Do You Remember(8)

“I…” I reach into the void of my memory, feeling a burst of frustration. He’s being so patient, but the sad truth is, I could ask him questions all morning and still feel lost. It’s better just to go about my day. “Could I have something to drink?”

A smile twitches at his lips. “A little early in the day for that, isn’t it?”

The heat in my cheeks intensifies. “I mean like some water or juice…”

“But of course.” As he gets to his feet, he does a little bow. He is awfully cute. “Your wish is my command, m’lady.”

I’d love to get my own drink, but it would be embarrassing to fumble around the kitchen, unable to find anything. I don’t even know where we keep the glasses. I’ll look around later and figure out where everything is. For now, I can only watch as Graham grabs a glass from the cupboard over the sink. He pours a blood-colored liquid into the glass, filling it to the top. As he picks up the glass, Ziggy leaves my side and growls at him, baring an impressive set of teeth. Remind me not to get on Ziggy’s bad side.

“Ziggy.” Graham’s lips set into a straight line as the dog’s growls become more menacing. “For Christ’s sake…”

“What’s wrong?”

“Your dog doesn’t like me.” As he says the words, Ziggy lets out another low growl. “He’s overprotective of you. Can you call him off, please? I don’t want him biting a hole in my suit. This is Armani.”

I pat my hip. “Ziggy… Come over here.” I take the other strip of bacon off my plate. “Want more bacon?”

Graham doesn’t look thrilled about me feeding the dog the rest of my bacon, but he doesn’t say anything this time. He picks up the glass of strange dark red liquid and places it on the kitchen island in front of me.

I crinkle my nose. “What is that?”

“Pomegranate juice. You love it.”

“I do?”

“You have a big glass of it every morning, so I would say you do, yes.”

I look down at the red drink. It’s so… red. It looks like a big old glass of blood. I take a sniff of it—it smells sweet. It’s probably not blood. It’s probably actually pomegranate juice. Maybe it’s good. If I drink it every morning, I must like it. Graham is watching me, so I tilt the glass towards me and take a sip.

Ugh!

“I like this?” I cough, tempted to wipe my tongue with one of the napkins on the table. “This is terrible!”

“Usually you do,” he insists. “Honestly. You love this stuff—really love it. I have to buy a quart of it every week. Just… maybe you need another sip or two to get used to it.”

I love this stuff? He can’t be serious. But I guess he knows me better than I know myself.

I take another sip.

This time I outright gag. I leap out of my seat and run to the sink. I want to splash some water in my mouth, but the stupid sink has strange controls the same way as the shower did. I jab at one of the buttons and there’s a crunching sound—I think I just turned on the garbage disposal.

“Graham,” I gasp.

He leaps out of his seat to help me. He presses a button over the sink and cold water shoots out of the tap. He watches me with his brow furrowed as I splash water in my mouth. I feel ridiculous that I needed his help just to turn on the faucet, but it’s not my fault all of the water faucets in this household require a Ph.D. to operate.

“Tess, are you okay?”

“That’s the worst thing I ever tasted!” I take another handful of water and swish it around in my mouth, then spit it out. “I feel like I’m going to throw up.”

“You know, that stuff is expensive.” He sounds hurt by my reaction. “You usually finish the whole glass and want more. I have to make a special trip to buy it for you.”

“Oh.” Another flash of guilt. It must be hard for him to not know who I’m going to be and what I’m going to like on any given day. “I’m sorry.”

I look up at Graham, who is watching me with a concerned expression on his handsome features. He’s wringing his hands together. “You’re having a bad day today,” he acknowledges. “You’re not yourself.”

No kidding. I don’t even know who myself is anymore. “I’m okay.”

But that worried expression is still there. “Maybe we should go see the doctor. After the accident, they said that there’s a possibility the blood could re-accumulate in your brain. Maybe you need to have a CAT scan or…”

“No. No.” I swallow a bubble of fear in my chest. “I don’t want that.”

I hate doctors. So much.

When I was a kid, my mother was diagnosed with breast cancer. It was stage three when they caught it. I still remember her sitting me down on the sofa while I clutched my favorite doll, and she explained to me what cancer was. I was eight years old.

Soon after, she had surgery to remove the cancer, followed by chemotherapy and radiation. Lots of hospital visits, lots of doctors’ appointments. She spent months at the hospital with tubes coming out of every part of her and oxygen prongs in her nose. Whenever I asked about it, she would explain that the doctors were making her better.

But it didn’t seem like she was getting better. Every time I saw her, she was skinnier and the circles under her eyes were darker. It got to the point where I was scared to even visit her, because she didn’t look like my mother anymore. I figured I would wait until she was better—until she was her old self again.