Page 26 of Forgetting You, Forgetting Me

I can see the answer, the regret on his kind-hearted face even before he speaks. “We don’t know. Like I told your parents and Samuel’s parents, amnesia is unpredictable. It could be two days, two weeks, two years. And in some cases, possibly not at all.”

“Not at all?” I almost fall over myself, unable to digest the finality of his comment. I brace my hand against the wall to stop my plummet. “But that’s worst case scenario, right? Right, Doctor?” I press when he doesn’t respond.

“No, Ms. Tucker,” he says regretfully. “You need to understand. Sam may never regain those memories back. Segments may return, but it’s like a jigsaw puzzle. He’s missing some vital pieces to complete the entire puzzle. He may be able to get by with the pieces he has, but those missing pieces may always remain misplaced.”

This day has just gone from bad to worse. “So I’m a missing jigsaw piece? He seems to have all the pieces except my piece. How is it possible he doesn’t remember me?”

He pushes his glasses up his nose. “I wouldn’t take it personally.”

But I do. No matter what anyone says to me, I can’t not take this personally.

“Let’s just focus on the positives and get him well. Dr. Yates, an expert in this field, will be coming in today to talk to Samuel. She’ll be able to test his cognitive responses and give us better insight into where Sam is.”

I nod as it’s too much to process.

“In the meantime, help him find the pieces by looking in the right places.”

His comment stirs a ray of hope. “What do you mean?”

“Bring in photographs, watch his favorite movie, wear his favorite scent, anything that may help him remember who he was. Try and evoke those feelings of familiarity by associating today with yesterday. Jog his memory to why he loved the things that he did.”

One of those things used to be me. I thank Dr. Kepler, taking his advice on board.

Sweeping my palms over my face, I scrub away my sadness, as I’m determined to make Sam remember me. Inhaling then exhaling loudly, I untie my long blonde hair and shake it out around my shoulders. Digging into my pocket for my ChapStick, I apply a coat and smack my lips twice. This cherry flavor is my favorite and I never leave home without it. Maybe if I gave Sam a kiss, he’d remember the taste and smell. It’s worth a shot.

Smoothing out my hair, I flick it to one side, hoping to give my flat locks some body. When I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the window across the hall from me, I understand why Sam doesn’t recognize me. I currently resemble the living dead.Ibarely recognize me.

Looking down at my scuffed black Chucks, blue skinny jeans, and tattered Beatles t-shirt, I decide to make more of an effort tomorrow. No more grieving and feeling sorry for myself. If I want Sam back, then I’ve got to show him the girl he fell for.

Pulling my shoulders back, I stroll into Sam’s room with a staged confidence because I’m burning up on the inside. Both Sam and Saxon turn when they see me enter. Sam looks completely and utterly untouched, while Saxon swallows. I don’t know why, but the look makes me feel…pretty. My cheeks instantly blush.

“Did you bring any food?” Sam asks, sitting up to see if I bear any bags in hand.

My cheeks redden for a different reason this time. “No, I didn’t. But I have food for thought.” He cocks a brow.

Saxon stands off to the side as I walk towards Sam’s bed. A whirlwind takes flight within when Sam narrows his eyes, indicating he’s listening. It’s a mannerism so like the old Sam. It hurts that I’ve grown to refer to him in this way.

Opening up my bag, I reach inside for my purse. Both brothers watch closely as I hunt through the pockets. Pulling out two tattered photographs, I run my fingertip reminiscently over the first one before flipping it around for Sam to see.

He stares at it for the longest of times, small lines etching along his brow.

“It’s us at prom, Sam,” I explain, remembering my blue silk gown and how handsome he looked in his tuxedo. I also remember what took place in the hotel room afterward. My cheeks heat at the memory of me losing my virginity to the man of my dreams.

He leans forward and takes the picture from my hand. His eyes are fixated on the image and I can see it. He’s trying to remember this moment in time. I can only imagine how strange it must be for him to look at an image and have no recollection of it.

“We look happy,” he says, which warms my heart.

“We were. We met when I was sixteen and you were seventeen.”

“How’d we meet?”

His interest has me edging forward. “We met at school. In the library, actually. I knew then that I loved you. I felt the spark from the moment we spoke. The moment we touched.”

The room is silent. Stale.

I unhurriedly take a seat on the bed beside him, ensuring I don’t smother or crowd him.

“And this picture.” I pass him the next one. “Is us in front of our home.”

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