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“Amazing.”
She turns back to me. “You know what’s amazing? The body’s ability to heal itself. Your eyes look good. They’re clear and focused. Your blood pressure was within the recommended range. No fever.” She sits back. “I’m comfortable telling you to continue to take it easy regarding your healing from the concussion, but I’m not giving an all clear just yet. The back of your head looked good as well. You mentioned you had a few concerns?”
She unpacks her salad from the bag, then takes a sip of tea. I’ve eaten half of mine already because I was starving, so I try to give her time to enjoy hers as well. “The amnesia. I’ve spent so much time researching, but it seems like it’s a case-by-case basis when and even if the memory returns.”
“There have been some good studies, including fairly recent ones, that have provided insight on what to expect and not expect with amnesia.” Setting her tea down, she seems to get caught in her thoughts as she bites her bottom lip. Her gaze darts to mine again, and she says, “A traumatic event caused the injury, leading to the loss. One of the focused treatments is to keep the trauma from returning. Another is to find people from your past or items and spend time with them. The point is to find the underlying cause beyond the physical damage you suffered.”
Picking up my fork, I toy with a diced tomato, trying to understand. “You had me until the end.” I smile, kind of cringing because I really don’t want her to think I’m dumb.
She smiles, stabbing a piece of lettuce, but glances at me. “Basically, the physical injury of hitting your head might not have caused the amnesia.” She waves the fork around in a circle. “Your brain just used that opportunity to protect you from something else in your life.” She takes a bite of lettuce, the crunching disappearing under my mind being blown.
“You’re saying my brain wants me to forget my past?”
“I’m not entirely sure, Tuesday. No one can truly answer that but you.”
“Will I get my memory back?”
Dipping a carrot into the little container of dressing, she replies, “They’re there. You just need a key to unlock them.”
“Please tell me we can buy one when we’re out shopping today,” I say, giggling and taking a bite of my salad.
With a devious gleam in her eyes, she says, “I say we check Fifth Avenue first.”
“I think we’re going to be fast friends, Lark.”
Her knee bumps mine as she smiles. “We already are.”
I enjoy my day with her. It’s been one of my favorites. I just wish this storm cloud of a question hadn’t been hanging over my head all day. What is my brain protecting me from?
22
Loch
“That’s the third fucking dunk you’ve scored off me, asshole.” Out of breath, I pace the half-court. I used to kick my brother’s ass at almost everything, but now he’s getting his revenge. I’m only thirty, but I feel fucking old. “How’re you hanging in there, Dad?”
My dad has downed two bottles of water and sat out more than he’s played. “I’m done.” He waves me off. “You guys play without me.” He heads off to the bench by the gym bags while Harbor dribbles the basketball around and then shoots from the foul line.
And makes it. Asshole.
Passing the ball to me, he asks, “Best two out of three?”
“I think I’m done like Dad.”
Harbor starts chuckling. “You need more cardio in your life.”
“I run five miles on the treadmill at least three times a week, and I’m walking all over this city the rest of the time. You’d think I could keep up with a scrawny kid like you.” Harbor’s built, taking after his big brother, but I can’t let him think I noticed. I jack the ball at him.
Catching it against his gut, he’s chuckling too hard to hold a conversation. He finally manages to say, “Okay, gramps.”
Fucker.
I grab a towel from my gym bag and start to dry off the sweat. “I want to see you take on Noah, then we’ll see who the gramps is.”
“I did. Last week. He plays baseball, not basketball. I kicked his ass, too.”
I toss in the towel, literally and figuratively. “I’m thinking a beer might do me a solid.”
Harbor is there and ready to go. “I’m in.”
My dad stands with a towel wrapped over his shoulders, and says, “That’s more my speed.”
We showered at the club and put on fresh clothes. It’s been a while since I’ve been out of the house in anything other than a suit. It feels good to be relaxed, to get some exercise, and spend time with my brother and dad.
“When are you heading back to Beacon, Dad?” I ask over the second round of beers.
The crowded sports bar has TVs playing everything from pro football to college basketball. There’s a lot to be distracted by, but Dad’s been content listening to us ramble on about my work and Harbor’s travels. Lark comes up a few times with casual mentions of starting a family. I’m not sure how he can stay so calm about it. But after I think more about it, I know he’s calm because he has Lark. Will I ever be that way when it comes to starting a family?
