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“Oh, that’s really unfortunate. I was just wondering because there are a few medications we think we could try in order to help her retain some of her memory and ease her pain a little, but we’ve had mixed results in different kinds of populations, so it’s imperative that we find out more of her family history before we prescribe them.”
I do my best not to panic outright. I should have known better than to try and fuck with a doctor’s expertise and knowledge. It’s too short of notice for me to have her records fabricated with her new name, and even if it wasn’t, I’d run the risk of actually damaging her further if there was something in her family history that I didn’t know.
I’m way in over my head with this one.
“Yeah, she kind of left home when she was eighteen and never spoke to her family again. She won’t even let me talk to them, so I’m worried about what kind of damage it would do to my marriage to contact them even under the circumstances,” I reply, my mind racing as I try desperately to come up with more bullshit explanations.
“Alright, well, if that changes, please notify me immediately. There’s a very distinct chance that your wife will experience permanent memory loss from this accident. You might want to weigh the pros and cons of that alone,” he says gravely.
“I will, thank you for calling, Doctor.”
After I hang up the phone, I walk back into the main room as if nothing had happened. “Erik, come here for a second,” I say motioning for him to come towards me.
He glances at me with a cautious look in his eye. “Yeah, what’s up?”
“I need you to find outeverythingyou can about Ruth Blakely. Try to find her family, the jobs she’s worked, her interests, anything you can find. If you do find her relatives, donotcontact them. Do you understand?”
“Yeah, I can do that,” he says, still holding the ID I gave him a minute ago. He glances down at it, then back up to me. “Anything you’re looking for in particular?”
I shrug. “Make sure she’s not a cop, then find out everything you can. I’m just trying to see how much of her I can bring back without her knowing that we’re not really married.”
Erik nods and walks out the door, prepared to spend the rest of the night finding out as many details about River as possible. I doubt he’ll find anything noteworthy, but it’s still important that I use what I find to help put pieces of River back together, even if she’ll never be the same again.
Now that I know that there’s a chance that I could accidentally fuck her up permanently if I don’t learn her medical history, I feel like I’ve taken on much more than I can reasonably handle. I know that I can’t just call around the hospitals in the area to find out her actual medical history, and even if I could, I would be outed as a liar immediately.
I’m smart, but I’m not smarter than a network of seasoned brain surgeons.
I might have really fucked this up, and it only takes one rat to spoil the charade.
6
RIVER
I’m getting myself ready for the day, slowly easing myself out of bed and sliding into my wheelchair as carefully as possible. I’ve been getting better at it, but the first few times I fell out onto the floor and needed to call Adas for help.
There’s a conflict in me that sits in my chest whenever I begin to advance in my progress. At first, I’m overjoyed that I’m able to get into my wheelchair on my own, move my toes a little, or reach the zipper on my dress without help.
Then comes a wave of guilt. Will Adas feel like I don’t need him anymore if I start to get better too quickly? He should already be used to it. It’s not like I was paralyzed when we met.
Still, I see how happy it makes him to help me with my daily tasks.
As the days go by, I’m more confident in my appearance as I relearn how to take better care of myself. Waking up to my face and hair in a tired, snarled mess was a rude awakening, just as much as it was to find myself paralyzed from the waist down.
It feels selfish and vain, but I feel so much relief to see that I’m not actually hat haggard all the time.
I’ve been spending my mornings sitting quietly by the window, counting down the minutes until Adas comes in with my medications for the day. Even though he’s such a caring, devoted husband, I find myself savoring the moments that I get to be completely alone. It helps me feel less dependent, less needy.
“I can actually move my leg a little bit now,” I say cheerfully as he enters my bedroom for the first time all morning.
“Oh, that’s awesome. Hey, today is your eight-week follow-up appointment. Are you ready for that?” he asks, handing me a cup of tea that he’s brought up for me.
“Right, yeah. I’m ready, I guess. I just really hate having all these professionals poking me and messing with my legs. I can’t feel it, but that’s what makes it worse,” I confess, remembering how many visits I’d had in the first few days of being here. Constant doctors and physical therapists in my personal space, always with a new exercise or technique for me to try when all I wanted to do was sleep.
Adas walks over to me, helping me adjust myself in my chair even though he’s seen me do it by myself a hundred times by now. Even if I feel a little bit smothered, I do appreciate his effort.
About twenty minutes later, we both hear a knock on the door. “I had Erik let the doctor up here. I wanted to make sure I kept my eye on you,” Adas says, stroking my hand.
I don’t really understand what he means by “needing to keep an eye on me.” It isn’t like I have anywhere to escape to or even that I’d want to leave.
