“It’s too early to determine that, Mrs. Jamison. We’ll be running more tests over the next few days. It may be the case that his memory will return to normal in its own time.”
Fuck. I rub at my eyes with the heel of my hand and try relaxing my shoulders. How can this be happening to me?
Blair didn’t return to my room after the discussion out in the hall. I was kind of relieved at first, but now a little time has passed and I have an overwhelming urge to speak with her. How can I have forgotten my own girlfriend? I have so many questions that I want to ask her. How long have we been in a relationship? Where did we meet? Are we serious? I suppose I could ask my mom, but that just wouldn’t feel right. I need for them to tell me about the accident; I still don’t know what happened other than that it was a car crash. I’ve been back from my CT scan about fifteen minutes when my mom returns to my room.
“How are you feeling, honey? Did the doctors say anything more to you?”
“It was fine,” I answer. “I have to wait for Doctor Moss to come and explain the results.”
She takes the light blue leatherette seat by the side of the bed and rubs small circles into her temples.
“So, I’ve been talking to the doctors.”
“Okay, well by the sound of your voice, I’m guessing they didn’t tell you what you wanted to hear?” She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes, and it confirms my suspicion. “Let me guess: they’ve realized my brain’s wired wrong?”
“No…they couldn’t find it!” she deadpans; it lightens the atmosphere for a nanosecond before the black cloud that seems to be following me descends on the room once more.
“Seriously though, Ethan, what can you remember? Did you not recognize Blair at all?”
“The last thing I can remember is practicing for the entrance exam for Eastman,” I tell her. “I don’t remember anything about Blair; I don’t even recognize her from school. Does she even go to West Point?”
“Yes,” is her only reply. We sit in an uncomfortable silence for what feels like an eternity.
“The doctors have advised me not to tell you any information about the crash; they think stress will hinder your memory returning. They want to wait and see if it starts to come back on its own.” I look at her and wonder if she’s joking for a moment, but her eyes are telling me that she’s not.
“This is bullshit!” I’m not sure why I’m raising my voice at her, but I’m beyond frustrated. “I have no fucking clue what I’m doing here. I’ve lost months of my life, and I’m not even allowed to ask why? Way to go on not stressing me out.” I know my heart rate has increased by the little machine displaying it at the side of the bed. I have an overpowering desire to smash the hell out of it. I feel so helpless. I hear my dad’s voice ring through my mind, telling me I’m pathetic and it stops my sudden rage-fuelled outburst dead in its tracks.
“Where’s Dad?”
Mom’s face falls; it doesn’t bode well and I’m positive it can’t be a good sign.
“I um…I’m not sure if the doctors would want me to tell you,” she says sheepishly.
“What the fuck Mom, just tell me where he is!” I shout, and she cowers back in her seat. I immediately feel like a prick. I’m acting like my father and I hate it.
“He’s in the hospital, too,” she finally concedes. “He was in the accident with you and Blair.”
Wait, what? Was Blair in the accident, too? “I don’t understand. Dad, Blair and I were all in the accident?” I ask.
“Yes, you were all in the car, your dad had come to collect you.”
I’m desperately trying to access some small memory, anything to tell me why we would all be in a car together. I hate the asshole; he’s the last person on earth I’d call to come and collect me from anywhere.
“Why hasn’t he been in here?” I ask. She runs her fingers over her hair, then leans forward resting her forehead in one hand. “He’s in the ICU too; he can’t come in here.”
I’m about to ask what’s wrong with him, but I stop myself when I realize that I don’t even care. “Oh,” is all I manage. It’s probably not normal for a son not to want to know if his dad is okay, but then again, it’s probably not normal for a father to beat his son whenever the mood strikes. I let out a long breath in comprehension of the fact that if I were told that he was dead right now I’d be relieved.
I squeeze my eyes shut and wish I could just remember Blair, even if it were just one tiny little thing, any minute detail; I’d take it. Her tear-stained face has been haunting me since she left the room this afternoon. I can’t shake the image from my mind, and it’s like her pain was tangible, a completely solid entity that I could have reached out and grasped. It dawns on me that she had an IV stand with her when she was in here earlier; I have an unexpected need to know if she’s okay. I’m not sure why, but her hug felt like the only thing that has made sense to me since I woke up in this nightmare. Considering the clusterfuck of a situation I’m lying in right now, I could really use another one.