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Farrow isn’t looking at me. He’s busy typing. I think I aced this. I blow out a breath. It’s okay. I’m going to be okay.
“What time is it now?” he asks.
The draped windows aren’t offering any answers. I search for a clock. Is this cheating? Maybe, but I can’t find a good resource anyway. “Early morning maybe? Seven a.m.?” It’s a wild guess.
“What day of the week is it?”
I bite the edge of my lip. “Saturday.”
“The month? All I need is the date.”
I puff out my cheeks in another breath. Let’s see. I remember Moffy’s 22nd birthday. It was a few days ago. He was born on July 13th. So it has to be… “The sixteenth.”
Farrow presses the delete button. I swear he does! I blink a ton and press my head back to the fluffy pillow. Calm down. If I freak out, no one will think I’m healthy enough for answers.
I want answers.
“What’s the month?” he asks.
“July.” I imagine opening the drapes and seeing the sunshine and blue skies of summer.
“The year?”
I do mental math and give Farrow the correct year. The best part of this year will be my eighteenth birthday, which can’t come soon enough.
He’s trying to type faster, maybe seeing it’s jolting my nerves. My stomach twists as my confidence begins to wane.
I stare at the ceiling panels. “How hard did I fail this thing?” Maybe I should be asking how hard I fell.
“This test isn’t a pass or fail,” Farrow says casually. “I’m just trying to determine if you still have post-traumatic amnesia. It’s important we keep track of that because once your PTA ends, we can determine how severe your brain injury is and what kind of care and treatment you need.”
I really like that Farrow is providing info like I’m an adult. Like I can handle this even with a head injury.
He adds, “Your orientation to your own person and to place is accurate. However, your orientation to time tells me that you still have post-traumatic amnesia.”
Time.
How much time am I off by?
He tells me PTA can be retrograde or anterograde. Basically, I can experience memory loss of past events from before the injury or memory loss of future events.
I don’t know what’s worse.
He doesn’t tell me which I have yet, and I don’t ask. I don’t even remember if he’s told me how long PTA is supposed to last. Maybe he has.
I don’t want to ask again and seem worse than I am.
“So what now?” I wonder.
“We’re going to keep you here overnight for observation,” Farrow says. “Tomorrow, we’ll see how you’re feeling, and I’m going to call a neuropsychologist to come and talk to you and your family.”
Awesome.
“Can I see them?” I wonder.
He nods. “Yeah, but I’m going to talk to them first, so it’ll be a few minutes at least.” He trashes his medical gloves.
I take a breath, my gaze falling to the red sparrows along his collarbones. His tattoos are so, so beautiful.
Wait…is that…? My brother’s name! My eyes widen. I’m about to inquire more about it when I notice a wedding band. It has to be one. It’s on his ring finger!
What.
The.
Fuck?
Does that mean…?
The ring. The new tattoo…?
Is he married to my brother??? When did this happen?! How could this happen?!
“Wait, Farrow!” I call out. He spins around to face me, and my pounding heart tries to eject from my body again. He eyes the monitor as I ask in a whisper, “You’re married?”
He swallows hard, then combs a hand across his hair. He just nods.
“To whom? When?” I press my fingers to my forehead, and in doing so, I catch sight of black ink on my arm. I have a tattoo?! My pulse spikes. “Is-is this your handwriting?” I stare at music lyrics in Farrow’s familiar scrawl. I instantly recognize his handwriting from all the birthday cards he’s given me throughout the years.
“Luna—”
I touch my tongue with my fingers now. “Oh my God,” I mumble. No wonder my mouth felt strange—I have a tongue piercing! Anxious tears begin to build, and in a panic, I kick down blankets so I can see my legs. What if they’re missing too?
Farrow rushes back to me. “You’re okay, Luna.”
“Nonono.” Uncontrollable tears squeeze out of my eyes, and Farrow helps roll down the hefty blankets. Both of my legs are intact. I’m not a bionic woman, but is that…? I lift the hem of my hospital gown. Intricate lines swirl around my thigh in a gorgeous galaxy—another tattoo. I trace inked planets and stars. How many more do I have? Why don’t I remember getting any of them?
“Take a big breath,” he says.
I’m taking short, sharp breaths. “Who did you marry?” I rub at my wet eyes. “Did…did I miss your wedding while I was asleep? How much have I missed?” It terrifies me, and only when Farrow sits on the edge of the bed and hugs me do I stop gasping for breath.
