Page 7 of Help Me Remember

“What changed?” I asked with a frown. I could feel the pain in my head beginning to recede, and welcomed it. The problem was, without that, the pain inside my head was growing stronger, and I was more aware of just how much my body ached.

“Well, either you’re the world’s greatest actor, and you missed your calling in life,” she said as she continued to fiddle. “Or you genuinely did not know a thing about a man who was apparently a close childhood friend. A man who knows enough about you to identify you.”

“Or is a stalker,” I muttered.

“Hey,” Eric protested in annoyance. “If I’m supposed to believe you literally do not have any memories, you’re not allowed to be a dick.”

“I’m not being a dick. I’m just stating a possibility,” I huffed.

“Funny how you’re managing both.”

“Or you’re just the sensitive sort.”

“Or you’re a dick.”

“Maybe I am, but that doesn’t mean you aren’t being sensitive…or guilty.”

“You know what,” Eric began and then stopped with a snort. “Okay, actually, now I definitely know it’s you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked, trying to turn to look at him.

“Hold still,” the doctor told me, and I blinked when I realized she’d been working on the wound on my head the whole time I’d been talking to Eric. I hadn’t even paid attention which was surprising. Until then, I had been acutely aware of what everyone around me was doing, almost to the point of paranoia.

“Sorry,” I muttered and then let out a sigh. “And I’m sorry I said you were a stalker.”

“Nah, you said I could be, not that I was one,” Eric said, and I could hear the grin in his voice.

I scowled. “You’re kind of a pain in the ass, aren’t you?”

“Oh yes,” the doctor agreed before Eric could interrupt. Yet even I could hear the affection in her voice. “But he’s probably one of the best damn people who still works here, so I’m not going to complain.”

“You were complaining this morning,” Eric pointed out.

“You were being noisy.”

“I was singing.”

“Again, noisy.”

“Is my name really Dylan?” I asked in a moment of silence after they were done.

After several heartbeats, Eric spoke, his words soft and a little strained. “Yeah. You were…well. Yeah, your name is Dylan, and I’m Eric.”

“I was what?” I asked, hearing the unfinished thought.

Eric sighed heavily, and I wondered if he was blushing again. “You were my best friend, at least before you moved across the country. I honestly thought I’d never see you again after you disappeared off the face of the planet.”

I felt a flush of shame even as I told myself that, for all I knew, there was a good reason I hadn’t spoken to him in over four years. Maybe it was simply because of whatever I’d been up to since clearly I wasn’t a desk clerk or a nurse, given the way I’d woken up. Still, it could have been something else, a fight or betrayal on one of our parts that I couldn’t remember.

“Christ,” I muttered. “Was I, uh, a pessimistic person?”

“You could be,” Eric said quietly.

“Right,” the doctor said, stepping back. “That’s your head stitched up. Now, considering the severity of the wound and how you described getting it, I would advise that you go to a hospital.”

“I don’t think that’s going to help,” I muttered, looking down and remembering I was sitting in only my underwear.

“Really?” she asked sarcastically. “You think someone who’s taken a hard enough hit to the head to quite literally forget who they are doesn’t need to go to the hospital?”

---