Page 12 of Midnight and Mine

I don’t remember how I got hurt. Could this be my boyfriend, and he beat me up? No, I wouldn’t stand for that. I’m—Oh God, I can’t remember my name. The monitor beeps louder and faster, and a nurse runs into the room.

“It’s okay. Deep breaths.” She stares at the man beside me. “Did something scare you?”

When I’m calm, I tell her, “I can’t remember my name, but I see it on the board. My name is Wynter.” But the name doesn’t mean anything to me. Wanting a distraction, I ask, “I’m hungry. May I eat?”

“I think your friendbrought you Bojangles, or I can get you cafeteria food,” she says, cracking a smile. She must be an expert at putting people at ease.

“Bojangles is good. I thought I smelled fried chicken but thought I was imagining it.”

“I’ll go heat it up,” Scott says, hesitating before he leaves the room like he’s forgetting something.

Typing on the computer, the nurse asks some questions and says, “Okay, the doctor will be here in a few minutes. Eat, you’re going to need your strength to recover.”

As she’s walking out, Scott returns with a paper plate with a chicken biscuit which I love more than any other breakfast food, remembering that little nugget puts me a little more at ease. He arranges my tray and raises the bed so I can eat without choking. When he does, I notice my stomach bulging. What’s this?

Before I can ask, he says in a soft tone, but it comes out scratchy, “Take small bites. I added mayonnaise.”

“I hate mayo.”

His eyes widen like he’s surprised. He tries to joke. “Everyone loves mayo. It makes everything creamier and better.” I love the way his lip tips up on one side—panty melting.

The moment I raise my hand to my mouth with a biscuit in hand, I see my wedding ring. Out of desperation and confusion, I ask, impulsive and shaky: "Where’s my husband?"

Any sparkle he had in his eyes is snuffed out, leaving only a flicker of disappointment. The sharpness of his reaction intensifies my guilt, even as I struggle with the emptiness and the tension between us.

Just then, the doctor comes in and says, “Glad to see you’re awake. Do you remember waking up earlier?”

Nodding, I admit, “Barely.”

“Well, you’re making progress. By what your friend told the nursing staff, you’ve been awake for nearly a half hour.” He checks the readings on the machines, as I watch, wondering how long I’ve been here and why. “Describe how you feel.”

He’s wearing dark-blue scrubs and has medium-blond hair. His skin is tan and when the short sleeve of his shirt creeps up his bicep, his defined muscles show. My kind of guy. Which makes me think of Drake.

“Okay, but I want my husband here. Is he here? Oh God, does he know where I am?” Anxiety pricks at my nervous system, and I teeter on the edge of what feels like a panic attack.

The doctor glances at Scott, who says, “He knows you’re here. He loves you more than anything in the world.”

“Can you get him?

“Drake?” Scott asks, but if he knows my husband loves me, why would he ask? I shake my head, and he continues, “I’ll go get him. He’s in the waiting room.”

A deep exhale escapes my chest, knowing that at least I remember my husband. The doctor says, “We’ll wait until you get back.”

Scott stops at the door, glancing over his slightly slumped shoulder. “Okay.”

I sense tension bubbling beneath the surface. The doctor introduces himself, a friendly smile softening his clinical disposition. “I’m Dr. Tutt, a neurosurgeon here at Elizabethtown General.”

It’s comforting to know where I am since the nurse or Scott didn’t clue me in, but my focus is drawn to my husband who walks in behind Scott. "Drake," I exclaim, warmth flooding my voice, as he’s the first person I recognize, and I hope he’ll be the one to help fill the gaps in my memory. But Drake takes a reluctant step with a shadow of apprehension in his eyes.

As the nurse opens the blinds, sunlight can’t hide the bruises on my arms, and an unsettling feeling takes hold of my mind. Did Drake cause this? Is that why he approaches with such caution?

He stands by my bed.

Doesn’t hold my hand.

Doesn’t lean down to kiss me.

His refusal to touch or reassure me with a kiss seems like a betrayal. Why wouldn’t my husband want to comfort me?

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