by Riley, Gia
I give her hand one last squeeze, and then I take a careful step backward. Once I’m at the door, I say, “I love you,” never meaning it more.
We’ve made so much progress tonight, and I couldn’t be happier, but the simple, “Thank you,” she gives me in response stings more than it should.
Baby steps, Cash.
We’ll get there.
ten
MEADOW
Ms. Lucia tucks her freshly dyed hair behind her ear and then reaches into her bag. At first, I don’t pay much attention to what she pulls out, figuring it’s just another pen or notebook.
But the sun pouring through the window bounces off something shiny, and I’m momentarily blinded. A couple of quick blinks, and I spot a music box. It looks just like the one from home. And, once Ms. Lucia opens it, it plays the exact same song.
“Did Cash give you that yesterday?” I ask her, shocked that he’s been in contact with my therapist, just like I feared.
I wasn’t necessarily hiding anything from Cash, but I’d like to be the one to tell him about my progress—on my terms, in my own words. Anything else just feels like an invasion of privacy.
Aren’t there rules against that? Something in place to protect me?
“Cash gave it to the facility the day you were admitted along with your clothing and other personal items. I wasn’t in the building that day, so I don’t have much backstory on the piece, but he mentioned to the social worker that it was your prized possession before the accident. Normally, we couldn’t have kept it, but she said he’d spoken so passionately about it that I should hang on to it. I knew it was something we should explore when you were ready.”
Cash used to get the music box out every day, begging me to listen to the song. It was one of the first things he had shown me after I woke up in the hospital. Along with the pictures, it was just another piece of my life that meant nothing to me. I stayed numb regardless of what I was supposed to feel when I saw it.
But, when Ms. Lucia opens it and the little ballerina spins in a circle, I get this weird pang in my chest. Not a single memory flashes in front of my eyes, yet my body reacts in ways it’s never responded before.
I don’t understand why I’m suddenly a few degrees warmer, yet my arms are covered in goose bumps. Or why my palms are damp and my mouth is so dry.
Clearing my throat, I try to tell Ms. Lucia what I can about the box, but there’s nothing begging to be told. All I can say is, “My grandmother had one just like it.”
She sits forward in her chair, her eyes wide with hope. “You remember?”
I shake my head. “Cash told me that.”
She presses her lips together, no doubt disappointed. That’s one look I’ve gotten used to.
“Study it, Meadow. Take your time and examine the felt lining, the tutu on the dancer, even the hinges. Sometimes, the smallest details can surprise us with information.”
I’ve already done that a bunch of times, and I hate that she’s expecting magic because it will only leave me feeling like a failure again. The only thing that can make me feel better is vodka.
I’m sick of being tortured. Why do we have to go back in time? It’s too painful.
Ms. Lucia mistakes my hesitation for thought and places the box in my lap.
“I don’t want to touch it,” I tell her.
She notices my shaky hands and heavy breathing and examines me even closer. “Meadow, I’ve done my research and worked with enough patients to recognize progress when I see it. What you’re going through right now means something.”
“What am I going through?”
Like she’s inside my body, she rattles off everything I feel—increased heart rate, sweating, chills, nausea, panic.
“I get like this at least once a day,” I tell her. “Sometimes, I still throw up.”
“All of that is normal, but what you’re experiencing isn’t a detox issue,” she explains. “The ache in your body and the desperation to remember means that you are. In some way, the music box is causing you to react.”
She can’t possibly believe that.
“I’m not so sure.”
“Think about it, Meadow. Think about how many things you look at in a day’s time. Nothing has ever triggered you this way.”
“Should the facility trigger me?” I question.
Pointing to the pictures on her desk, she says, “Take those for example. If you had a strong memory about an amusement park or the pizza we’re eating, you’d get a response. You might not understand why or what the exact trigger was, but it would be very real and very valuable to your treatment.”
I guess I never thought of it that way, that literally everything around me could help me remember. I’ve spent so much time focusing on the pictures and the stories Cash told me that I might have missed the most obvious of clues.
“So, what do I do about it?” I question.
“If you’re okay with it, I’d like to propose a new method of therapy for you.”
“We won’t meet anymore?”
Is she giving up on me?
“Of course we’ll still have our daily sessions. I don’t want you to be scared or anxious about that. But, remember, I would never put you in danger or give you more than you could handle. Okay?”
Ms. Lucia has been kind to me since we started working together, but until she tells me about her proposal, I can’t agree to anything.
“Like what?”
“Hypnosis.”
Before she can say another word, I tell her, “No way.”
I saw a person get hypnotized once. Granted, it was on a trashy TV show, but I don’t want to be out cold, unaware of what I’m saying. One snap of a finger, and I could be at anyone’s mercy. I don’t like not being in control of my body. Not sober anyway.
“Please, hear me out,” she says. “We have an excellent resource in this building. He’s worked miracles with people just like you. And, if he can take you back to wherever this music box came from, you could regain your memory.”
“All of it?”
“No, not right away,” she tells me. “He’ll start small and build upon things you respond to, just like we did today with the music box.”
“If you can do the same thing, why can’t I stay awake?”
“Because he can go deeper with you in a relaxed state. Think about how nervous you are when you walk into my office. If your mind can explore new depths without any stress on your body, I think you’d make progress much faster. We can even use it to your benefit as far as the drinking.”
“Because you think that, once I start to regain my past, I’ll want to drink even more?”
“I didn’t say that. But the temptation is always strong, Meadow. It’ll be like discovering who you are all over again. And, since we’re our own worst critics, it’s natural to resort to the same self-destructive behavior that got you here in the first place.”
“I don’t want a voodoo doctor messing with me. I think I’d rather keep things as they are.”
She laughs, but I wasn’t trying to be funny. “It’s a stereotype, Meadow. What you see in the movies is much different than reality. He won’t make you quack like a duck or turn you into a zombie. I wouldn’t suggest this if I didn’t think it could help.”
“Will you tell Cash?”
She studies me for a couple of seconds, and I know she’ll eventually want to dive deeper into my reasons for withholding information from my husband.
But, for now, she’s satisfied and says a simple, “No.”
“Thank you.”
“Your treatment is confidential.”
“What about the court? Do they know what happens to me in here?”
Paging through her notes, she holds up typed correspondence with my name at the top. “Your records are sent to the social worker on a daily basis. About a week before you’re to be discharged, the social worker assigned to your case will reevaluate every session we’ve had. To make sure we’ve done everything we can
for you. We’re under just as much pressure as you are, Meadow.”
What happens if she’s not satisfied with my progress though? Or worse, what if I’m deemed unfit to go home? Will they put me in jail?
“I’ll call the therapist right now,” she tells me. “You can meet him before you make your final decision. How does that sound?”
Ms. Lucia isn’t going to give up on hypnosis. And, now, I’m afraid that, if I go against her treatment plans, I’ll look uncooperative, like a woman who doesn’t want to get better.
This is too much. She can’t pressure me like this.
“Meadow,” she says, “are you listening to me?”
I hear every word she’s saying. But I’m scared. The idea of hypnosis pushes me over the edge, and I stand up on shaky legs. I have to get out of here.
Her hand wraps around my wrist. She’s not hurting me or forcing me to sit back down, but she’s worried. I must look as weak as I feel.
“I need a drink,” I whisper.
If a bottle of vodka were within reach, I’d down the entire thing until I either threw up or passed out. I always hoped the passing out came before the sickness. It was easier that way.
Some days, I threw up so many times that my throat would bleed. The blood would mix with saliva, and then it would leak out of the corner of my mouth after I blacked out. Once I slept it off, I’d peel my eyes open and search the pillowcase for traces of pink.
I must be sicker than I realize because I actually miss that part of my daily routine.
Ms. Lucia walks me to the door and points me in the direction of my room. “Can you make it back on your own? I’ll send a nurse to give you some medication to calm you down.”
It’s only a short walk down the hallway and around the bend. I can make it, but I don’t want the drugs. They make my head foggy and not in a good way like the vodka.
When I drink, I still feel like myself, just happier and less agitated. The pills are the opposite. I barely feel human, and I can’t stay asleep long enough to have any of the dreams I’ve been tracking.
“No medicine,” I tell her. “I’m fine. You just caught me off guard with the hypnosis stuff.”
“I understand,” she says.
But does she really?
I’m starting to think nobody knows what to do with me, let alone understands me. Even I’m still getting used to my own body. Because the longer I’m sober, the more changes I’m noticing.
I’m not the old Meadow.
I’m not drunk Meadow.
I’m someone brand-new.
eleven
MEADOW
His thumbs brush over my nipples, and then he leans down and sucks one into his mouth. My back arches off the bed, and I wrap my legs around his waist, desperately trying get closer.
“Patience,” he whispers. “We have all night.”
I want all night and every day after. Sometimes, our time together feels like a tiny blip, and other nights, this feeling goes on forever. I don’t know how long I’ll have him before he disappears, and I’m not about to waste a single second.
He traces my bottom lip with his finger, and I lick the tip before sucking it into my mouth. I feel his groan all the way down my spine and smile when his eyes roll back in his head. I love how powerful he makes me feel, like everything I do is the best he’s ever had.
“You’re going to kill me if you don’t stop,” he says. “Tonight is about you, not me.”
Each time he seduces me, it’s always about me. I can’t help wondering what it’d be like if the roles were reversed.
What would I do to him?
Anything he wanted.
But I’ll have to wait to find out what happens next.
Opening my eyes, I’m as out of breath as I was in my dream, disappointed that it’s over. The past few nights, smoky eyes have met me in the darkness as he pleasures my body in ways only he can.
When Cash was here, I mentioned I was having dreams, hoping he’d give me some clues without realizing it, but when he asked if I wanted help sorting them out, I knew I couldn’t tell him the truth.
How could I possibly explain that while I still have no memory of our marriage, I think I might be having dreams about our past?
He’d be so excited, I know he would, but the man I see in the dark doesn’t look anything like Cash. So, there’s no way I can let him in on my little secret until I figure out why.
Maybe this kind of thing happens in dreams, and since I had a brain injury, my thoughts are getting all jumbled up.
But, when I go over the things both men have said to me, even the voices don’t match up.
The man in the dream makes the most sinful, intoxicating sounds I’ve ever heard. His tan skin, skin a shade darker than my husband’s, does things to me only he’s capable of. And what’s even worse is that I don’t want the mystery man to morph into anyone else. I like him just the way he is even if he’s a figment of my imagination or a mixed-up version of someone I already have.
I furiously write about each meeting in my spare journal, afraid that my last dream could be the end of it. Dreams happen on their own, and I can’t force my body to meet up with him.
But everything happens for a reason. I wouldn’t have this sudden obsession with figuring out who he is if he wasn’t meant to be in my life.
That means I could be on the verge of getting all of my memories back. I could even be whole again. So many people make decisions for me every day of my life—choosing where I sleep, what I eat, what I talk about. It’s overwhelming. So, this little piece of my life coming back to me means therapy might be working. My brain’s healing, and it’s doing it in the most sinful way imaginable with a man who doesn’t pressure me to be someone I’m not.
I realize that makes me a terrible person because I have a husband, one who would do all of the things this man does and more. But, no matter how hard I try to create the same magic with Cash, his face isn’t the one I meet up with when I close my eyes.
Sometimes, I blame the dreams on an early midlife crisis—some wicked hormonal fluctuation that’s causing my imagination to run wild. But that’s not what this is. At least, I don’t think so.
Ms. Lucia told me this could happen. That different levels of consciousness can cause certain memories to surface. I’m sure she’d expect me to discuss the dreams with her, but I don’t think I can talk about them out loud—not to her at least. But, maybe after a quick peek in my journal, she’d see the madness I’m desperately trying to figure out, explaining it all until it made perfect sense. Maybe she’d even have a logical explanation as to why Cash doesn’t look like Cash when I dream about him.
What if she’s been right all along?
My past is hidden inside of me, like she hopes, and my dreams are a manifestation of my old life with Cash—wishes, memories, unspoken desires for a man I’ve loved for years.
“Who knows what this is?” I grumble as I get out of bed, anxious to jot down the latest details into my journal.
Just like a therapist, I analyze every touch, the unspoken breaths that send chills down my spine, and those eyes.
But what still stumps me are the voices. Looks are one thing, but why wouldn’t the man still sound like Cash?
Am I imagining the differences?
The only way to find out is to grab my calling card and run to the phone in my pajamas.
It’s against policy to leave my room dressed like this, and it’s not the designated time to make calls either, but I don’t care. I’d consider this an emergency.
The desk is deserted, and I dial Cash’s number as quickly as I can, the one thing I’ve managed to memorize and not forget since leaving the hospital.
It only rings once, and then Cash says, “Hello?” in his panicked voice, followed by an equally freaked out, “Is Meadow okay?”
I forgot the name of the center would show up on his caller ID.
“It’s me, Cash.”
“Baby,” he says with relief. �
��What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I’m fine. I just wanted to hear your voice.”
Waiting on him to say something else, I close my eyes and prepare to compare the two sounds. All I know so far is that the man in the dream has a deeper, less raspy voice than Cash.
God, everything about the way that man said my name was smooth and sensual.
Cash sighs, and I try to remember if I’ve heard that specific sound in any of my dreams, too. If he knew I was analyzing him right now, I’m sure he’d hang up on me.
“I miss you so much, Meadow. Leaving you yesterday was hard.”
“You can come back soon,” I tell him, avoiding all the complicated feelings he so easily delivers.
“How long do you have to talk?”
I glance over my shoulder, knowing that I shouldn’t be on the phone at all right now. I’m pressing my luck and wasting valuable phone minutes because of a silly dream.
“I actually have to go.”
A brief pause eats up ten more seconds, and then Cash says, “Okay. Thank you for calling. You made my day.”
“I’ll talk to you soon.”
“Yeah, okay. I love you.”
“Bye, Cash.”
I disconnect the call, wishing I hadn’t picked up the phone in the first place.
What was I thinking?
The only thing I accomplished was setting Cash up for more disappointment. But, as I dart back into my room, I wonder if that’s all about to change. Maybe, the next time I close my eyes, the man I see will be Cash. And then every dream we’ve shared will be reality.
I think I’d like that. No, I know I would. And, if the goose bumps on my arms are any indication of just how much, then I’m positive Cash and I are going to have a lot of fun reconnecting.
I can’t get ahead of myself though, so in the margins of my journal, I make note of the differences in the two voices anyway, just in case I need to refer to it later, in case those intense eyes don’t belong to Cash.
Muscle memory helps me shower and dress, kind of like when you’re driving in your car and you don’t remember making any of the turns but still get to your destination in one piece. I make it to breakfast the same way, still in a daze.