The Forgetting(12)
The shrill demand of a telephone clamours in the muted air. Stephen glances at the screen of his mobile, then back at me. ‘I’m really sorry. I have to take this. I won’t be long.’ He does not wait for a reply before hurrying out of the ward. I watch him go, through the glass window, pressing the phone to his ear as he heads along the corridor and out of sight.
I close my eyes, think about all Stephen has relayed, hoping that if I concentrate enough on the details he has told me – about the evening we met at a piano recital at Wigmore Hall, about the floor-length silk dress I wore on our wedding day, about our honeymoon in Florence – I may begin to remember for myself. But my mind is like a black hole into which every personal memory has been sucked and I cannot imagine when or how they might be retrieved. I think about Stephen, about how patient he is being with all my questions, and there is a moment’s panic about whether he will stick by me in sickness and in health.
‘Anna?’
Opening my eyes, I find the doctor from this morning’s rounds standing by my bed.
‘How are you feeling?’
It is the standard question, one which should be easy to answer. But when I search for words to describe my state of mind, I find only a convenient platitude. ‘Okay, I think.’
‘Good. As you know, the scans on your brain have been clear, so medically you’re fine. I know there are still some issues with your memory, and it might take a few days or even weeks for that to be fully restored. But I don’t want to keep you here any longer than necessary, and I suspect that getting back home will aid your recovery much better than staying here. The best place for you right now is in familiar surroundings.’
There is an ellipsis at the end of his sentence, but I hear the unspoken words anyway. ‘You’re sending me home?’
The doctor nods, smiles, as though he is the emissary of good news. ‘There are a few final tests I want to run, which might not happen until later today, but we should be good to send you home in the morning.’
Panic flutters in my chest. I am not yet ready to go home. I don’t even know where home is. The only world I know is here, inside the hospital, and I do not want to leave.
Stephen walks back into the ward, anxiety flitting across his eyes when he notices the doctor beside my bed. ‘Is everything okay?’ His cheeks are flushed, his voice slightly breathless.
‘I was just giving Anna the good news that she can go home tomorrow.’
I see my own panic reflected in Stephen’s face and it dawns on me that the prospect of my homecoming must be equally unnerving for him. Yesterday morning he had a wife who could remember the dress she wore on her wedding day. Today he is married to someone who doesn’t know how old her husband is or when they will be celebrating his next birthday.
‘So soon? Are you sure she’s ready?’
The doctor appears not to hear the doubt in Stephen’s voice, or perhaps chooses to ignore it. ‘Absolutely. The best place for Anna now is at home.’
The doctor continues, advising on what I should expect over the coming days: the importance of rest, the avoidance of sport, the need to refrain from driving a car, and I realise I have no idea whether I even have a licence. Looking down at my charts, he informs me not to drink alcohol or take drugs, suggests limiting time spent on computers, tells me I should expect the headaches to continue for a few days at least, possibly longer, and to manage them with regular painkillers. His monologue is so well rehearsed there is no space between his words for me to know what questions I want to ask, let alone voice them.
The doctor pulls some leaflets from a beige cardboard folder, hands them to me. ‘There’s a lot of information here about recovering from a head injury and what to expect over the coming days and weeks. And there are details of various organisations who can help. I’ve put in an urgent referral for a short course of therapy to aid with your memory loss and deal with any issues that may arise from the amnesia.’
‘Do you really think that’ll be necessary?’ Concern bleeds through Stephen’s voice. ‘Yesterday the doctor told us the amnesia would probably only last a few hours.’
The doctor holds Stephen’s gaze for a few seconds before turning back to me. ‘To be honest, waiting lists for therapeutic services are pretty horrendous at the moment. It may well be that your memory is fully restored before the first appointment comes through, but at least we’ve got you in the system in case you need it.’ Pulling back the cuff of his sleeve, he glances at his watch. ‘I’m sorry, I need to get going. Any more questions, don’t hesitate to ask one of the nurses. But you’re doing really well, Anna.’ He pats my arm and offers a reassuring smile before turning and walking away.
Stephen moves into the space where the doctor had been, lowers himself onto the edge of the bed. ‘It’s great that you’re well enough to come home.’ He does not sound convinced, or perhaps I am projecting my own anxieties onto him. ‘But if I’m going to take tomorrow off work to collect you, I’m afraid I’ll need to crack on with a few things this afternoon.’
I pull the stiff, white bed sheet high across my chest. ‘Of course. I’m sorry. I don’t want to make you miss work.’
‘Don’t be silly. It’s fine. But there’s just some stuff I’ll need to get done today if I’m not going in tomorrow. I’ll talk to the nurses, find out what time I can take you home.’ He places a hand against the side of my face, leans forward, kisses my forehead. His stubble is rough against my skin, somewhere between a prickle and a scratch. It is the most intimate interaction we’ve had since the accident and my whole body stiffens in response. I’m certain Stephen must be able to feel the tension in my muscles, the rigidity of my limbs. I want to apologise, tell him that I don’t mean it, that it just all feels so new.