by Maggie Way
Chapter Seven
Lost
Waking up felt more natural than the first time. The day before had felt as if he were swimming against a strong current. He fought it, but kept getting pushed back before he could make any headway. Eventually, the current seemed to calm and he finally reached the surface. Instead of fresh air, he found only confusion. Something was wrong from the moment he woke, but so many things were assaulting him in that moment he had no hope of pinpointing the cause.
When the doctor’s question finally sank in, John realized what had felt so incomplete. He was lying in a hospital bed, lost in the current he thought he’d escaped. Somewhere during his fight to reach the surface, his identity had been washed away. The realization had wrapped around him, intensifying the emptiness left inside his body and mind.
But it hadn’t lasted. He was lost, but not alone.
Gretchen’s head lay resting in the crook of her elbow, propped on the edge of the bed. Her hand was still wrapped around his and he had no desire to move it. John didn’t know who she was, or why she cared, but she filled some part of the emptiness. Her presence softened the harsh edge of what had happened. She had saved him twice.
Could he ever repay what she’d done for him? He doubted it, but he knew he had to try.
Sighing deeply in her sleep, John watched Gretchen’s face scrunch momentarily before relaxing again. The slight movement sent a strand of her dark blond bangs falling across her face. He wanted to push it back behind her ear, but his closest hand was still holding hers, and the other was wrapped in a plaster cast and was more likely to hit her than manage anything requiring that much finesse. Gretchen’s nose twitched as the strand of hair tickled her, drawing a smile from John as he watched.
In that moment, watching Gretchen sleep, he couldn’t feel the pain of what he had lost. He wanted to stay right there, because he knew once that moment ended, the pain and fear would come flooding back in. He wasn't ready to face it yet. What he wanted didn’t matter for much, unfortunately.
The whisper-quiet opening of the door to his room sent a wave of sadness through him. Looking up at the door, John watched silently as a graying woman in scrubs bustled in with a pair of Styrofoam takeout boxes and a canvas bag slung over her shoulder. Glancing at Gretchen, she smiled and quietly set her things down on the bedside tray. One at a time she opened the boxes, letting the smells of fresh fruit and bakery muffins fill the room.
Stirring from her sleep, Gretchen opened her eyes and yawned.
“Good morning, dear,” the woman said, “I'm Dr. Anita Sanchez.” Gesturing at the food, she said, “I thought you both might be hungry. Lynn said you didn’t get any dinner last night, Gretchen. Please eat up. I brought enough for both of you.”
Full of warm smiles and soothing tones, Dr. Sanchez was a welcome change from Dr. Marshall, who had made another appearance before John fell asleep, and was no more pleasant than before. Dr. Sanchez settled herself in the chair next to John’s bed and waited for them to eat. John hesitated, not wanting to gorge himself in front of her when she had a reason for being there, aside from bringing them breakfast. He was surprisingly hungry, though.
“Your feeding tube was removed last night, so you should be plenty hungry by now,” Dr. Sanchez began. “We’ll start off with some nice soft foods and see how you do with those before letting you move up to steak and potatoes.” John and Gretchen still waited. “Please,” she said, “eat. I won’t move on with my visit until you do.”
Gretchen and John looked at each other. Then Gretchen shrugged and grabbed a cranberry muffin, taking a bite of it with a satisfied smile. He didn’t have to be told again. The muffins and fruit were gone within minutes. Dr. Sanchez smiled and neatly cleared the boxes away when they finished.
“Are you the neurologist?” John asked when Dr. Sanchez sat back down.
“Yes, I am,” she said.
He took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. Gretchen looked as though she were holding her breath. She was clearly anxious to hear what this doctor had to say about him. The emptiness faded by the smallest degree. What would John do if she walked away, feeling her duty to watch over him had been fulfilled? He didn’t want to think about that possibility, so he didn’t. Focusing on Dr. Sanchez let him push all his other thoughts away.
“Now, I suppose you probably have a few questions,” Dr. Sanchez said.
Gretchen and John both nodded.
“Well, I’m here to answer them,” she said. “I looked at your MRIs last night. Because of the injuries you sustained to your brain, your memory has been impaired. The MRI taken when you were first admitted showed severe swelling and bruising to your brain. Both of those showed improvement in the MRI done last night. That is a very good sign.
“Dr. Marshall said you are unable to remember anything before the accident, but he did not indicate whether or not you are able to retain new memories. Have you had any trouble remembering events since waking up?”
“No,” John said, “I seem to be able to remember everything that’s happened since waking up just fine.”
“Wonderful.” She made a note in her file before looking back up at John with her grandmotherly smile. “I’m going to show you a few objects, now, and I want you to tell me what they are and what they’re used for.”
“Okay,” John said.
Dr. Sanchez placed her canvas bag on her lap and pulled out a plastic fork. Seriously? John didn’t get it. He thought she might be joking so he didn’t answer right away. Watching him closely, Dr. Sanchez waited. Is this some kind of test for my memory, or something else entirely? Still feeling like the doctor was pulling some kind of trick, John finally answered.
“It’s a fork. You eat food with it.”
Dr. Sanchez nodded then took a cell phone out of the bag and waited for his response.
“Cell phone,” John said, “to call and text people.”
Nodding again, Dr. Sanchez pulled out another item.
“Keys, to unlock things with,” he said. How long was this going to go on? “Is this really necessary?”
Smiling patiently, Dr. Sanchez said, “Yes, it is. I needed to make sure your functional memory from before the accident is still intact.”
“My what?” he asked. Gretchen seemed to be wondering the same thing.
“Functional memory is separate from the types of memories your brain creates for people, places, and events. Functional memory is information your brain has memorized to allow you to move through your day,” she explained. “It is extremely rare that a person would lose functional memory from trauma. We have enough work to do without having to worry about that as well.”
That was incredible. John hadn’t even thought about the possibility of losing memories of what things were or even how to talk. Waking up to find yourself in a world he didn’t even recognize would have been ten times more terrifying than losing only his personal memories. There was at least one thing that hadn’t been ruined by the situation. John wasn't sure that counted as a silver lining to this storm cloud, but he was willing to take it.
Dr. Sanchez ran him through a few more tests before putting the chart down and closing it. “So, my official diagnosis is that you have retrograde amnesia. Usually amnesia is not quite as severe as this, the memory loss is normally confined to the events immediately before and/or after the injury, but the injuries to your brain were severe enough that this is not wholly unexpected.”
“How long will this last?” John asked.
Smile still on her face, she said, “Unfortunately, I don’t know.”
John felt his jaw tighten at her response. She wasn't trying to be flippant. She was just being honest. Trying to make himself remember that wasn’t easy. He wanted answers.
“What do you mean you don’t know,” Gretchen asked politely.
Dr. Sanchez turned her gaze away from me for the first time and spoke to Gretchen. “One of the most important things I’ve learned while studying the brain is just how
little we really know about it. We can do MRIs and EGGs and study what we see, but we really can’t tell anyone why the brain does what it does sometimes.”
Turning back to me, she continued. “You may regain your memories tomorrow, or they may never return. There is no way for me to know which it will be. Often, amnesia lasts only a few days or weeks, but with the severity of your injuries, it may last longer. It may last indefinitely. Generally, if a person’s memories do not return within a year of the trauma, they will not return.”
So much for answers. Dr. Sanchez’s matronly sweetness had lulled John into the belief that she was going to be able to help him. His head fell back to the pillow in defeat. “What do I do now?” he said quietly. He wasn’t really talking to the doctor, but she answered anyway.
“Well, there really isn’t any way to treat amnesia,” she said. “The best thing to do at this point is simply continue your life as normally as possible.”
John wanted to scream at her, tell her how stupid that idea was, argue that he had no life to continue with in the first place, but Gretchen’s reassuring grip on his hand kept his anger back. That was keeping everything inside of him from exploding. Focusing on the feel of her hand against his, John let her calm seep into him.
Dr. Sanchez kept talking, but he didn’t listen. Gretchen nodded at her words, discussing physical therapy and counseling sessions and a million other things he didn’t want to deal with. He should have paid attention. He should have been part of the discussion. Thinking about the future was too hard. Longing to take back the moment right before Dr. Sanchez arrived, John tuned them out.
The peace he was searching for didn’t come. It was lost to the void inside him, and he wondered if he would ever get it back.
Chapter Eight
The Easy Way
The nurses on John’s floor hadn’t made a move to kick her out Friday night after John woke up, despite visiting hours ending at eight o’clock. After spending the entire day with him Saturday as he slept between tests and consults with a variety of specialists, Gretchen was beat and didn’t argue when Lynn came in to announce she was kicking her out for the night.
John had been asleep by then, but walking out of his room hadn’t been easy. Fear he’d wake alone and panic made her hesitate. Only Lynn’s promise that the evening duty nurses would call if something happened finally gave her enough peace of mind to quietly slip into the hall and down to her car.
Driving home, she was so exhausted she barely remembered the drive and ended up sitting parked in her driveway for who knew how long until Carl appeared next to her car to make sure she was all right. His knock on her window send her heart rate sky high, but it was the anxiety etched into his features that held her back.
Impatience prompted Carl to open her door for her, then cross his arms over his chest expectantly. “How’s Coma Guy?”
Gretchen really hated his nickname for John, but the edge to his tone sent a shot of guilt straight through her. They hadn’t had plans to hang out Friday night, but she was positive Carl knew she hadn’t come home. She also hadn’t sent him a text to explain her absence. After the trip home from Albuquerque, and his panic that she’d been in an accident and died, he’d been extra vigilant in looking out for her.
“He’s, uh, not in a coma anymore,” she said, hoping the good news would soften his frustration with her.
Carl’s eyebrows rose. “He woke up?”
Not sure of his feelings on the matter, aside from his obvious surprise, Gretchen kept her answer basic. “Yep. Last night.”
Relief eased his posture. “It’s about damn time. Now you can finally stop babysitting him, right? I’m sure they called his family to come pick him up or whatever.”
Slowly getting out of her car, Gretchen avoided Carl’s gaze as she gripped the strap of her purse and shut the door. She knew exactly how he’d react to news of John’s condition. Debating telling him the truth, she grimaced when his patience ran out.
“What’s going on, Gretchen? He’s awake. That should be the end of it,” he said, “but clearly it’s not.”
Gretchen felt her exhaustion clear down to her toes. “He can’t remember anything.”
“What?” he asked. “Who cares? So he doesn’t know what happened to him or who did it. That’s for the police to sort out. Not you. Leave it alone, okay? You’ve already gotten more involved than you should have. This has drugs or gangs written all over it.”
Too tired to argue with him and stand under her own power at the same time, Gretchen leaned against her car for support. She rubbed at her eyes before finding the energy to explain. “He can’t remember anything. Nothing. Not a single thing. Whoever attacked him is the least of his problems right now.”
It was too early in the year for crickets, so the lack of their chirping left the two of them in absolute silence. Carl dragged his hands down his face before saying, “You’ve got to be kidding me. Amnesia?”
Gretchen shrugged, a weak answer, but all she could muster when she sensed his frustration building.
It was several long seconds later before he shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. Still not your problem.”
“How can you say that?” Gretchen demanded. “Who else has he got to look out for him?”
Carl didn’t have an immediate answer, but that didn’t stop his brows from pinching together in irritation. “I don’t know, but it doesn’t have to be you. You don’t have to let one chance encounter derail your entire life.”
Shaking her head, she brushed past him and made for the front door of her house. He caught up to her before she could get her keys in the lock. His hulking presence behind her was both calming and irritating. Even though Gretchen appreciated how much he cared, he had no right to criticize her decisions. Not that she had even come to one yet.
“Nobody has any idea what might happen with John,” she said without looking at Carl, “least of all me.”
Sighing, she felt him move closer, his body heat attempting to reassure her. “Maybe not, but I know you too well to believe you’ll walk away without knowing this guy is all right.”
Irritation flushed through her. “You’ve known me for all of seven months,” Gretchen snapped. She jabbed her keys into the lock, but Carl’s hand immediately covered hers, halting her escape.
“Seven months of spending most evenings together. Seven months of being by your side as you’ve worked through whatever baggage drove you from Colorado. Seven months of being there for you when you were alone and didn’t know another soul. Seven months of being your friend,” he said, his voice soft yet edged with anger that she would deny his knowledge of her. “Tell me you won’t go back, that he’s someone else’s problem now. Tell me that and I’ll drop the issue.”
Her silence was more than enough of an answer.
“This is a mistake,” Carl said, almost a whisper.
Gretchen’s chin was trembling, because she was on the verge of agreeing with him, but John’s frightened eyes called to her. She knew she couldn’t abandon him to whoever might be willing to offer him charity. Maybe it was chance. Maybe it was a mistake. Maybe it was exactly what she needed.
“I’m too tired to argue about this with you,” Gretchen said.
It was testament to the fact that Carl did know her well enough to sense that if he pressed the issue it would be their last discussion for some time, and he wisely chose to back off.
“Let’s not argue then,” he said. There was a certain level of defeat in his voice, but weariness and worry outweighed it. “You haven’t eaten yet, have you?”
Gretchen hesitated a moment before shaking her head. She expected him to pull her away from her door, toward his, but he surprised her by turning the doorknob and pushing the door open.
She’d been too wrapped up in her own thoughts to have noticed where Carl had come from before appearing next to her car. Aromas wafted from the kitchen, making her mouth water, and instantly heaping on the guilt as she realized he’d used the
key she’d given him for emergencies to let himself in and make her dinner. Even with as worried as she was about John being left alone all night, stress melted from her body as she basked in the delicious smells of posole.
Following the scent of her favorite dish since moving to New Mexico, Gretchen paid little attention to Carl as he locked her front door. She was ladling stew into two bowls before he made it to the kitchen and leaned against the door jamb, watching her without speaking.
Carl had been her lifeline since arriving. Only one state away from where she’d grown up, it had been a much more difficult transition than she’d expected. Part of that was due to starting her first full-time, grownup job, having no family nearby for help, and running from more than she wanted to discuss. Her life had gone from sobbing on her parents couch to being expected to function in a professional setting with high school students who would rather sleep through class than give her the time of day.
Overwhelmed was not a strong enough word to describe her first month on her own. Without Carl, she might have given up or, at the very least, had a serious nervous breakdown. Gretchen didn’t want his advice when it came to John, but it was hard to argue he didn’t have the right to offer one.
“Thanks,” Carl said as he took one of the bowls from the counter.
“You’re the one who made it,” Gretchen said with a weak laugh. “Thank you.”
He shrugged and carried the bowl to the table. Little was said when she joined him and they both ate. No one would call Carl extravagant. In many ways, he was uncomplicated and enjoyed the simple aspects of life. Cooking was a means to an end for him. Yet, he never failed to please, and took pride in what he served. He was the kind of man who never gave half-effort. He put his all into what he did and wasn’t satisfied until the job was done well.
Sometimes Gretchen wondered if that was how he viewed her. A project he needed to complete. Fix the poor, sad girl, build her up until she could survive on her own, and then release her back into the wild. Was she just another task to him? The first day he helped her unpack her moving truck was the beginning, and he’d never let up since. At times his unfailing presence in her life was the only thing that kept her going. At others, she was terrified to think he might one day consider his duty done and walk away.
