The ceiling tiles have become my best friends over the past few days. I've counted them 47 times, memorized every water stain, and given names to the particularly interesting ones. Margaret in the corner is my favorite, she looks like Charmander if you squint hard enough.
"You really are so lucky to have survived that crash," Dr. Patel says, flipping through my chart with practiced efficiency. "If you hit your head any harder, you'd have either died or become a vegetable."
Emily stiffens beside me, her spine straightening like someone ran an electric current through it.
"Doctor," she says, her lawyer voice making an appearance, "I’d prefer you don’t just casually say 'vegetable' like that to my husband."
Dr. Patel blinks, clearly caught off guard. "I apologize, Mrs. Brooks. What I meant was that Mr. Brooks could have suffered severe cognitive impairment requiring permanent care."
I almost laugh at how quickly he switches to medical jargon. Emily seems to have that effect on people.
"Much better," Emily says with a thin smile, her hand finding mine on the hospital bed. Her grip is tight, possessive. It's been like this since I woke up, her constant presence, her touches that seem both tender and territorial.
"So, Doc," I say, trying to shift the conversation, "any idea when my memories might come back?"
Dr. Patel's expression doesn't inspire confidence. "Retrograde amnesia is unpredictable, Mr. Brooks. Some patients recover their memories within days, others weeks or months." He pauses, adjusting his glasses. "And in some cases..."
"They never come back," I finish for him.
"It's a possibility we should acknowledge," he confirms.
Emily's hand squeezes mine, and I look over to find her gazing at me with an expression that's meant to be reassuring. But there's something else there, a subtle gleam in her eyes that makes me wonder if she's not entirely devastated by my condition.
"It'll be fun though, won't it?" she says softly, her thumb tracing circles on my hand. "Getting to fall in love all over again."
I consider this for a moment. It's an oddly romantic way to look at brain damage.
"I guess, but..." I hesitate, searching her face. "Aren't you sad that I lost all our good memories? Our wedding, our first date, all of that?"
Something flickers across Emily's face, brief but unmistakable, like I've accidentally reminded her of things she'd rather not revisit. But it's gone in an instant, replaced by a practiced smile.
"Of course it's sad, Charles," she says, her voice taking on that precise, measured tone I'm starting to recognize. "But dwelling on a past that's forgotten seems beneath us, don't you think? We should focus on moving forward."
Her words are warm, but her delivery is almost clinical, detached in a way that feels jarring given the circumstances. Is this just how she processes difficult emotions?
I can't help but laugh, though there's little humor in it. "If this were reversed. If my stunning wife suddenly forgot everything about me. I don't know. I think I'd be gutted. Heartbroken."
Emily's cheeks flush a deep pink, and her eyes soften as she looks at me.
"Stunning, huh?" she murmurs, focusing on that single word like it's the most precious gift I could have given her.
"Is that all you heard from what I just said?" I ask, shaking my head slightly.
Emily helps me sit up, her hands gentle but firm on my shoulders. I swing my legs off the bed, wincing as my ribs protest the movement.
"Would you rather I don't appreciate your compliments?" she asks, her voice teasing but with an underlying note I can't quite place.
I laugh a little, despite the pain. "You blush really easily. Has anyone ever told you that?"
Her cheeks darken even more, and she sighs, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.
"So, Dr. Patel," Emily says, abruptly changing the subject. “We're good to leave now, correct? Charles seems more than ready to get out of here."
Dr. Patel flips through more paperwork, nodding as he reviews the charts. "Yes, I believe so. Everything seems to be healing properly. The bruised ribs are coming along nicely, and the brain scans aren't showing any swelling, which is excellent news."
"Finally," I mutter, already imagining how good it'll feel to sleep in a real bed. Though I realize with a jolt that I have no idea what our bed looks like. Or our bedroom. Or our entire home, for that matter.
"I've already packed your things," Emily says, gesturing to a small duffel bag by the door. "And the discharge papers are ready at the nurses' station."
Dr. Patel hands me a prescription. "Pain medication for the ribs. Take it only as needed, and call if you experience any unusual symptoms, severe headaches, vision changes, confusion worse than your current memory issues."
Emily takes the prescription from my hand, folding it carefully and tucking it into her purse. "I'll make sure he follows all instructions to the letter."
"I'm sure you will, Mrs. Brooks," Dr. Patel says with a knowing smile. "Charles is lucky to have such an attentive wife."
There's something in the way he says it that makes me wonder if Emily has been more than just attentive during my stay. The kind of attentive that makes hospital staff walk on eggshells.
"Do I need to sign anything?" I ask, trying to stand up straight despite the ache in my side.
"I've already taken care of all the paperwork," Emily says, placing a steadying hand on my arm.
"Right," I say, fighting the strange feeling that I'm being managed rather than helped. "Let's go home, then."