Claiming Amelia

by Jessica Blake

  He gave me the quickest hug allowed for a child who is becoming a man. Then he was gone.

  ***

  I hired a nursing staff but requested that they impact the household in the least hospital-looking way. I asked that they wear casual clothing, keep medical trappings in one of the guest rooms and use first names when talking with Auggie. She really had no idea who was family and who wasn’t, so why not give her the best foundation of “belonging” I could manage?

  I transferred my business world to my study at home. I wanted to stay close by without smothering her. She had so much to absorb. It only seemed to be the personal memories that she’d lost. She still walked and spoke as she always had, although her personality was blander. I suspected that was due to the lack of memories that colored everything we do and who we are. At the same time, she was building new memories and they were blending in to create a new person. The sights and scents of the farm held particular pleasure for her.

  Although this really wasn’t within my field, I began researching it and spoke to colleagues who gave me referrals. Brain injuries were, if anything, unpredictable. Each patient was unique in how it affected their abilities. There was no magic pill or treatment that guaranteed anything beyond what you had from that day forward. The overwhelming opinion seemed to be to give her time. So, we began a life that resembled a puzzle. From my vantage, I had my wife, except she didn’t respond to me as a wife, but simply as a woman.

  So began our new routine. With Ford back at school and me at work in my study, Auggie was left to a life where strangers became her friends. Betsy asked her help in doing some routine cooking. It was her attempt to try and trigger the memories to come back. We all had our individual theories and used different approaches.

  Mine was love. While I had to restrain myself, I gradually re-acquainted her with the idea that I was her husband and that my greatest pleasure in life was to spend time with her. I asked her opinions on different business matters, and these she had no problem giving. However, when I touched her hand while it lay on my desk, I could tell she wanted to pull away, and it took abject concentration for her to let it lie. As the days passed, I tried this gentle physicality more and more often. She resisted less and the day finally came when she placed her hand over mine. I wanted to rejoice, to scream and hug her. Instead, I held my hand still and celebrated internally that we were making some headway.

  Ford called three times a week and spoke to Auggie, telling her what was going on at school. He shared his triumphs when he scored well on a test and asked for her nurturing when he did poorly. She offered these, but more as a stranger and less like a mother. I know it hurt him, but in his own way he was trying to trigger the return of the person she had been.

  Auggie’s dad visited regularly and he would encourage her to sit out on the patio as he talked about old times, especially things they’d shared together. She laughed at the appropriate times when he told of funny escapades and eventually he got around to talking about her mother, although in a kind voice. She seemed unmoved.

  It was fall and becoming too cool to sit outdoors so I ordered outdoor heating radiators. She seemed at her best when in the fresh air. Walter had come over and they were enjoying hot cider spiced with cinnamon and a platter of fresh cookies from the oven. I had been drawn from my study by the scents and joined them.

  “Auggie, I remember the first time you climbed up on Carlos,” Walter was saying.

  Auggie started as though an electric shot had gone through her. Walter stopped instantly and I put my hand up to keep him quiet.

  “Auggie, do you remember Carlos?” I asked in a gentle voice and we held our breath. Her profile had been turned toward us and now she turned away completely. It was subtle at first, but her shoulders began to quiver and then shook, hard. She turned to look at me and tears were streaming out of her eyes and down the pink sweatshirt she was wearing.

  She nodded.

  “You do? Who was he, Auggie? Who was Carlos?”

  She was sobbing now and I fought the impulse to hold her. This was a major breakthrough and I didn’t want to do anything at all that would interfere with the stream of recovered memory that was once again filling her head.

  “We rode Steeplechase,” she whispered between the sobs.

  I nodded, “Yes, that’s right. Do you know where he is now?”

  “You shot him,” she rasped and the dam broke open. I knew we had reached a breakthrough. “Oh, Worth, you had to shoot him and it was all my fault!” she cried.

  I went to her then and held her, kneeling beside her chair as she quivered and cried into my shoulder. I looked up at Walter and saw that he was crying as well, his hand patting his thigh. He had tears of joy as well as sorrow. Our girl was coming back.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Worth

  I don’t know why I hadn’t seen it before. It was my profession and I would have seen it had it been someone other than Auggie. It all made sense, then. I’d taken Auggie on that outing, hoping to cheer her up. She had been bearing the burden of guilt for Carlos’ death. I’d questioned her wisdom in letting the horses out to pasture and her rebellion had led her to disregard my words. Carlos paid the price.

  When she’d suffered the injury, that conscience was blocking her memories. It had been a sort of combined effort between her swollen tissues and her conscience; something of which she had not been aware. I should have seen it and although this did little to help, it did illustrate that Auggie and I were two of a kind and always had been.

  We were both rebellious to the extent of hurting ourselves, and often, others. This was what we were seeing rise in Ford, as well. The question was whether we could keep him from becoming like us. How could parents with the same weakness reach out and help their child who had inherited that pre-disposition? It would be like reverse engineering of his DNA. Was it possible in therapy? Did brain plasticity extend to innate personality traits?

  ***

  Once the initial breakthrough had taken place, Auggie began to remember in spurts. I never pressured her but welcomed her back gently. She needed to remain in control of the process. It couldn’t be forced. We cut back the nurses to just one who came three times a week and only because she and Auggie had become friends. Betsy smiled more often and I caught myself whistling a time or two.

  I telephoned Ford ahead of his normal call. He was concerned when he came on the phone. I should have anticipated this, but didn’t, so I quickly said, “She’s coming back.” It was enough. He understood. We talked a bit more about the process and that she needed more time, but he was at ease knowing that there was a future ahead.

  As I watched Auggie return, there were many times when I wanted to give her some kind of a memory block to avoid thinking about the things that were unpleasant. I wanted her not to remember Linc, the cruelty of her mother and the loss of friends like Mrs. Jessup. I realized then that life has no texture, no contrast unless the good and the bad are allowed to co-exist. I could not manipulate her brain any more than I could life and there was a lesson in this for me. In time, when Auggie was herself again, perhaps we could talk about that and give some thought to how we might help our son.

  Auggie

  I felt suspended between two worlds. I was told that there were things I had yet to remember and yet I wondered whether I wanted to. I knew that before I remembered Carlos, my life seemed soft and lined with warm, pastel quilts that kept me from being harmed. Every day, more of the grays and even blacks began to enter from the periphery. There was a certain comfort in not knowing what you do not know.

  I’d begun to remember the events of the day when I was injured at the lake. I hadn’t confessed this to Worth yet, for I don’t know what role he might have played. I wanted to remember it all before I judged. Remembering had taught me that there were perspectives we may never see. It’s unfair to anyone to judge without that full view. I would never judge again.

  I knew Worth was my husband, and Ford, my son. I felt a r
esistance in opening myself to either one, as though there was a latent hurt that I was still trying to block. But having resolved not to judge, I had to give them both a clean slate, as they had given me. I felt a mother’s love toward Ford; it grew within me every morning when I woke. I was beginning to recall him lying in the nursery and the sweet smell of his baby breath as I took him to nurse at my breast. I remembered my pride in the fact that he resembled me and hoped we would share a spirit that would keep us lifelong companions.

  I remembered Dad and more and more of the closeness we had. Mother, I wasn’t so clear about, and since she wasn’t there and didn’t seem to be held in particularly high esteem, perhaps that’s for the best, at least for the time being. There were faces that crept in and I looked about the house and my room for clues as to who they were.

  Gradually, the pieces came and the puzzle was more and more complete. There was, however, still the question of the man to whom I was married. There was something I was resisting and it frustrated and blocked me. I tried to talk to him about it one day.

  “Worth?” I tapped on his study door and he immediately opened it. His was a room of modern lines and cool colors. So unlike what appealed to me. Was this why I felt a distance? Were we so unalike?

  “You don’t have to knock, sweetheart,” he said and I felt a chill down my spine by his term of endearment. I tried not to let on. He motioned for me to take a chair and I slid into the one closest to me. “What’s up?” He gave me his full attention.

  “I’m not sure how to express this, and I know I might hurt your feelings in what I’m about to say, but I’m begging you to please not take this personally and to respect that I can’t help it.” I thought I’d had this rehearsed, and that’s exactly how it was sounding, but yet I didn’t want it to.

  His eyes grew darker and a slight frown lined his face. I knew I’d already hurt him with those words alone. “What is it?” he asked kindly.

  “I’m beginning to remember more and more now,” I began and this brought a smile to his face. I hated that it would soon fade, but there was no way around it.

  “The thing is,” I continued, “there seems to be certain parts that I’m not able to remember. I don’t know why, but they just won’t come to me.”

  “Auggie, there’s no rush. Don’t pressure yourself. It will all come back in time. It has to follow an order that is similar to the original timeline. One thing will lead to the next, and so on.” He was trying to be kind and professional at the same time. I got that. He had a fluorescent lamp on his desk and its blinking was irritating me, grabbing my focus.

  “The thing is, Worth, most of what I don’t remember has to do with you.” There, I said it and I watched the verbal arrow cross the room and find its target. His face fell and his shoulders sagged. It was apparent that this wasn’t what he’d hoped to hear.

  “I see,” he murmured, then the doctor in him took over. “Do you have any idea why that might be?”

  “Well, I was sort of hoping you might be able to help me with that,” I began with uncertainty.

  “In what sense?” he ventured.

  “Worth, were we… close?”

  He nodded, as though suddenly understanding. “Yes, Auggie, we were close. Very close. We were very much in love. In fact, we made love the night before the accident. We were on a mini-vacation. You’d been a bit depressed and I felt we needed some time away for the two of us. Ford had just begun the military school and it was you and me for the first time in years. Yes, Auggie, we were very, very close.”

  “I see,” I answered and almost wished it hadn’t been as he’d said.

  “Does that bother you?” he asked with a hurtful hesitance.

  “In a way. It’s because I don’t know how to feel about you. Something’s holding me back and I have no idea what it is. I know I should love you. I swear it’s killing me to say this, but I don’t.” There. It was on the table.

  I saw him wince, a visible reaction to a palpable emotion he’d been keeping under wraps. He’d been trying not to pressure me. He’d been hoping for the best. I could tell he loved me and I hated that I wasn’t able to respond in kind. What was wrong with me? What had happened? What was I blocking out?

  Worth cleared his throat, buying time to think of what to say. I knew I was putting him in a horrible spot. “Auggie, does it bother you to be here, in this house, with me?”

  I had to be honest. There was no point in starting all this emotional trouble and then to hide my true feelings.

  “A little,” I admitted and watched him flinch again.

  “Are you afraid I’ll, well, invade your privacy?” he tried, hoping against hope that there was a compromise to be had in this room.

  “You’ve been quite the gentleman,” I acknowledged, hoping to set that part of our relationship aside for the time being.

  He leaned back and steepled his fingers in front of him. “Well, then what seems to bother you about it?”

  “It’s hard to express. It’s almost a feeling of guilt. I know I’m your wife and I know that entails being with someone in multiple ways. But I don’t seem to have the need, or even the desire, for that. I know it’s cheating you, but—”

  “No!” he interrupted. “This isn’t about me. I love you, Auggie, and nothing will ever interfere with that. It’s a given. You aren’t ‘cheating’ me of anything. Absolutely, I would love to have things back the way they were, but I’m a realist. You’ve suffered trauma. You’re under no obligation to me. I’m here because I love you, and nothing more.”

  “I don’t want you to love me!” I cried out, the words thrusting their way from my throat. My eyes panned the room for something soft and familiar on which to rest. “I can’t return your love and it’s making me feel too guilty. There’s something in the way, something blocking that particular memory. I feel that as long as I’m here, I’ll continue to feel guilty and it will never have a chance of coming back! Don’t you see? I need to be away from you to know how to think of you!”

  He got it then. It hit him hard and he recoiled, slamming backward in his chair. “Are you saying you want me to leave?” he asked, sounding every bit like a hurt child.

  “I don’t think so,” I answered and he relaxed a bit. “I think I need to leave you.”

  The words were there, hanging between us. It was the culmination of all his worst nightmares. I knew this. It was all there to be seen.

  The voice that came from him next lacked the softness and tenderness of the preceding weeks. It was businesslike. “What would you like to do, Auggie?”

  “I need to move out, somewhere, maybe an apartment. At least for a while. I need time and space to myself. No pressure to remember, no pressure to feel something I might not normally feel. Just to be completely alone.”

  He considered this, his hands in a prayer-like clasp upon which he balanced his chin. At last, he spoke. “Very well, Auggie. I want you to be happy, even if it means that you’re away from me. We have a condo; we bought it together just before we got married. Mother lived in it for a while until she married your dad. It’s in town and empty; not even any furniture.”

  My heart broke and yet soared at the same time. It was a difficult feeling to understand.

  “I’ll give you the keys to your car, if you feel comfortable driving. If not, we’ll ask Bernie to move in there with you. There’s plenty of room; five bedrooms. Move in there… for now. Take your time and your space and do whatever you wish with it.”

  He leaned forward and I willed myself not to back away.

  “But remember this, Auggie. I love you and want you in my life. We had a very good life together. There’s nothing evil that you’re blocking out. There’s nothing to be frightened of. This is just the last piece of the puzzle you have yet to remember. When you’re ready, you call me. I’ll come over — at your invitation only — and we’ll begin again. Then, if the time comes that you want more, you’re always welcomed to move back here with me.”

&nbs
p; He swallowed hard and his face crumpled for only the smallest second. Then he was business again.

  “In the meantime, I’ll stay here and provide the family atmosphere for Ford when he’s home. I will keep our life here status quo. I won’t reach out until you reach for me first. Will that do it?”

  I cringed a little at the hardness of his voice. I knew this was a man who was better loved than hated. “That will be fine. I’ll leave immediately if you’ll give me the keys, some money, and directions.”

  I knew I’d taken his breath away. I hated to do that. Yet, I was finally breathing fresh air. Freedom was within reach and I needed it so, so badly.

  “Go and pack your bags,” he said. “I’ll send someone up to help you and alert Bernie. Will he be staying with you?”

  “Please.”

  He nodded and turned back to his desk. His hands were shaking. He seemed to be fighting for control. I owed him to break down privately. There was nothing more to be said. I stood up, put my hand on his shoulder and left his life.

  Part III

  CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

  Auggie

  I threw open the door to the condo and went in to have a look around. I remembered the space, the building, and the location, but none of the memories of the time I’d spent there with Worth. It was as if that time had never taken place.

  I rented a motel room for the interim while the condo was refurbished. I couldn’t stand to stay at the estate one day more. It was too hard to see the resigned slump in Worth’s shoulders as he tried to deal with the fact that I didn’t want to be around him. I knew it would hurt me, too, so I left quietly and immediately.

  Once I moved in, Bernie would be staying with me for a couple of weeks, until I felt comfortable in my surroundings. Then he’d go back to being my assistant and I supposed, my primary intermediary between myself and my husband and son. I had to respect, however, that Bernie had a life of his own.