Last Summer(4)

She remembers their meal clearly. Damien arrived home from work, tie loosened, with a fitted dress shirt that showed off the muscles in his shoulders and lean hips. From the kitchen, she could hear him walk through his Honey, I’m home routine. He hung up his coat on the rack by the door, dropped his biometric briefcase on the floor, and shuffled through the mail Ella had left on the side table. He then joined her in the kitchen. She felt his breath on the back of her neck before his arms wrapped around her waist. It sent an intimate ripple of warmth through her. He kissed her shoulder, rubbing his nose along the curve of her neck. Her skin tightened, tingling in anticipation of what might come next. She’s always been so responsive to his touch.

“You smell good.” He rested his chin on her shoulder. “Dinner smells good. You’re cooking.” He sounded amazed.

“I’m trying.” She wasn’t a fan of cooking. Neither was Damien. But there were three things they did exceptionally well in their kitchen: brew coffee, make screwdrivers, and screw. Since the day they met, they’ve always eaten out or ordered in. But Ella had grown weary of take-out dinners and remembered she’d wanted to start cooking more often. They had a beautiful gourmet kitchen. Why not use it? Why not be more like a family?

The memory stalls.

Family.

Maybe she wanted to practice cooking since she had a baby on the way. Damien had something urgent to tell her.

We need to talk.

About what?

“When was the dinner?” Dr. Allington asks, looking from her to Damien.

Who cares when the dinner was? Isn’t what her husband had to tell her more important? She wishes she could remember what it was.

“Last week,” Damien answers when she can’t. “The evening of Ella’s accident.”

Dr. Allington tucks his tablet under folded arms. “Are you pregnant in this memory, Ella?”

“I don’t know.”

“Think back. How do you see yourself?”

Ella focuses inward. She can feel her shoulder blades pressing into Damien’s chest. His hands are on her stomach. She looks down, and when she does, the area blurs, much like an image that a photographer has touched up to obscure the subject’s identity.

“Are you pregnant?” he asks again, more gently.

“I can’t tell. I sense something’s there.” But she can’t see it, and she feels no emotions for what could be there, growing inside her.

Damien shakes his head and turns back to the window. He keeps his back to the room. A dismissal of her or her condition? She wishes she knew.

Dr. Allington needs to leave so that she can have time alone with her husband. It’s been chaotic since he paged the nurse and left to get the doctor. That was several hours ago. Damien doesn’t believe her. As much as it disheartens her not to have Damien’s trust, she didn’t believe him either. It took Nurse Jillian showing Ella her medical charts before Ella could accept she’d been pregnant and miscarried.

“Poor dear,” the nurse cooed, adjusting Ella’s pillows and checking her stats. “I don’t blame you for forgetting. After what you’ve been through and the ruckus yesterday your guest caused, I’d want to forget, too. Margaret—she’s the head nurse on this floor, in case you don’t remember—she was right to call security. Your husband, though, we couldn’t get him to leave until you calmed down. You were crying something fierce. We gave you a sedative and you finally relaxed. That wonderful man of yours talked to you and held your hand through most of the night. I know I shouldn’t have been watching, but I couldn’t help it. He’s a keeper, and so good looking.” She winked at Ella and patted her arm. “Dr. Allington will be here shortly.” Jillian left the room, leaving Ella even more confused than before.

Damien turns around, hands on hips. “What’s your diagnosis, doctor?”

“Selective memory loss, given recent events and judging by the partial memory recollection. You have recent memories that you can’t recall in their entirety,” he clarifies, addressing Ella. “Losing a baby twenty-one weeks into your term is quite traumatic.”

“Twenty-one weeks?” Ella says, incredulous. For five months she and Damien would have shared the joy of starting a family. It’s inconceivable. Them. Parents.

“Will I get my memories back?” she asks the doctor.

“More than likely. Give it time.” Dr. Allington pushes his glasses so they sit more securely on his nose. “Our minds can be sneaky. They’ll plant false memories when we can’t make sense of something and bury others when we can’t deal. Your memories are there, but for whatever reason, you can’t retrieve them.”

“This happened almost a week after my accident. Why now?”

“It’s probable your memory loss is motivated.”

“She did this on purpose,” Damien states.

“Subconsciously, yes. How was she this week? Emotionally speaking.”

“Emotional.” Damien moves closer to her. “Depressed. Devastated. We both are.”

Dr. Allington brings up Ella’s records again. “I see Dr. Noriega has you scheduled for release tomorrow. I’m going to recommend that you go home and rest, and then you should see a psychiatrist. In fact”—he waves the stylus at Damien—“you should both go.”