“He retains new information. Most of it.”
“That’s good.”
“Yes.”
“But the missing years?”
“No change before today.”
Leah looked down.
“I’m glad he remembered you.”
“I know.”
“I mean it.”
“I know you do.”
“I hate that I was happy.”
“You should be happy.”
“He knew me, and all I could think was that you were standing there watching.”
I opened the sandwich wrapper.
The smell made my stomach turn.
“He isn’t responsible for what this does to me.”
“Neither are you.”
“That doesn’t change what he needs.”
Leah rested her elbows on the table. “Do you still think he’ll remember?”
“I don’t let myself think much past the next appointment.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
I stared at the untouched sandwich.
“Some mornings I’m certain he will. He says something in the same tone he used before, or he looks at the harbor and I think I can see him reaching for it.”
“And other mornings?”
“He looks at me like I’m kind.”
Leah’s eyes filled.
“That sounds good.”
“It is.”
“But?”
“He used to look at me like I was home.”
