Page 76 of Parrish

A hand cups my shoulder and I force my eyes open, turning my head to see Wolf and Pipe at my side with concern etched across their rugged faces.

“It’s alright, brother,” Pipe consoles. “Do I need to remind you of all the things she’s survived? Your woman prevails just like you.”

“I understand this is very difficult for you, Mr. Parrish,” the doctor interjects, pulling my attention away from Pipe.

“Difficult,” I repeat. “You think this is difficult?” I scoff. “She doesn’t remember me. My wife, the woman I’ve spent the last ten years of my life loving, the mother of my child…she doesn’t fucking remember me or our son.”

The son of a bitch standing before me looks at me with pity and makes me feel like a fucking pussy. Just as he’s about to offer me his apologies the rest of his colleagues step out of Reina’s room. The doctor who followed me out of the room steps aside and the one who stayed behind to question Reina steps forward. My eyes dart to the name badge clipped to his scrubs and I identify him as a Dr. Peters, the head of the neurology department.

“Mr. Parrish, after examining Mrs. Parrish briefly, it appears as though she has no recollection of the accident or the last ten years. Her last memory is trying to escape a fire which leads me in my diagnosis that Mrs. Parrish has traumatic amnesia. It’s very common in patients who have suffered a hard blow to the head and brief loss of consciousness. The good news is, amnesia is usually temporary in cases like this. We can’t determine how long it will last and, in most cases, it resolves on its own without treatment.”

“And if doesn’t resolve itself? Is there medication we can give her? How do we make her remember? How do I give her back the last ten years?”

It isn’t lost on me that she’s completely blocked me from her mind. If what the doctor says is true, that this is caused by trauma, then I’m the poison she’s trying to forget. I’m the trauma plaguing her not some fucking crash.

Me.

Just me.

“Unfortunately, there’s no medication available,” Peters says, closing her chart and shoving it under his arm. “I’m going to order another scan to double check for any damage but other than that, all we can do is give her time. Family support is what will heal her. Showing her old photographs, sharing your memories with her—something will hopefully click and bring everything back. You have to be patient with her and eventually, the memories will begin to resurface. Is there someone familiar, perhaps someone who has been around since before the fire that she might recognize?”

I shake my head.

“I’m all she has,” I rasp.

She was a lonely woman who hid behind the pain of losing Daniel and surviving that fire. She closed herself from the world until I stormed into her life and demanded more from her.

“Everyone she knows is an extension of me and our life together,” I add, forcing my eyes back to his.

“Very well,” he says solemnly. “I’ve called in a grief counselor to help her come to terms with your brother’s death.”

“Wait a minute,” I say, lifting my hands to rub my temples. “A grief counselor? Are you saying she’s going to relive his death, that she’s mourning him all over again?”

As I ask the question my phone rings. Without peeling my eyes away from the doctor, I reach into my pocket to silence it. Noticing it’s Scout from the Charon MC again, I forward the call to voicemail and clutch the phone in my fist.

“Well?” I probe, raising an eyebrow. “You going to answer my goddamn question or not?”

“It’s possible,” he replies. “She’s very hostile right now and confused. We’ve given her something to calm her down and when she awakes, we’ll try to get a clearer picture of her mindset. All we can do is be patient and trust the process.”

“Fuck the process,” I hiss as the phone rings again. This time I let the anger flooding my veins take over my actions and I throw the phone.

“Jesus Christ,” Pipe mutters as it crashes against the wall.

At least the fucking thing is silent.

Which is a lot more than I can say about my fucking head that decides to remind me of Reina’s words the night before the accident…

I’m mourning my husband and he’s standing right in front of me. Do you have any idea how that feels?

I didn’t that night but I sure as fuck have an idea of how it feels now. It’s a debilitating pain that sears through your flesh and splinters your bones. It shatters your soul and dissolves your heart to dust. It fucking wrecks you and makes you wish you were dead.

“That attitude won’t help your wife’s situation,” Dr. Peters scolds. “If you want her to remember you and your life together, you’re going to need to support her recovery and that means giving her time to heal. A patient hand goes a long way, Mr. Parrish. You’re a stranger to her. Someone she doesn’t know she can trust. You need to make her feel comfortable with you. Once she feels safe with you, she will be able to explore your life together. What you need to do is make your wife want to remember you.”

Doubt fills me as he finishes that last sentence.

Make your wife want to remember you.

In a perfect world, I’d be able to do just that. After all, doesn’t every arrogant bastard love a challenge? I’d go back to the beginning and tell her about all the beauty she’s brought to my dark work. All the light she’s shed on me. I’d take her on a ride she’d never forget. She’d fall in love with me all over again. But we don’t live in a perfect world. We live in a world full of gloom. Where mental illness and tragedy are the leads in the script. A world only Satan can survive.

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