Page 92 of Bind Me

“Yeah, that would be pretty fucked up,” Charlie agreed. “I mean, why leave and then pretend she’s forgotten you only to then spend all her time painting you? It makes no sense.”

“She had a scar. God, boys, it was huge. It covered half her head.” A whimper slipped from my lips as I thought about how scared she must have been to go through the last few months alone.

Fox’s hand twitched toward the now half drunk bottle, so I pushed it closer to him. “You know what I think?”

I looked over at him, grateful for his calm approach to every situation, even this one.

“I think she heard her diagnosis, picked up on the part where she might be left with no memory, and given your past with your mum and what she watched you go through with her dementia, she ran so you wouldn’t have to go through it again.” I swallowed so hard it hurt my throat. “I think it was the ultimate sacrifice. She gave you up, so you didn’t have to watch her forget you.”

“But losing her hurt so much…” I forced out.

“And now you know that she can’t remember you?” he asked tentatively, bracing his hand on my back as if he was protecting me while I answered.

“It’s killing me.”

“Exactly. It’s worse, right? Seeing her, knowing where she is, but knowing she doesn’t remember. She knew what that would do to you, Arch.”

“So what now? I just go back home and pretend she’s not out there?” I fired back, suddenly filled with rage at the unfairness of this whole situation.

“Is that what you want?”

“No! I want the life I thought we were planning together. But how? I mean, she doesn’t remember me. She has no clue how much she loved me or how much I fucking loved her. She doesn’t know our past, how we met, what we were like together. How do I fix that? I can’t just tell her and expect that to be enough. I mean, she probably doesn’t even feel the same about me anymore.” A tear rolled down my cheek as the enormity of the situation started to dawn on me.

“I’ve found her, but she’s gone and I don’t think there is a way to fix it,” I mumbled, downing the rest of my drink.

“Archer, you found her. That in itself is a miracle.” Charlie’s lips curled up into a small smile, but his eyes were dark with unspoken words.

“And the fact that she’s painting you, even without remembering you, shows how much she fucking loved you and how hard her subconscious is trying to remind her about you,” Fox offered, tightening his grip on my shoulder.

“I need to see her. I have so many questions. I mean, why does she have a photo of me and why was someone warning her to stay away from me?” I leaped from the stool I was sitting on, the room suddenly spinning.

“Woah.” Charlie grabbed me. “It’s late. You’ve not eaten all day and you’ve just downed a lot of whiskey. Go, sleep. See her tomorrow. We’ll do the interview without you so you can have all day. We’ll tell them you’re ill or something. Go get the answers you need, and then we’ll help you come up with a plan.”

“Thanks.”

“But, Arch?”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t know how, but you’re going to get her back. We’ll do everything we can to help, but you two are meant for each other and I won’t let brain tumors, lost memories, fate or anything else stand in your way. Do you hear me?”

I leaned into my friend and let his confidence sink into me, because right now I had no idea how to make this better or even if it was possible. But I did know one thing… I had to try.

Ionee

Ihadn’tsleptawink. My head throbbed, my body ached because I’d paced the floor all night and my heart hurt because of the pain I’d witnessed on Archer’s face yesterday.

After he’d left, I’d pulled the wooden box from under my bed. Even though I’d seen the contents hundreds of times in the last few months, today it felt like I was seeing things through fresh eyes. I started with the letter that had been stuck to the front when I came round from my operation. The box was there, sitting on the overbed hospital table. For a few days, I couldn’t talk and I was on too many drugs to be able to read it or ask where it had come from, but when I was finally feeling able, I asked the nurse who brought my medication one morning.

“Who left this?”

She offered me a sad smile. “You left it for yourself… you know, for if you couldn’t remember.”

My brows furrowed, but the move hurt my scar, pulling on my stitches, so I swallowed down more painkillers and let them lull me into a deep sleep so I didn’t have to think anymore.

After about a week, the doctors in the San Francisco hospital my dad had apparently paid for, according to the invoice I was given when I was discharged, agreed that my memory wasn’t coming back. That night I closed the door on my private room, curled up in the uncomfortable dark red chair in the corner, and opened the handwritten letter.

Hey Nee, it’s me… well, you. God, this is going to be confusing.

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