I sit cross-legged next to Claire and help her organize her candy. She methodically places the treats in categories: chocolate treats, lollipops, candies and gum, potato chip bags, and ‘extras’.
“Where does the licorice go?”
She presses her little finger against her lip, in deep thought. “Candy,” she finally decides.
She hasn’t asked about Weston, hasn’t even paid any attention to our conversation. She’s simply too engrossed in the colorful stash of candy sitting before her eyes.
I grab a lollipop and plop it in my mouth.
To be a kid again.
I turn to look at him. His eyes are on the road. He looks uncharacteristically serious. He hasn’t said much at all.
“Thanks for doing this,” I say, my voice soft.
He doesn’t turn to look at me. “No problem.”
I shift in my seat. The leather feels uncomfortable for some reason. I fiddle with the hem of my tweed skirt. “I know this is hard for you, but I promise, I’ll just visit him once to see how he is, and that will be that.”
He smiles. “I hope.”
“I am keeping my promise. That goodbye still stands.”
He finally peels his eyes from the road to look at me. “Glad to hear it.”
When we get to the hospital, we sit in the reception area and wait for Bridget. I sit up straight on one of the hard chairs, a bouquet of white tulips in hand. Last time, I got him purple ones. The fact that he’s had a bad go of it in recent months doesn’t escape me. And it’s all my fault. I wonder if he remembers the purple tulips. Does his memory loss go that far back?
Bridget rounds the corner, dressed in an impeccable grey two-piece suit and matching heels, her hair up in a bun. She is flawless, as always. I am in awe of this woman. If it were me in her shoes (or rather in my ballet flats), I would definitely look like hell and there would most likely be a sweatshirt and a scrunchie involved. Yes, most definitely.
Her husband almost dies, is in a comma for days and she looks like she’s just returned from a vacation in the Bahamas. And there’s something else I notice as she closes in on us, she seems genuinely happy.
There’s a glow in her eyes, a glow I have never seen before.
She gives Gabe a hug. And I stand to my feet and squeeze in for a half-hug, the bouquet of tulips awkward between us. “How are you?” she asks, her usually chipper self, just like we’re old friends, life-long acquaintances.
A middle-aged woman shoots us a quick glance, and hastily returns to her magazine. Old friends — I’m sure that’s exactly what this woman sees — something far from the truth. She could never imagine what we’ve all shared.
“Thank you,” Bridget says as she takes the flowers from me. “I’m sure he’ll love these.”
I am floored by Bridget’s demeanor. All seems to have been forgotten. I can’t quite wrap my head around it. I don’t understand why she doesn’t hate me anymore.
She speaks to the woman at the desk briefly, and we follow her down the hall to the elevators. She towers over me as we walk in step, her heels clicking against the hard floor.
“Thank you for coming,” she says as we make our way up in the elevator. As we step out, she turns to me and stills me with her hand. “Did Gabe tell you about his memory loss?”
I nod. “Yes, I heard he doesn’t remember the accident.”
“That’s right.”
I hope he remembers the events of that day because I really don’t want to do the whole break-up thing again. “What else does he not remember?”
She doesn’t seem too upset when she tells me, “Quite a big chunk of time, I’m afraid.”
I mull this over for a second.
“You should know,” she goes on, her words measured. “He may not remember you.” She says this so casually, like it’s no big deal at all.
I catch my breath.
How could he forget me?/
I don’t believe it.
She glances over at Gabe who has stopped to wait for us. “Could we have a second?”
He bends his head, hands in pockets. “Sure,” he says as he steps away and gives us some space.
Bridget swallows hard. And she suddenly seems nervous, edgy, like I’ve never seen her before. She seems emotional. “I know he loved you,” she says. And I’m taken aback by the past-tense she uses. “And he could love you again. This is your chance to do the right thing.”
I’m left speechless. I don’t quite understand what’s she’s telling me. She turns on her heel, and the clicking of her shoes bounces off the corridor halls. Gabe falls into step with her, and they chat as they walk down to Weston’s room. I scurry to catch up to them, still confused as hell.
Gabe tells me he prefers to wait outside. I fully understand, there’s no love lost between him and Weston. Obviously, they’re not really friends. I hesitate as I follow Bridget into the room, a nice big open space.
Weston sits up on the hospital bed, just as I had imagined him, surrounded by bouquets and cards. And a few balloons too. He is buried in casts, surrounded by machines and quite bruised up, but seems in good spirits as he writes in a notebook.
As we walk into the room, the clicking of our heels is loud. But he doesn’t look up at us. He keeps scribbling in his notebook, biting at his bottom lip as he does so. I study his face; one side looks worse than the other. And he’s wearing one of those standard, not so fashionable hospital gowns. But somehow, he still manages to be beautiful.
He finally shoots a look up at us. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I just had to follow my train of thought.”
“He’s been writing a diary,” Bridget explains. “It helps keep things in check. Things are still very fuzzy.”
He smiles at the both us. “Well, it’s not so much a diary, as it is a list of observations and reminders.”
He finally rests his eyes on me.
There’s nothing in his gaze but curiosity.
Nothing else.
Not a flicker of recognition, happiness, excitement, longing…just a little curiosity.
Bridget walks around the bed, adjusts his pillow and kisses him on the cheek. He smiles up at her with a certain expression in his eyes, an expression I recognize. It’s the way he’s looked at me so many times.
“This is Mirella,” she offers. “A new friend of ours.”
I venture a little closer as he smiles up at me. His smile is courteous, polite.
He really does not remember me.
My hearts sinks. How could he forget?
Bridget pulls a chair for me and sets it beside the bed. I slowly take a seat, still trying to digest all this. She did warn me but I refused to listen.
I smile shyly at him, not sure what to say.
He closes his red notebook. “Thank you for the flowers,” he says. “They’re wonderful.”
I look at my poor-excuse-of-a-bouquet of tulips next to the monstrosities — from very rich people I gather. Rich people have rich friends. My measly bouquet pales in comparison, and I realize he’s being polite.
He studies me curiously. “Bridget hasn’t told me much, I’m afraid,” he says. “I’m afraid my memory…”
“I understand,” I tell him, sitting up straighter. This feels so odd, like I’m speaking to a complete stranger and I remember him. I can only imagine what he must be feeling.
He sits up a little taller, looking pained. “I’m sorry, I forget your—”
“It’s Mirella,” I remind him. “Mirella Keates.”
He may as well have just punched me in the heart. He doesn’t know me anymore. He has no clue that I collect brooches, that I love red-velvet cupcakes, that my toes are ticklish, that I love being kissed softly on the lobe of my ear.
I’m a stranger.
“Yes, are you a new friend of Bridget’s?”
I look up at Bridget who fixes me, her expression serious. Now I understand what she had been trying to tell me. “Uh…yes. The four of us…you and Bridget, and my husband and I met at a restaurant, about a year and a half ago.”
He smiles. “We’re good friends then?”
I look up at Bridget, and then again at Weston. There’s a little glimmer in his eyes. It’s nowhere what it was that night we met, but perhaps I could make him fall in love with me again. But perhaps not. He seems different somehow. And regardless, I would never ever want to do that. This is what I’ve dreamed of…an escape, a do-over, a chance to go back in time.
“We were never really too close,” I lie. “But my heart was set on coming to visit and making sure you were okay. What a horrible accident you were in.”
My words seem foreign, as if they’re not coming from my mouth. There’s a stranger in me speaking. A very polite stranger.
“Well,” he says. “The doctors tell me I’m recovering quite nicely.” He smiles again. He’s all bruised up and not so stylish in his hospital gown, but he’s as striking as ever. I notice the silver chain tucked into his collar and I wonder if an olive tree sits on his heart.
“Well, thank you so much for coming,” he says again.
I look down at my purse and dig into it for Claire’s picture. My hand trembles slightly as I hand him the folded piece of paper. “Here’s a drawing my daughter Claire made for you.”
He unfolds it gently and smiles as he studies it for the longest time, taking in all the details. “I assume we’re friends? Your daughter and I?”
I smile. “Yes, she’s very fond of you. You gave her a rather giant giraffe once.”
He laughs. “Oh, that explains the giraffe in the drawing. I was wondering. Thank her on my behalf, please. This is great.”
I look up at Bridget who is smiling too. “Yes, I will.”
He’s still looking down at the picture. “That’s you right there,” he says. “I recognize the smile.”
I smile proudly. No sense in hiding my smile — a little birdie once told me he loved it. “Yes.”
And after a beat, I ask him something I’m just dying to know. “So what is your last memory, Weston?”
He looks up from the picture with a quizzical expression. “It’s the strangest thing. My last vivid memory was my daugh
ter Lizzie’s fourth birthday. It was Cinderella themed.”
That was so long ago. Five years ago. I can’t help but wonder why that memory?
“Bridget had gone all out. There was a live Cinderella, blue and white balloons everywhere, and a giant three-tiered cake. All our dearest friends were there. Lizzie was happy as a clam.”
And then, it hits me like a lightning bolt. It was before…it was before Jonathan was ever conceived.
“That’s a very nice last memory to have,” I finally manage.
A grin stretches across his face and it’s a genuine smile, a happy smile. I’ve rarely seen it before. “But it was quite a shock to see my children all grown up.”
“I’ve missed so many memories,” he tells me, and his smile fades a little. “They were only four and six, and now…” he says, wide-eyed. “They’re nine and eleven.”
I shoot him a thin smile, not sure what to add.
“I’ve missed so much,” he tells me, gazing down at his red notebook. “And it feels so strange not remembering. Like I’m in a dream-like state,” he explains. “But I’m told I’m lucky to be alive, so I must count my blessings, despite all I’ve missed.”
“Yes, for sure. I’m sure there are lots of pictures and video footage.” And as I say the words, I wonder about the photos and videos of Jonathan. Will she show him those too? The mind has a way of healing itself. The heart has a way of finding a way out of the deepest despair.
My eyes prick and my throat tightens at the memory of the conversation we had when he told me all about the hole in his heart, the child he had lost.
The memory almost brings tears to my eyes. I swallow hard and stand. “Thank you for having me. I should get going.”
“Well, thank you for coming and hopefully we’ll see you soon.” His words trail off with a question mark. I can tell he’s curious about me.
I smile at both him and Bridget. “I’m afraid you won’t be seeing too much of us. We’re actually moving to Phoenix in two months.”
I catch Bridget’s expression — a weight seems to lift off her shoulders — she’s practically floating.