Page 62 of Hate You Most

“Goodnight.”

The door clicked shut between her, and the quiet crept slowly into her bones from the dark corners.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

November 4th, 2022.

— Henry Ford Hospital.

Viktoriya was flat against the narrow board, her hands folded stiffly over her stomach. She laid as still as she physically could and tried her best to ignore the burning itch on the side of her nose. The ceiling lights were too bright, and her paper gown was too uncomfortable. She wanted to be home again as soon as she could.

“Try to stay as still as you can,” the technician said over the loudspeaker into the small room with the MRI scanner.

She had been given a pair of headphones that tried their best to drown out the deafening sounds from the machine. They didn't succeed, not really, but listening to Only by the Night by Kings of Leon always calmed her anyway. Before stepping onto the ice during competitions, she used to block out the world by listening to that album, but now, engulfed in an MRI machine that scanned her head for an hour, it was nearly impossible to drown anything out.

Stillness was something she had always been good at. Stillness had always been part of her life—waiting for scores, waiting for music cues, waiting for her life to truly start.

The machine moved slowly, sliding her head in and out on the stiff board. The hum was rhythmic and mechanical. It reminded her vaguely of standing too close to the boards during practice, the vibration of ice under too many skaters’ blades.

She closed her eyes. Her head didn’t hurt today and that alone was a victory. The headaches had become less frequent, shorter and less blinding. She didn’t know if that meant she was making progress or if she'd simply been lucky these past few days.

Dakota stood on the other side of the glass along with the technician. Viktoriya could see her faint reflection whenever she moved completely out of the machine before she was swallowed again. She stood with her arms crossed, posture tense and eyes that never left her alone. Dakota had almost made it a full-time job of watching her. She was grateful, but it had also been overwhelming.

The machine clicked and whirred. Viktoriya counted the sounds. Eight clicks. Pause. Six clicks. Pause.

When it was over, the board slid back out, and the technician smiled and entered the room.

“You’re all done,” she said, and helped Viktoriya sit up and stand. “A doctor will come and discuss the results with you shortly. In the meantime, you’re free to change back into your clothes and wait in the room just outside.”

Viktoriya did as she was told. Undressed mechanically back into her black leggings and a black hoodie she had taken from Dakota's closet and lived in for the past week.

In the waiting room, Dakota sat beside her. She could tell by Dakota's sunken posture, and cap pushed into her forehead, that she didn't want to be here with her—yet she also hadn't allowed her to go alone. This wasn't like the private hospital room she had been given before, they were in a public waiting room. One leaked photo of them together, and it would circle every news station by the morning. She didn't need that kind of negative press or allegations in her life.

All she could do was hope that nobody in the waiting room at ten on a Friday morning knew anything about competitive figure skating—or had watched the Winter Olympics.

A doctor came in a few minutes later, tablet in hand. He asked them both to follow him, and they entered a small windowless room further down the hall. He scrolled, nodded to himself, then looked up at her.

“I’ve looked over the results of your MRI scan, and the swelling has gone down completely,” he said in an even tone. “The risk of you getting a secondary hemorrhage or any delayed complications is extremely low at this point.”

Viktoriya blinked. “Does that mean…”

The doctor smiled at her. “It means that we didn't find anything out of the ordinary on your scans. Physically, you are completely healthy. Whatever has caused the memory loss isn’t something we can see structurally.”

Dakota stiffened beside her.

“The confusion and disorientation that you've been feeling will go away completely with time—but it won't happen overnight, the same with the headaches you've experienced,” he gazed down at his tablet again. “Also, you can begin doing some light exercise again, I see no reason why not.”

Viktoriya’s heart kicked hard against her ribs. “Exercise,” she echoed.

“Gradually,” the doctor added. “And skating is fine too, as long as you listen to your body. If you feel dizzy or confused about anything, you need to stop immediately.”

Viktoriya smiled before she could stop herself. They were letting her skate. She was going to feel like herself again. She hadn't truly felt like herself since waking up but knew she would the moment she got back on the ice.

“What about her memory loss?” Dakota asked beside her. “You can't sit there and tell me she's perfectly healthy when she's missing eight years of her memory and doesn't remember marrying me.”

“The retrograde amnesia still persists,” the doctor said. “But we see no organic damage that would hinder her cognitive process. The MRI scan was clear. Her problem is no longer something that can be treated with surgery, her problem now lies in neuropsychology.”

He swept his gaze around the small room and landed his eyes on Viktoriya. “Have you been able to recall any memories from your time at home?”