Page 60 of Forget Me Knot

“I have to call the doc in, alright? Your neuro will want to check everything.”

When Owen’s hands start to slip away, I grab one and pull him closer. I hate the tears brimming in my eyes. The familiar vulnerability I thought I was just beginning to leave behind. Without a word, Owen seems to know what I can’t say for myself. That I don’t need time or space right now. I need my brother.

“It’s okay, Jacky,” he whispers, running a soothing hand over my forehead like he’s the big brother, not me. “I’m not goin’anywhere, okay? You aren’t alone.” He keeps one hand on my chest while the other reaches across the bed, pressing the call button for a nurse.

“Okay, bro.” He pulls his chair closer, never taking his hand from my chest, and takes a seat. “Tell me what you remember.”

Closing my eyes, I search through the recesses of my brain, trying to pinpoint my last memory. Sorting through the rapid-fire images popping into awareness.

Cat pulling the thread from a throw blanket on the couch.

Dinah’s breathy laugh against my cheek.

Me, reading aloud from a novel about two opposite strangers becoming so much more, with Dinah’s socked-feet draped across my lap.

Holding a pile of kittens, but knowing exactly which one belonged to me.

A kiss, covered in green light.

Batting cages and bubble gum.

Drawing a mustache on my sister’s face.

Pressing Dinah gently into the wall of our secret hallway. Kissing her until I can’t think straight.

Blips and pieces of memories flash at me like high beams on a darkened highway. I can’t filter through which belong to me and which don’t. What’s real? How much time has passed? The only constant: a woman with strawberry hair, freckled cheeks, and my heart in her delicate hands.

“I don’t know.” I squeeze my eyes tighter and feel the tears stream down my cheek. “I don’t know what I remember.”

“That’s okay. The doctor expected things to be fuzzy. He’ll be here soon, but let’s just say you have got to have the worst luck of any person I know.” He chuckles but pats my chest. “We were at the Peewee game. You were catching for me, but we paused and… I don’t know man, it happened really fast.” I hear the strain and fear in his voice. “I looked away and the next thing Iknew you were on the ground and everyone was screaming for an ambulance and…” His voice cracks and when he deflects, I’m grateful for it. “Thanks to your coaching, Jenny Brewington can swing a bat with the best of ‘em.”

“Jenny Brewington?” I peek an eye open against the harsh hospital lights. “I helped her bat… at the game.”

“That’s right… Give me a sec.” Owen pops up. Before I can argue or beg like the baby I am for my brother not to leave me, he switches the lights off at the door and returns.

“Thank you.”

“No problem. You need heat?” I only nod once before I feel the weight of the heated blanket cover my body. “Brought it from home. Thought you’d like it when you woke up.

“So, sweet little Jenny was taking practice swings like you told her to and just smacked you right upside the head when you weren’t lookin’. Coincidentally, it’s almost the same spot as before. Doc kept you under… like last time… for a few days. Wanted to be sure you didn’t have brain swelling, etcetera. You know the drill.”

“Right.”

“Your face is pretty banged up. Like, it’s a good thing you’ve gotta girl who can stand to look at you because, whoa, you’re ugly.”

I can’t help but laugh lightly. Though the movement sends pain through my head.

“And give her a few years, and I think Jenny will be running the show on that diamond. You can only blame yourself.”

“Right,” I repeat.

“You really scared us—scared me—bro. I’m glad you’re still here.” I don’t see his hug coming, but when Owen’s body hits mine and his shoulders shake against my chest, I don’t hesitate in wrapping my arms around him and joining him.

The neurologist, Dr. Hanson, interrupts our masculine sob-fest with a, “Good morning, Mr. Jones,” in her typical, clinical tone. It makes me want to beg anyone who will listen to bring Dinah to me. I only want to hear my name from her lips. Instead, the rest of my family appears shortly after with tears and quiet celebration.

The doctor and her team of nurses screen my vitals, which look promising, considering. Perform cognitive tests that indicate I’ve lost coordination in both hands and feet, but should be able to regain that with therapy. And Dr. Hanson gives me the overview of both the CT scan and MRI performed while I was out.

The bat did indeed make contact in almost the same place as the ball three years before. Dr. Hanson is dumbfounded as she explains that brain bleeding and long term damage after sustaining repeat head injuries such as mine are almost always guaranteed, but there’s no explanation as to why my brain is functioning, by all accounts, normally. She calls me a medical miracle. A recovery that can’t be explained away with science and logic.

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