Our first kiss.
The apartment.
Marlowe aging beside us.
Christmas mornings. Hospital visits. Vacations. Fights. Apologies. Thousands of ordinary nights.
Gone behind a boundary no one could see.
“He looked at me like I was no one,” I said.
No one answered.
“Can I tell him?”
Dr. Venn exchanged a glance with Dr. Bell. “We’ll involve a neuropsychologist. It is important that information be introduced carefully. Patients can become frightened or overwhelmed when confronted with a life they don’t remember.”
“He needs to know I’m not a stranger.”
“He needs accurate information, yes. But he may not experience it emotionally in the way you hope.”
My throat tightened.
“He loves me.”
“I believe you.”
“No, you don’t understand. He—”
My voice failed.
Dr. Bell spoke gently. “Reid, the loss of autobiographical memory does not make your relationship unreal. But for Noah, waking into a future he cannot recall will be terrifying. He may need distance while he learns what has happened.”
“Distance from me.”
“Possibly.”
I stared at the floor.
Leah came to my side.
“What can we do?” she asked.
“For now, be calm. Answer questions honestly. Avoid forcing recollection. Do not test him repeatedly or tell him he should remember. Familiar objects, photographs, music, and routines may help, but they can also cause distress.”
“When can I see him?” I asked.
“Now, if you feel able.”
I almost laughed.
Able had nothing to do with it.
Noah was asleep when I entered.
For the first time since the accident, I was grateful.
I sat in my usual chair and studied his hand on the blanket.
