Chapter 3 -- Fragments  

Lana's Point of View

Morning comes without warning. 

The light that comes through space between the curtains is pale and unusual, as if it doesn't want to wake me up. This time, I wake up slowly, floating up instead of crashing awake, and for a moment, I forget where I am. Then I smell antiseptic, which is sharp and clean, and the steady sound of machines brings me completely into the present. The white room again.

 My head still hurts, but not as much as it did before. The pain is deep now, a dull ache that gets worse when I move too quickly or think too hard. I lift my hand and look at it. The tube is still taped in place, and the skin around it is a little bruised. At least it feels like my hand today.

 A nurse comes in not long after I wake up. She moves quietly as she checks the machines and asks me simple questions. My name. The date. Where I am. I answer what I can and shake my head at what I can't. She doesn't push. She just nods and writes things down on her clipboard, looking calm and practiced.  Before she leaves, she says, "You're doing well." Your memory may come back in bits and pieces. That's normal. "Don't be in a hurry to make it happen."

Parts.

 The word stays with me even after she's gone.

 I look at the chair by the window. Now it's empty. Without the man, the area where he sat last night seems bigger, like an object that has been taken away but still leaves its outline behind. I should be happy. Instead, I feel a quiet pull in my chest that I don't know what to do with.

 A little while later, the door opens slowly and carefully.

 Adrian goes inside.

 He stops just past the door, as if he doesn't know if he's welcome. He looks different during the day. Not as much like a shadow. More real. His face is clean now, but he still looks tired, with heavy eyes and shoulders.

 He says, Good morning.

 I remember his voice being softer.

 I nod. "Good morning."

 There is silence between us that isn't awkward, but it is careful. He looks at the chair and then back at me.

Can I sit? He asks.

I'm surprised by the question. I nod again, and he moves slowly, bringing the chair closer but not too close. He sits with his hands on his knees, fingers loosely linked, and not clenched.

 He asks, How do you feel?

 I honestly answered, tired and lost.

 He gives a little nod, as if he knew that would happen. "That makes sense."

 I look at his face as he talks. Something about him makes my stomach feel tight because it seems familiar. Not remembering, but recognising. My body reacts before my mind can catch up.

They said my memory might come back in pieces, I say.

 Yes, he says. "The doctor told me the same thing."

The words come out before I can stop them. "Why are you still here?"

 This time, he doesn't flinch. He takes a deep breath and answers carefully. Because I care about you.

 His voice is so honest that it makes me feel worse than any lie would have. I turn my head away and look at the window. The sky is clear and pale now that the rain has stopped.

 I don't remember you, I say softly. He says, "I know." "And I'm not going to act like that doesn't hurt. But I also know that it's not your fault.

 I turned back to him. Then why does it seem like it is? He did not answer right away. He looks at his hands again after studying them. "Because you're trying to figure out something that doesn't make sense yet."

 I don't like that it feels true.

 What were we before the accident? I ask, choosing my words carefully.

 His jaw gets tight. He breathes out slowly. "We were married."

 The room suddenly seems smaller.

 Married.

 The word hits my chest and spreads, heavy and impossible. I look in my mind for any reaction, picture, or feeling that fits what he said. There is nothing. Just the same empty space and the same locked door.

I say, "That's not possible," but my voice doesn't sound sure.

I know it feels that way, he says. "But it's true."

I laugh once, and it's short and empty. "I can't even read my own writing. I don't remember how I could be married to someone.

He was calm. You were married to someone you could trust.

The statement makes me feel uneasy. Right now, the word "trust" seems dangerous.

Why did I run?" I ask. "You said I ran into the street. Why would I do that?

 His eyes get a little darker, and I can tell he's not sure. "You were angry. We had a fight.

 About what?  The question is heavy on my tongue, but fear keeps it from coming out. I don't know if I want the answer.

He asks quietly, "Do you want me to go?"

I think about the question. The smart answer is yes. Distance makes me feel safer. Less complicated. But the thought of him leaving again makes me feel something inside me hurt.

No, I finally say. "Don't push."

 I won't, he says.

 We sit in silence for a few moments, and the machines' hum fills the space between us. Then, out of nowhere, something flashes in my mind.

A set of stairs.

Wood that is dark under my feet. My hand is holding onto a railing. A voice that was raised and sharp with anger. Not his voice. Mine. I gasp softly.

 Adrian says "Lana" right away, leaning forward. "What is it?"

 I don't know, I say softly. "I saw something. Steps. And I was mad.

 He nods, but his face gets tight. "It's fine." You don't have to explain it.

 But it seemed real, I say. "Like it already happened."

 It did, he says softly. "But you don't have to go there right now."

 The kindness in his restraint hurts my chest more than pressure ever could.

A doctor comes in later, and then a woman with kind eyes and a notebook comes in. They ask more questions and talk about time, rest, and observation. Adrian steps back to give them room, but he stays in the room.

 The light in the afternoon has changed and is now warmer when they leave.

 I admit I'm scared.

 He nods his head. "I know."

 Of you, I add, hating myself for it.

He took in the words without saying anything. "I know that too."

I really look at him and wonder how someone can be so close and so far away at the same time.

I don't know who I am, I say.

He says, "You're still you." "Even if you can't see it yet."

I can't sleep that night because I'm staring at the ceiling. The pieces come back in little flashes. A bright kitchen. A laugh that sounds like me. A hand in mine that feels strong and steady.

I don't know if those memories are mine or the woman's from before.

But they don't seem like lies.

That thought is both scary and hopeful.