Chapter 4 - MY HUSBAND’S FAMILY WANTED ME TO STOP ASKING QUESTIONS
Three days after I first opened my eyes, everyone began speaking around me as if consciousness were a room I might leave without warning.
Sometimes I did.
I would be awake.
Then there would be nothing.
Then a different nurse.
A different hour.
A different light outside the window.
My body did not belong to me yet.
My right hand obeyed occasionally.
My left arm felt far away.
My mouth knew words my muscles could not always deliver.
And there was a baby inside me.
That truth returned every morning like new information.
Pregnant.
Almost due.
My son.
Daniel’s son.
Our son.
I remembered wanting him.
I remembered two pink lines in our bathroom.
I remembered Daniel sitting on the floor and laughing.
Then everything after that was broken.
Rain.
Headlights.
Blue metal.
Fear.
Caleb.
Whenever I tried to reach further, pain spread behind my eyes.
Dr. Mahmoud told me not to force memory.
“Your brain is recovering.”
I hated him for saying recovering instead of recovered.
Then apologized with my eyes because he was kind.
Daniel sat beside me constantly.
My husband looked older.
Not eight months older.
Eight years.
He held my hand.
He cried when he thought I was asleep.
I heard him once.
That may have been worse.
On Friday, his parents came.
Malcolm and Diane Carter.
I saw them through the glass before they entered.
My pulse increased.
Not like Caleb.
But enough.
Daniel noticed.
“You don’t have to see them.”
I looked at him.
He understood the question.
“Dad wants to apologize for the first day.”
I whispered:
“Why?”
The word came rough.
Daniel smiled because it was a word.
Then remembered what I asked.
“For everything being overwhelming.”
Not an answer.
He had always done that.
Daniel hated direct conflict with his father.
He answered the safer question instead.
I looked toward the door.
“Okay.”
He let them in.
Diane reached me first.
She began crying.
“Oh, Emily.”
She touched my face.
I flinched.
She pulled back.
“I’m sorry.”
Malcolm stood behind her.
Tall.
Silver-haired.
Expensive navy jacket.
He had visited me after the accident.
I remembered none of it.
“Good to see those eyes open.”
My stomach tightened.
I tried to speak.
“Caleb.”
Diane’s face changed.
Malcolm did not.
“What about him?”
“Truck.”
Daniel moved beside me.
“Em, you don’t have to—”
I squeezed his hand hard.
Or tried.
“Blue.”
Malcolm exhaled.
“Daniel told us.”
I watched him.
“Police.”
“Are looking again.”
His eyes sharpened.
“That seems premature.”
My pulse rose.
Daniel said:
“Dad.”
“I am not dismissing Emily.”
Malcolm leaned forward.
“She has suffered a catastrophic brain injury.”
I hated the word catastrophic.
“Memory after trauma can be unreliable.”
Dr. Mahmoud had said something similar.
From him, it sounded clinical.
From Malcolm, it sounded useful.
I whispered:
“Caleb.”
Diane began crying harder.
Malcolm said:
“Caleb loved you.”
Loved.
Past tense though I was alive.
Something broke open in my memory.
Caleb in a driveway.
Angry.
A beer bottle.
Daniel saying:
Give me your keys.
Caleb laughing.
Then rain.
I gasped.
The monitor alarmed.
Daniel leaned toward me.
“Stop.”
I closed my eyes.
A nurse came.
Visitors out.
Malcolm argued.
The nurse did not care.
I liked her immediately.
Later, Daniel sat beside me.
“Emily.”
I looked at him.
“Do you remember Caleb drinking that night?”
My breathing changed.
One finger.
Yes.
Daniel went still.
“What night?”
I closed my eyes.
Images.
His parents’ house in Westlake.
Dinner.
Caleb drinking bourbon in the kitchen.
Malcolm saying he was fine.
Me taking keys from a counter.
Caleb calling me a self-righteous—
The memory disappeared.
I whispered:
“Dinner.”
Daniel stared.
“The family dinner?”
One finger.
“Before you crashed?”
Yes.
Daniel looked sick.
“I wasn’t there.”
I knew.
He had been in Dallas for an architecture presentation.
Was he?
Memory would not cooperate.
I whispered:
“Dad.”
“Your dad?”
I shook my finger.
His.
“Malcolm.”
Daniel leaned closer.
“What did Dad do?”
My head hurt.
I closed my eyes.
Then:
“Keys.”
Daniel’s face changed.
“What about keys?”
I could not find the sentence.
Malcolm handing Caleb something.
Blue Ford key fob.
Diane saying:
Richard—no, not Richard. Malcolm.
I corrected inside my head.
Malcolm saying:
He’s thirty-four years old.
I whispered:
“Gave.”
“Dad gave Caleb keys?”
One finger.
Daniel sat back.
“No.”
Not disbelief at me.
Disbelief at his father.
Then I remembered another thing.
After I left the Carter house, my phone rang.
Daniel.
I answered through the car speaker.
He was angry.
Not at me.
Maybe.
His voice:
Why would you take his keys?
Because he’s drunk.
He says he’s fine.
He always says he’s fine.
Emily, don’t turn this into—
Pain exploded.
I cried out.
Daniel grabbed the nurse call.
“What?”
He was terrified.
I stared at him.
“Call.”
“What call?”
“You.”
His face drained.
“Emily, stop.”
“Called.”
He looked away.
There.
Something.
I tried again.
“You… Caleb.”
Daniel’s hand went cold in mine.
“What do you remember?”
I stared.
He did not ask what happened.
He asked what I remembered.
Different.
Very different.
Before I could answer, Dr. Shah entered.
“Emily, we need to talk about delivery.”
My son’s heart rate had shown intermittent decelerations.
Nothing catastrophic.
But enough.
The medical team recommended cesarean within forty-eight hours rather than waiting.
Daniel immediately turned toward the doctor.
“What does Emily want?”
The question surprised me.
Everyone looked at me.
My decision.
I almost cried.
Dr. Shah explained slowly.
Risks.
Anesthesia.
Baby.
My neurologic condition.
I listened.
Then held up one finger when she asked whether I agreed.
Daniel kissed my hand.
That night, after he thought I slept, I heard him in the hallway.
Talking to Malcolm.
His voice low.
“I think she remembers the phone call.”
Silence.
Then Daniel:
“I know what I promised.”
My eyes opened.
May you like
I stared at the dark ceiling.
What promise?
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