Page 10 of Mangled Memory
“Cut the shit, baby. That man couldn’t play poker to save hislife, and thankfully, you’re not a great bluffer either. Your face is too expressive. Besides, you’ve got too muchlet it rip and let the cards fall where they mayin you to want to. So, I’ll ask again.”
“He’s worried about me is all. And he knows the black hole that is my memory is irking the shit out of me. So he wants me to be smart. And the food sucks. I’m not lying.”
“I can’t fix the food, but I’m not above liquid contraband.” He sets the cup down on my tray. “Toasted marshmallow s’mores latte with cinnamon instead of graham cracker sprinkles.”
I grab the cup and bring it to my lips, taking one huge inhale before sipping. I moan as the rich flavor hits my tongue. When I open my eyes, Christian is assessing me.
“What?”
“Your eyes when you have your first sip of coffee are a step away from your eyes when I’m moving inside you. It’s been more than a week, and I needed to see it.”
“Oh.”
All my fire and all the anger I’ve held onto and I have the eloquence of a two-year-old.Oh. That’s what I came up with.
“I’m ready to take you home. They’re saying they want another day or two to monitor the swelling on your brain. The pressure there is normal today, and they don’t expect that to change, but we’re using more caution, not less. So go lightly on that coffee. I didn’t ask for half-caff, because I knew you’d revolt, but you need to be smart with your body and brain. They’ll never let you go if you’re not stable. And I don’t want them to if they’re not sure you’re good to be released.”
He squeezes my hand in his.
“They’re trying to kill me with their soup.”
“I’ll have a word. Do you want to tell me about therapy?”
I shake my head back and forth and take another sip of coffee. “Not really.”
He clenches his jaw but nods. “But you go back tomorrow? Last question, do you like the doctor or should we find another one?”
I shrug, not wanting to reveal much.
“We’ll find you another one. This is your brain, baby.” Heleans over and kisses me below my ear, a gesture that is way too damn intimate for someone I do not know. “We’ll find someone who can help you recover what can be recovered and who can help you walk through the process in the meantime. In sickness and in health, Ayla. But we’ll fight for the health part, okay?”
Lather.
Rinse.
Repeat.
Two days pass with the same boring bullshit.
Wretched sleep full of strange dreams. Breakfast. Shower. Therapy. A visit or two by my family.
No phone. No tablet. No book. No anything.
And the forbidding man with my last name stands vigil at my bedside. He listens to everything. He must leave when I’m with the shrink, because he’s showered and in new clothes by lunch every day. He never leaves my side when family comes.
The light of his computer screen reflects onto his face throughout the night and his cell phone never seems to need a charge, though it’s always lighting up and taking his attention.
And I’m over this.
Over him.
Over lying flat on my back.
Over not having my own clothes or my own shampoo.
Over being grateful for a nap because at least there’s a reprieve from utter boredom.
“I’m done. Get the doctor. I’ve got to get out of here.”
