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I’m still crying, but not quite as hysterically. Dad’s changed my coffee out for a mug of tea, and we’re sitting in the living room now. I look around me, and I recognize everything. I know everything. The bookshelves lined with Mom’s mysteries and thrillers, the hundreds of worn paperbacks she’s picked up from library sales and thrift stores. The mantle with a few of my gymnastics trophies from days gone by. My brother Marco’s wrestling medal from back when he was in high school.
I know this room, this house. Nothing has changed, but everything is different. Dad sees me shivering and goes into my room, bringing out the same pink bedspread I’ve slept with for years. He tucks it around me like Mom used to do when I stayed home sick from school, watching TV all day on this exact couch. I have so many questions swirling around in my brain I don’t even know where to start.
Dad sits in his recliner, the same recliner he’s always sat in. I remember the time I spilled salsa on it and was so scared he’d be mad at me, but he’d laughed and said they’d paid for extra treatment on the leather to make it stain proof. This room, this house, is full of memories. Dad tells me I hit my head. It happened on the senior camping trip, the one I could have sworn was supposed to start today.
“Short-term memory loss,” he explains. And just as clearly as I know my own name, I know what he’s going to say next. Like Dory from Finding Nemo.
“Like Dory from Finding Nemo,” he adds, as if on cue.
I was right. We’ve done this before, Dad and me. I remember.
Or do I?
“Can it be fixed?” Maybe I’ve asked this question before too.
Dad stares at my feet. “We hope so, baby. We hope so.” He gets up and hands me some pain meds. I hope they start working soon.
I reach my hand up. Touch the back of my skull where it hurts the most. “I can’t feel anything there,” I say. It surprises me. An injury that serious — shouldn’t there be a bump or something?
Dad lets out a heavy sigh. “You’ve had a long road to recovery. For the first few weeks, you didn’t even know who I was.”
Wait a minute. The first few weeks? Maybe I heard wrong. Maybe the injury messed up my ears, too. That has to explain it.
“How long have I been like this?” I don’t really want to know, but I remind myself that the truth couldn’t hurt more than the uncertainty.
Right?
Dad doesn’t seem to want to answer. I lean in toward him and repeat, “How long have I been like this?”
He clears his throat. He still isn’t looking at me. “Three months.”
Now I’m sure my hearing’s been affected too. “Months?” I think I’m raising my voice. If I’m not, I should be. I try to get up, but Dad’s already standing over me, keeping me on the couch, and I wonder again, How many times have we gone through this before?
My eyes are spilling over with tears. So are his, except this time he doesn’t try to hide them.
“Months?” I repeat in disbelief, my voice nothing more than a pitiful squeak.
“I’m so sorry, Mimi.” He leans down and hugs me. A real hug, not just the arm and shoulder pats we’d grown used to. “I’m so, so sorry.”
I’m crying, but it doesn’t even feel like me anymore. Maybe I’m not me at all. How can you be yourself when you’ve forgotten half of the things that made you you?
Dad’s stroking my hair. The gesture reminds me of something. Reminds me of someone. Can the truth be any worse than not knowing?
I’m about to find out.
I steady my breath. Pull away enough that I can look Dad right in the face. Because I may have forgotten my best friend visiting me in a hospital room. I may have forgotten my senior camping trip and this accident Dad keeps talking about.
But I haven’t forgotten my family and how much they love me. How they would never leave me alone at a time like this. Which only means one thing.
Do I want the truth? I’m not sure. But I need to find out.
“Where’s Mom?” I demand. “Why isn’t she here?”