The bleeps on the monitor knew of my anxiety the moment John returned to the room with a slight smile. When I studied his eyes, though, they seemed devious, as if he had an ulterior motive.
"Andrea?"
I pulled my eyebrows in, realizing I still couldn't remember who I actually was, so I was forced to believe my name was Andrea. Even after being shown my driver's license and the other pile of proof they offered, I still didn't fully relate to that name.
"I know you're confused and I know you're scared. I can only keep trying to reassure you and hope that you believe me." His left brow arched slightly, a worried pain crossed his eyes, and my treacherous heart tugged for him in that exact moment.
It was then I realized how painful it must be for him to see the woman he claimed to love not remember him or what he cherished. Yet at the same time, I was so confused and lost. I was at a dead end wondering who I was, who they were, and if what they were saying was really true, and I had no other option than to believe them. Had I always been this distrustful of people?
It was as if I were standing in a crowded room and everyone knew exactly what was going on. Everyone except me. This had to be the ultimate feeling of isolation, and it was extremely infuriating to me. I'd already had an outburst of anger earlier that day, so I was trying hard to contain all the emotions that threatened to take me under. Why? I wanted to scream, yell, demand him to explain who the hell he really was. I wanted to see the pictures from when we dated, from our wedding, our honeymoon. Our marriage.
Oh my God. My heart crumbled at the very thought that invaded my mind. Tears pricked my lids and again fear gripped me.
"What? Baby, do you remember something?" John grabbed my hand, which I had raised to my mouth, horrified at the thought. My free hand shook as I gripped the sterile, white sheet on my bed—as if that sheet might protect me from my frightening thought.
"Andrea?" His voice shook slightly as his question came out with slight fear behind it.
"I...We...Do we have children?" Not remembering if I had any was horrible; the fear that if I saw my own children and I didn't remember them was terrifying.
"No."
All the air I'd held left my body, replaced by a wave of relief.
"Not yet, at least. Only the one you're carrying."
My eyes flew to his as the last word rang through my mind, and I tried to process yet another bit of information he was giving to me in code. Damn it, why can’t this man just tell me things without trying to be so secretive? Caught between confusion and rage, I bit my lip while what he said finally registered.
His white teeth flashed at me as his mouth curved into a dazzling smile. A proud smile. One that only a father-to-be might have. "Honey, we've been trying for quite some time. I still can't believe you're finally pregnant. I can't imagine when you were going to actually tell me. Or how..."
Our eyes met and immediately I realized he hadn't known I was pregnant either. "How far..."
"Only eight weeks. You must have just found out. Or maybe you didn't know either." His words rushed out with exhilaration.
Had I found out and was about to tell him? Thoughts that I may have been bursting with excitement to share the news and ways I would have surprised him flashed through my mind. Or maybe, like he said, I hadn't known either.
"I'm hoping for a girl. Like you, with amazing honey-brown eyes—and maybe she'll even have your chestnut curls."
I swallowed, realizing my only frame of reference of my appearance was from the small picture on my driver’s license. I wondered what I really looked like, since I hadn't even looked in the mirror. No one ever considers all the little bits of information a person takes in and remembers until those are gone.
"Or," he rushed, bringing my attention back to him, "it could be a boy. Blond, like me." His nervousness was endearing, but my mind was still trying to catch up.
A baby.
I'm pregnant. My hand flew down to my stomach; my fingers ran over my belly button and over my skin. Nothing. Eight weeks, I repeated in my head. My stomach wouldn't protrude yet. At least I didn’t think so.
John reached over and pushed a stray hair behind my ear. The graze of the back of his hand against my cheek made me flinch. The hurt was apparent in his eyes.
We were going to have a child together, and I had no idea what kind of a man he really was. Was he a good man? Would he be a wonderful father? He was so caring and patient with me so far, I could only hope he would be with our child.
"Andrea?"
"How long did we date before we were married?" The voice from me seemed foreign. I guess it was, considering I felt horrible for asking such a question.
"Two years. We met at a party." His blond hair flopped onto his forehead, his green eyes dulled from having to answer such a question. Should I have been jealous he could remember when we dated, while I couldn’t even remember where I was born?
I forced a weak smile, hoping to bring back some of the sparkle he’d had from telling me I was pregnant with his child. I wanted to ask if we loved each other but knew that would hurt him. How could I ask such a question? The amount of guilt weighed heavy in my gut.
"Are you tired?" As if he knew how I felt already. Maybe he did know me that well.
I gave another weak, sheepish smile with a nod.
"I'm going to let you get some sleep. You and our baby need rest." The last sentence stung. I wasn't sure why, but it made me feel like I now had some sort of obligation to him.
"Umm..." I trailed off, hoping I got his attention. There were so many more questions I wanted to ask.
He turned, and the flex of his arm showed the muscles along his bicep. Strength was something he definitely had, but I was unsure of how much mental strength he would need in order to endure his wife not remembering anything. I cast my eyes down, having no idea what else to ask.
"Do you need something else?"
I swallowed. "I..." My lips felt even drier as I pressed them together, and my heart beat faster as I tried to pick from one of the many questions that seemed to come at me all at once. I stared deep into his eyes, praying for some sort of memory miracle to make them all come back to me in one quick swoop.
With the heavy pause, he took the small distance and sat back in the chair, leaning in, his body wanting and waiting for what I had to say. Tears pricked my eyes at the frustration of not knowing anything except what he had told me. There were so many blanks I wanted filled in.
"Andrea, I know you're going through a lot and I want you to know that I'm here for you—that we'll survive this. You'll get your memory back, the doctors told me this may not last long..."
"But it could be forever." My voice was anxious and terrified of the possibility. "You don't understand, do you?" Had I had panic attacks before? Because right then, my whole body shook and trembled at all my rushing thoughts. "Childhood memories. My parents. Who was my best friend growing up? When did I learn how to ride a bike? Do I have brothers or sisters?" My voice broke as my gaze returned to his. There was an urgency inside me that I had to make him understand. Blinking, I stared at him, hoping my next thoughts might help him understand my panic. "I may never even remember the excitement I felt when we met." My eyes darted around the room as more thoughts attacked me. "I can't remember how my heart may have raced when you asked me out. Or how nervous I was when I dressed for our first date." My anger rose as I thought about something so basic he was taking for granted. "Were my palms sweaty when I went to open to door to greet you? How many times had I changed clothes so I could wear the perfect outfit for our first date?" My breath stuttered as I tried to inhale, only to realize my tears were flowing. The pain of not even knowing these significant memories of my life were crushing me harder the more I thought about all of it. And even if my hidden fears were true, that John wasn't really my husband or maybe I never really knew him, I hoped that on some level he could understand my torment. "These are things you won't be able to help me with. They were stolen from me in an
accident I don’t even remember."
He leaned in; urgency in his stature filled my space as he tried to make me understand. "I'll fill you in on everything I can. You can ask me anything and we can get through this."
"But those are things you won't be able to answer, and it terrifies me. What if those are the things I'll never remember?"
My voice shook as tears streamed down my face when I realized I'd already forgotten half of what I'd been told in all my panic. "Names. I don't..."
Without missing a beat, he gave me a sad smile. "Mine is John. Johnathan Michael Vasslor. Your name is Andrea Grace Vasslor. Born Lowry to William and Mary Lowry. You're an only child and you grew up with amazing stories of small-town life with parents who loved you. You went to Parsons University to study interior design, and after we married you updated all of the offices in my corporation. You love to shop and be pampered and I enjoy being able to supply you with both. We have a wonderful marriage." He shrugged, and his eyes softened as he continued to stare into mine, giving me some sort of comfort. "We've been trying to have a baby for two years now, and we were going to seek other avenues. I'm still surprised and in shock." His watery green orbs tugged at my heart as I wondered if I'd known I was pregnant before the accident. I wanted to give him information that would provide us both some hope that my memory would come back to me. And at the same time, I had another fear that maybe I hadn't wanted to be pregnant. Wasn't that a possibility too? Something that John wouldn't have known?
Nothing.
I stared deep into his eyes and couldn't remember anything. Nothing of what he told me. And it angered me.
"Please tell me you're not lying to me." My jaw hurt from the pressure of grinding my teeth. "Nothing is coming back to me. I want to believe you and I don't know if I can." The words rushed out before I could stop them.
Hurt glazed his eyes, quickly replaced with fixed calm. A small, forced smile glossed over his lips as he gave me a curt nod.
He squeezed my hand quickly and then stood. "Get some rest. Maybe that will help your memory."
My stomach ached as I realized how bad that all must have sounded to him.
I watched him walk away after he had given me a chaste kiss on my forehead. The warmth from his lips still lingered even after he disappeared through the doorway.
I stared at the empty doorframe long after he had left as the guilt of doubting him along with the anger from not remembering waged war inside of me.
How long would it be before I remembered my own husband?
John. He told me his name was John.
For the time being, that was all I had to go by.
Four
Andi
It'd been days since we left the hospital. Walking the empty rooms of the penthouse condo only added to my anger and frustration. Considering it was supposed to be my home, it reminded me more of a prison tower. Reminded me—what a fitting phrase, considering nothing in that place struck any chord inside me.
John returned to work, leaving me at his condo by myself. Alone with my thoughts of how I couldn't remember anything. Alone to try to piece things back together without any glue.
A glass bear sat on a shelf of the bookcase. Glancing at it each time I walked by, I finally picked it up. It was small enough, yet so heavy in my hand. It held a marble egg, and I couldn't help but wonder if it was purchased as a joke. Had I bought it? Or was it a gift given to me? Or maybe it was something I had picked up when trying to decorate the place. Questions. I had a slew of them, and it made me want to hurl that damned glass bear into the window overlooking the street below.
Considering I did nothing all day long, I was exhausted purely from trying to push away the anger that consumed me. I wanted to be settled, I needed to feel connected to my present day, to know I belonged there. But I couldn't. Not one memory came to me. Even as I stared at the frames on the mantle filled with photos of me and John on our wedding day, of us on our honeymoon.
The doorman downstairs, he knew my name. He’d smiled, tipping his hat to me, and told me it was great to see me again. John told me I had only been gone for a few days, yet I couldn't help but wonder if the doorman meant for a longer period of time.
Our housekeeper, Adelia, was home when we first walked in the door. She’d seemed surprised to see me. Her eyes had flitted back and forth between John and me. She knew something, I was convinced of it. What it was, who the hell knew, since she only spoke Spanish. Hell, maybe I did too, but it was locked away in some weird memory vault in my mind—the one that no one seemed to have the key to. Certainly not me. Those were the moments I wanted to bash my head against the wall, trying to jar some memories.
I cringed as I ran my fingers along the bumpy, tiny stitches in hopes that I wouldn't have a scar. Was I a vain person before my accident? Would I have cared even more about it before?
For the past couple of days, I had questioned John, asking anything I could about who I was, what I did during the day. Did I have a job? Where were all my friends? There were some answers he was happy to tell, giving me more information than I had asked. Stories of the two of us together in college, how we met.
But then there were some questions that he gave me only vague answers—things that didn't seem to add up. And those were the times he had seemed like a totally different person. He became stern, closed-lipped. I had a weird sense that he had some harbored hatred for me—the complete opposite of the man who had reassured me in the hospital. The only time he had any type of affection toward me was when we talked about my pregnancy. His child.
I ran my fingers over the rich, burgundy fabric of the chair. It was clear from the moment I stepped into the high-rise condo that my husband was rich. Or was it me that was rich? Who had all the money? Every item in the living room was designed to impress, but who were we trying to impress? No one had come by to check on me or visit since I had been home. From the paintings to the Persian rug on the floor, all of it was overdone, overstated, and in my opinion, obscene. So why would I have chosen any of it to decorate our home? Was that really my taste, or was it what he wanted and I blindly obeyed? I realized at that moment I still didn't totally believe what he was telling me.
That was the thing: why did I still continue to question being his wife? I was told while at the hospital and yet I hadn't felt any spark, no hint of meeting him before. A heart didn't get amnesia, did it? I hadn't met any other family besides his, who were standoffish and, quite frankly, rude. Where were my parents? When I asked, I was told my father had passed away and my mother was in a nursing home. Was that true?
The silver frames of our wedding pictures on the mantle beckoned me. I picked one up, and my eyes drifted to the sparkling jewels on our hands. Immediately I looked at my own left hand. Bare. Where were my engagement and wedding rings? Had I been wearing them during the accident and they were removed for my hospital stay?
That had to be it, right? That was the reason. I turned and walked down the hall toward our bedroom—the room I was told was our bedroom. He had said I was welcome to go in there anytime I wished. When we’d arrived, he had been kind enough to give me the spare bedroom, the closet lined with clothes and shoes that fit me, instead of making me sleep in the same bed as him. And maybe that was the reason I continuously felt like I didn't belong there. Despite that feeling I searched the dresser, landing upon a jewelry armoire. Pulling out each ring drawer, I found countless amounts of beautiful rings, none of which were the same from that photo.
Staring at the ring finger of my left hand, I detected a slight, very faded tan line. So being married wasn't a lie. Though the tan line seemed so thin, I still had lingering questions along with the whereabouts of my rings.
Glancing at the bedside table, the one I was told was placed by “my side,” I walked toward it. I picked up the magazine and slumped onto the mattress as I flipped through it. My head shook as I skimmed through the headlines, laughing at the overdramatic gossip between the pages. Had I really liked this stuff? Or
had I read it out of boredom?
It was then that I remembered my previous quest to find my rings. Nothing on the end table, I ducked down to check the floor, just in case. After that, I checked the bathroom. Nothing. No trace of my rings anywhere.
The sound of the front door opening and closing made me jump and my heart raced. I quickly realized it wasn't the sound of someone being there that scared me; it was the feeling that I had done something wrong in my so-called own home. Like searching this room might get me in trouble. I had been told all these things were mine, yet I couldn't ignore the feeling that they belonged to someone else and I was trespassing.
"Mizzus Vazzz-lor?" Adelia called from the entryway. I was told that I had known her for at least three years. I needed to figure out a way to talk to her. Someway I'd figure it out, considering she was one of the few people I saw during my lonely days in the condo.
"I'm here," I called to her.
As I strode down the hallway, I realized she could possibly be a wealth of information, and maybe we had our own way of communicating before the accident.
We smiled pleasantly at each other as I walked in, and she continued putting away groceries into the fridge. I sat at the kitchen counter feeling odd while trying to figure out a way to converse with her.
She came to the counter, her brown eyes filled with concern as she stared at my stitches. She touched her forehead in the same place and nodded with a concerned expression.
"It doesn't hurt."
She pulled in her brows, her hair not moving since it was pulled back into a tight bun.
"Umm. Okay.” I made the hand gesture and she smiled, nodding her head. She turned around and went back to what she was doing.
Well, this wasn't really going to go very far, was it? As I folded my hands, I wondered how I could ask her if she knew where my rings might be. So far making gestures had worked, and she didn't seem uncomfortable with it.
Accidents Happen (Forever Happens Book 1) Page 2