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"Rita, you have to focus on what you remember from before you hit your head."
"What happened to my head anyway?"
"I will tell you after you do this exercise and try to outline whatever memory you have left." After I can come up with a fucking explanation.
"Ok." She closed her eyes again, and I guided her through controlling her breath. It was a lot like meditation, but she would need to focus on staying alert. "My name is Rita Cortez. I'm twenty-six years old, and I'm allergic to kiwi. I like to draw, and I think I am pretty good at it. I remember myself working on something, an illustration."
I remembered going through her purse to find her ID for the plane ticket. I found this journal, and because I was way past invading her privacy, I looked. It was filled with the most beautiful sketches. I guess that explained it.
"I remember books; do I work with books?"
A knot tied in my throat, and my palms became sweaty. I wanted nothing more than to have the answers for her.
"We can use just what you remember."
"Right, I remember a dog, but I think it died. I know I went to high school but never made it to college. I'm from a poor family, you know, poor but happy. I remember my family... but I know I'm not talking to them. I don't know why, but I remember my father telling me to never set foot in his house again, like I did something wrong."
This time when her eyes opened, a sea of crystal-clear tears covered her dark irises. She was about to burst into tears, and my heart broke watching her. Her pain reflected into my heart, and all I could do was give her a shoulder to cry on. I wrapped my arms around her shoulders, and she put her face into the curve of my neck, letting out a few lost sobs. Her cry was, if possible, more lyrical than a bird's song. She cried like a goddess.
The flight attendant caught our moment and came over to us.
"Sir, is everything alright? Can I bring you anything?"
"No, no. My wife is just... emotional. But we are fine, thank you."
"Ok, I will bring you some tissues and fresh water."
When she came back, Rita was still letting her tears fall on me. I took one of the tissues and tried to wipe her face.
"Ok, love, try to calm down, ok?"
"Why?" she whispered, "why did my father tell me I was not his daughter anymore?"
As a doctor, I’d had a lot of praise for taking people's pain away. I wished I had the power to take hers.
"I..."
"Tell me, please."
"I honestly don't know. We met after you moved away from them. You don't like to talk about it."
The disappointment could be easily read on her face. I wished I had something more to give her. I gave her the tissue instead, and she blew her runny nose.
"I don't know why I'm so sensitive."
"It will be like this for a few days, until you get used to the memory flow coming back to you." My voice changed, becoming deeper. This was my professional voice. "You see, memories kickoff emotions. Usually, you'd know what to expect from a memory, but because your brain was reset, you relive everything with fresh intensity."
"So, I'll feel like this all the time?"
With great effort, I kept myself in check. She needed compassion and guidance right now, and laying aside my atrocious lies, I was a doctor. No one could give her better fucking care.
"No, in time, you'll learn to manage the absorption of your memory. Rita, I don't want you to worry; cases like yours usually have a short time effect." At least this was what the textbook said. I couldn’t brag that I had a lot of memory loss cases on my desk. "Why don't we go to a hotel when we land in Chicago? I should be in Boston for one more day, so no one expects me... us, home. We can take some time off and figure out how to do this."
Rita's face lit up with a smile.
"James, I feel like all my life slipped through my fingers. You are the only anchor I have, my husband, and you are a doctor. Why would I question what you say?"
Why indeed. The magnitude of the reality I had created swallowed me whole. I took a woman that I didn’t know from the streets. I planned to bring her into my home, and not in a fun, Zach Ford way, when he walked into a bar, picked up a model-type girl that he didn’t know anything about except the color of her panties. Not anymore, though; his girl, London, would skin his balls.
