Chapter 5

Race sat numbly in a padded chair tucked into the corner of an examination room.  The last hour replayed over and over in his mind like a bad dream he couldn’t wake up from.  Chrissie huddled against the wall in her home office...Chrissie staring wide-eyed and stupefied as he flaunted photos and papers and his name -- his!  Willard! -- as her name...and Chrissie loosing all color to her face...her mouth gaping open...her eyes failing to see him as he called her name again and again...

And Chrissie, his wife -- the feistiest, classiest, most resourceful person he’d ever crossed paths with -- dropped to the floor as if her bones disintegrated inside her body.  When he couldn’t wake her, he called 911, dealt with a little flack because of Chrissie’s earlier call, and urged Sarah to send an ambulance.

She came to during the ride to the hospital, but instead of shrieking and thrashing out of control, she stared into his face, eerily quiet and alternating between scared and confused.  He held her hand, but it only resting limply against his palm.  The EMT announced that all her vitals were normal, yet she didn’t answer any of his questions, and now they sat waiting for a doctor to see her in complete silence after undergoing some lab work.

Chrissie perched on the edge of the examination table, staring down at the wedding band on her finger, twisting it around and around.  Race was a little surprised she still wore it after her firm refusal that they weren’t married.  He’d been quite proud of that ring set...picked it out himself after months of spying on her likes and dislikes and rifling through her jewelry box for the her preferred styles.  And it cost him a pretty penny, but Chrissie was worth it.  She was worth all the gemstones in the world.

He looked into the face of the angel before him and knew he’d do anything for her.  Something was seriously wrong.  She truly believed that she’d never seen him before this morning.  The shock of that realization punched him in the chest, smashed through his ribcage and strangled his heart.  He called Dena as soon as he hung up the 911 call and asked what the hell she did to his wife last night.  Dena had no idea what he was talking about.

Nothing happened last night, according to Dena, other than a little drinking and some off-key karaoke.  Dena, promising that she only had one glass of wine, dropped Chrissie off at her house after midnight, and that was the last she heard from her sister until Chrissie bitched at her this morning.

The doctor, a middle-aged, olive-skinned woman, knocked politely on the open door as she entered.  “Good morning...I’m Dr. Malik...and you must be Chrissie Willard.”

Chrissie shot Race an anxious glance, but she didn’t try to spurn the name again.  After a moment, Chrissie nodded halfheartedly, which did nothing for Race’s spirits.  The doctor looked between the two of them, studying each with shrewd eyes.

“Well, what seems to be the problem today, Mrs. Willard?”

Chrissie opened her mouth to answer, but her face paled again and she snapped closed.  Race stood up.  “We don’t really know, Dr. Malik,” he said for his wife.  “She seems to have lost her memory.”

Dr. Malik’s eyebrows rose slightly as she jotted some notes on a clipboard.  “I see...”  She folded the clipboard against her chest as she scrutinized Chrissie.  “Let’s have a look at you.”  She removed a pen light from her pocket and waved it in front of Chrissie’s eyes.  “Any dizziness?  Nausea?”

Chrissie sat rigidly.  “Some,” she admitted in a whisper.

Dr. Malik looked into her ears with an otoscope.  She checked her temperature, her blood pressure, and her breathing, too.  Race couldn’t stand the calm.  “Did you find anything?” he asked.

The doctor smiled politely.  “We’re still getting to know each other right now, Mr. Willard.”  She turned back to Chrissie and started prodding around her head and the base of her skull.  “Have you suffered any head injuries recently, Mrs. Willard?”

“Not that I know of,” Chrissie said, tears filling her eyes again.  Race’s heart pinged in pain.

“Headaches?  Black-outs?”

Chrissie shook her head.  “Just the normal kinds of headaches.”

“What do you mean by normal?”

She shrugged.  “The stress kind, I guess.  Normal.”

Dr. Malik eyed her intensely.  “Do you have a lot of stress on a daily basis?”

Again, Chrissie shrugged, but she didn’t comment.  The doctor smiled kindly.  “Any drug or alcohol use recently?”

Chrissie said, “I had some drinks last night with my sister.”

“Do you remember what happened after that?”

“Dena drove me home, and I went to bed.”

“And this morning?”

Chrissie looked at Race again.  “I...”

Race answered, “She doesn’t remember being married to me...she doesn’t remember me at all.”

Dr. Malik’s hands stilled for a moment as she glanced at Race.  “Oh?”  She studied Chrissie again.  “Is that all you don’t remember?”

Chrissie blinked for a few moments.  She gave Race a sympathetic look and said, “Yes...I remember everything except my...um, marriage.”

“How long have you been married?” the doctor asked Race.

“A little over a year,” he answered.

“Has anything like this happened before?”

Race exchanged another look with Chrissie.  “No,” he sort of lied.  Telling the doctor about Chrissie’s dramatic acts weren’t relevant here, anyhow.

“Okay...I’m going to ask you a series of questions,” Dr. Malik said to Chrissie, stuffing her hands in her coat pockets.  “Answer as best as you can, okay?”

Chrissie glanced at Race again.  She nodded at the doctor.  Dr. Malik shifted to Race.  “I realize that you want to help your wife, Mr. Willard, but I ask that you do not cue her to the answers, agreed?”

“Yes,” he said and returned to his chair.  His fingers clenched around his knees.  Dr. Malik ran through a list of questions, like “What is your full name?”, and he listened as Chrissie quickly answered some and struggled through others that pertained to the last year.  At the end of of the evaluation, Dr. Malik scribbled more notes on the chart and kindly perused the husband and wife.  “Well, the good news is that physically, you are healthy, Mrs. Willard.  All your preliminary tests look good, your blood screening showed nothing out of the ordinary beside some slight anemia, and your pregnancy test came back negative...”

Race blinked.  He didn’t realize that they tested her for that.  Chrissie’s cheeks reddened as she lowered her gaze.  “I see nothing to suggest that you’ve received any head trauma recently, so we can do an X-ray, but I honestly don’t think it will tell us anything new.”

Chrissie still didn’t say anything, but Race jumped to his feet.  “Surely there is something you can do to find out what’s going on.  A head scan or a biopsy or something!”

Two pairs of female eyes looked over at him.  While Dr. Malik’s were narrowed with scorn, Chrissie studied him with horrified curiosity.  Race soon realized he should have kept his mouth shut.  He didn’t mean that they should cut into Chrissie’s brain.  

“Mr. Willard, please,” Dr. Malik addressed him, placing her hands calmly into the pockets of her coat, and then turned back to Chrissie.  “Under normal emergency circumstances, we would do a full work-up and examination, Mrs. Willard, but you say you have not been in an accident, and all of our lab work suggest that you are not in any physical danger at this moment.  There is nothing to indicate a brain tumor or anything quite so detrimental.  If you wish, we can send you down to radiology for an MRI, but it might be best to wait until you talk with a neurosurgeon and discuss your options here.”

Race sat back down as Chrissie nodded her agreement.  “Now, I understand how all of this is scary for both of you,” the doctor continued.  She pulled a small pad out of her pocket and scribbled a note on it.  “This is the number for Dr. Newell’s office.  He’s one of the top neurosurgeons in the state, and he’ll be able to run some tests to help figure out what’s going on inside your brain...if that is even the cause of your memory problem.”  She ripped that page off the pad and handed it to Chrissie.  Then she brought out another notepad.

“And I’m going to prescribe a mild anti-anxiety drug and a sleep aid.  Use them as you need them, but mind the dosage restrictions, okay?”

Chrissie nodded and took that piece of paper, too.  She stared at both her notes for so long, Race wondered if she’s zoned out again.  Dr. Malik rambled on about taking it easy and trying to not upset oneself, but when his wife finally raised her head, Race wanted to steal away the pain and terror in her eyes.  He reached out for her.  However, Chrissie shrank away, eyes wide with fear, and yet a flush of shame at her reaction oozed up her neck and into her cheeks.

“I’m sorry,” she said to him immediately.  “But...I can’t...I just can’t...please...”

Race clenched his hands into fists by his sides.  Dr. Malik witnessed the small exchange.  She smiled kindly at Chrissie and then asked Race if she could see him outside in the hallway.  He hesitated for only a second before following the doctor.

“Mr. Willard,” she said, turning to face him as he closed the exam door, “I don’t normally do this, but I’m going to offer you a piece of advice.”

“Okay,” he said slowly.

Dr. Malik sighed heavily and stuck her hands inside the front pockets of her lab coat again.  “My mother suffers from Alzheimers...some days she’s her normal self, but for the most part, she doesn’t know me or my brother.”

“I’m sorry,” Race replied politely, only wanting to collect his wife and go home where they could figure out what to do next.  He didn’t want to hear about someone else’s problems.  He had his own to work around.  His wife didn’t know him.  How was he to fix that?

“We’ve learned to deal with it on a day to day basis,” she went on.  “I don’t feel that your wife is suffering the same fate...”

“Neither do I,” he retorted.

Dr. Malik’s shrewd eyes narrowed.  “But in telling you that, I don’t think that you should handle Mrs. Willard’s issue any differently, and I have some first hand knowledge on what its like for a loved one to not recognize you, Mr. Willard.  The pain of something like that can be more than a person can bear.”

Race, about to return to Chrissie, stopped and gazed expectantly at the doctor.  “Okay...I’m listening.”

“Mr. Willard...that woman in there isn’t your wife.”

“What?”

“According to what you’ve both told me, she doesn't recognize you, therefore she doesn’t understand why you want to help her, and in return, she probably doesn’t trust you.”

Race scowled at the doctor.  “I’d never hurt her.”

“She doesn’t know that.”

“I am her husband!”

“But she is not your wife,” the doctor said as she pointed at him.  “And until you realize that, or until she gets better, you will only push her further away if you continue this impatient mindset of yours.  Trust me, I know.  The woman that gave birth to me and my brother isn’t my mother any more either.  Hetal and I have come to terms with that, but we still love her, and deep down, we know she loves us, even if she has no memory of her children.”

Race thrust his hands through his hair, feeling the soreness in his shoulders and back resume with a vengeance.  “What am I supposed to do?  She can’t go through this alone.  And you say she won’t let me help her unless she learns to trust me...”

“Then earn her trust.”

Race threw his hands up in the air.  “How?!”

Dr. Malik smiled and shook her head with amusement.  “She married you, didn’t she?  So, you must have done something right the first time.”

“I suppose,” Race said tiredly.

Dr. Malik placed a hand on his arm.  “Mr. Willard...right now, your wife needs a friend, not a husband...be her friend for now, and maybe the rest will come later.”

*****

Chrissie blinked back a mental breakdown on the verge of showing its ugly face.  The doctor took that man out into the hallway, so she had a few minutes to gather her wits.  Married!  Memory loss!

Why was it she could remember everything about the last year or so...only not with him in it?

That didn’t sound like memory loss to her.  That sounded very much she’d been dropped into an alternate reality.  Everything was the same, except for that little detail out there talking to the doctor.  She spied her handbag sitting on the floor next to the chair that he sat in earlier, and she distinctly recalled buying it last week as an early birthday present to herself.  TJ Maxx...a turquoise, hand-beaded hobo bag...on sale from $120 dollars down to $74...she’d paid with her credit card...the receipt was in her wallet.  Only...

She hopped off the examination table and dug out the receipt and card.  Chrissie Willard.  As clear as day.  And that was her signature on the the receipt...her signature, but not her name.  She fished out a pen and flipped the receipt over.  Writing Chrissie Hill, she looked at it, and then signed Chrissie Willard with her curly handwriting.  She didn’t even know if she spelled it correctly and had to double check.  But the signatures matched.

She sighed and stuffed it all back into her purse, not bothering to put things where they belong.  Voices rose out in the hallway, and she tiptoed to the closed door.  “I am her husband,” she heard him say, and she shrank back from the possessive tone to his voice.

This can’t be real!  It just can’t be!

But all the evidence pointed in the other direction.  Even Dena couldn’t fake a marriage certificate...and adding her face to wedding photos and the pictures on those newspaper clippings.  Her sister was creative and sneaky, but she wasn’t the best at thinking out her plans this thoroughly.  

Dr. Malik and he came back into the room.    Chrissie eyed them both warily.  Dr. Malik smiled easily.  “Now...Mrs. Willard...”

Chrissie flinched.  The doctor said, “Sorry...would you prefer I call you Chrissie?”

“Yes...please,” she said, not looking at his reaction.  Chrissie figured she’d better start thinking of him as Race, since that was the name he answered to.  

“Chrissie,” the doctor said, “make that appointment with Dr. Newell as soon as he can fit you in, okay?”

Chrissie nodded and bent to retrieve her purse.  He -- um, Race -- picked it up for her.  She took a step backward, still cautious of his intentions.  A shadow clouded his dark eyes for a moment, but then he held it out for her to take.  She snatched it from him, more scared than angry.  Dr. Malik watched them both.

“Chrissie...I understand that all this can be alarming,” she said, giving Race a pointed look.  “You’re not feeling like yourself right now, and that’s completely normal for someone in your position.  But it’s important that you keep calm and take things as they come.  Is there anyone you know and trust that could stay with you?”

Chrissie slanted a dubious look at Race.  He inflated his lungs slowly as he waited for her answer.  “My...my si-sister,” she answered.  

“Wonderful,” the doctor smiled.  “Dr. Newell also has a psychiatrist, Dr. Gray, on his staff that specializes in memory loss.  I’ll advise you to make the best of his services.”

Chrissie only nodded again and shuffled toward the front desk of the emergency room.  Dr. Malik strolled alongside her and Race trailed slowly after.  “And if you have any problems with the prescriptions, don’t hesitate to call me,” Dr. Malik said, handing over a card with her name and numbers on it.  

“Thank you,” Chrissie said softly, roughly, not sure if her throat could stand much more of the turbulent emotions being shoved down it.  Dr. Malik placed a kind hand on her arm.  

“And if you ever need to talk, I’m here for that, too.  Loosing parts of your memory is frightening business, and maybe I can help you understand how your loved ones feel about it, as well, since I have firsthand knowledge in that arena.”

Chrissie raised her eyes to her.  The doctor smiled.  “My mother,” she added, “Alzheimer's...five years now.”

Never big on hugging, Chrissie surprised herself when she threw her arms around the nice doctor and sobbed through a tight hug.  “Thank you, Dr. Malik,” she cried out quietly.

“You’re welcome,” Dr. Malik said, “And call me Gita.  Remember what I said, one day at a time.  Everything will be fine, I know it.  You’re a strong, stubborn lady.”  The two women drew apart, and Gita whispered, “And he cares very much for you...remember that.”

Chrissie glanced at Race.  He leaned over the check-out desk, scribbling his name on a form, but he looked up at that moment, and their eyes clashed.  Chrissie got a warm, uncanny feeling in the pit of her stomach.

“I’ll try,” she told her new friend, “but...”

“But you don’t know him,” Gita finished for her.  “Give it time.”  She grinned, a stunningly beautiful transformation to the face of a middle-aged woman.  “In the meantime, you can use him as your personal slave.  I think that man would do anything for you.”

Chrissie tilted her head to the side.  “Are you married?”

“Divorced,” Gita said sourly.  “Mine wouldn’t do anything for me.”

“Oh...I’m sorry.”

Gita smiled again.  “It’s okay.  I’m seeing a man now that honestly thinks I’m responsible for the sun that shines every morning.”

Chrissie smiled in return.  Frankly, she wouldn’t know what that felt like.   Just then, the double doors of the front entrance swished open, and Dena burst into the opening before it was even wide enough for her to squeeze through.  “Chrissie!”

The sisters met and crashed together in a strong embrace.  “I’m so sorry for griping at you this morning,” Chrissie cried.  “I thought...”

“Shh,” Dena said, smoothing back Chrissie’s hair.  “It’s okay.  Race told me everything.  What did the doctor say? -- You know what?  Let’s get you home first, okay?”

Chrissie latched onto Dena’s arm, thankful she finally had someone with her she could trust...someone she knew.  Peeking over her shoulder, she saw Race following them out to the parking lot...a very troubled and heartsick expression on his face.  She felt a splinter break away from her own heart, but she didn’t know what to do about that...she didn’t know him.