Total pages in book: 167
Estimated words: 157175 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 786(@200wpm)___ 629(@250wpm)___ 524(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 157175 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 786(@200wpm)___ 629(@250wpm)___ 524(@300wpm)
I close my eyes, trying to allow all the information to sink in. ‘What are you saying, doctor?’ I ask outright.
‘I’m saying your wife has lost the last sixteen years of her life.’
‘What?’ I swing around to face him. ‘That’s me. All of me, all of our time together. Are you telling me she won’t remember any of it? Nothing?’
‘The majority of patients who suffer from amnesia as a result of trauma will recover fully. How long that recovery takes depends on so much – the severity of the injury, the patient’s frame of mind, their short-term and long-term memory.’
‘The majority of patients?’ I ask, homing in on that part and that part alone.
‘Ava is a young, healthy woman, Mr Ward. The odds are in her favour.’
‘And if she doesn’t fully recover?’
‘The memories remain lost,’ he says bluntly, making me wince.
The kids’ lives to this point. Me. She’ll lose it all? ‘What about medication?’
‘There is no physical or mental disorder present, Mr Ward. She doesn’t need medication. What she needs is her family to help her retrieve her lost memories. To support her. There are many therapy options we can consider, such as cognitive behavioural therapy, EMDR, energy psychology, neurofeedback, and maybe even hypnosis.’
His spew of words means nothing to me. I’m lost in this crazy. ‘She doesn’t even know who I am,’ I grate. ‘What am I supposed to do? Just take her home and hope she’ll suddenly remember me?’
‘It’s all you can do, Mr Ward. That, and support her in any therapy sessions we decide to try in order to help.’ He takes the door handle, smiling mildly. ‘Ava realises that she’s forgotten things. That’ll be both frustrating and upsetting, especially where her children are concerned. She might have issues with short-term memory, too, and daily life will take its toll. You need to be strong, Mr Ward. You need to help her try to remember.’
‘I don’t think a Reminder Fuck is going to suffice right now,’ I mumble.
‘Pardon?’ The doctor looks at me like I might be going doolally. He could be right.
I shake my head and try to take in what he’s said. Help her. Help her try to find the endless memories we share. I stand up straight and pull my shoulders back, a physical act of determination that I’m trying so hard to back up with mental determination. I can do this. I have to do this. There’s no way I’m going to allow our history to slip away like it never happened. No way. I’ll do anything.
‘I’ll do whatever it takes.’ I nod to myself and make my way to the door, passing the doctor without another word, now full to the brim with the mental determination I was missing only a moment ago. There’s only one way to approach this. Gently. Patiently. Sensitively. Softly-softly. I blow out a breath, laughing at myself. Good God, this is going to be a battle like no other.
Chapter 8
As I approach her room, Ava is sitting up a little in the bed, her fingers twiddling with the thin white sheets. The wound on her head has been redressed, the bandage stark white against her dark hair. Her face is full of concentration, her eyes squinting every now and then. She’s trying to remember, and it breaks my fucking heart to see it. It also renews my resolve. I’ll die before I let her memories turn to dust.
I rap softly on the open door, prompting Ava to look up quickly. She winces, bringing her hand to the back of her neck and rubbing. I’m across the room like a bullet, forgetting everything gently-gently. ‘For fuck’s sake, Ava, be careful!’ I stop abruptly a few feet from her bed when she recoils, looking at me with wide, shocked eyes.
Oh shit. Too much? Every instinct is telling me to rub her neck for her, to chastise her for not taking care of herself and chastise her more when her inevitable feistiness kicks in.
But instead, and it fucking kills me, I back up, giving her a little space. ‘You should be careful,’ I say, an air of awkwardness already drenching the small room, and I’ve not even introduced myself.
Introduced myself? Do I need to do that? I frown at my feet, wondering what the fucking hell to say. Oh hi, nice to meet you. I’m your husband. You call me the Lord. I’m a crazy, challenging, unreasonable pain in your arse; I’m possessive, I trample all over the place – your words, not mine – but by some fucking miracle, you love me nonetheless. We have sex. Lots of it, and you humour my need to have you wearing lace every day. Oh, did I mention that I owned a sex club one time? The Manor. It’s now some swanky golf complex. We fell in love fast. Well, I did. You played hard to get. So I stalked you until you relented, because I knew there was something there. We just . . . we made so much fucking sense, but then my crazy past started to get in the way, and I thought it would be a good idea to try to hide it all from you. Oh, and I forgot one of the main points. I’m a recovering alcoholic. Before I met you, I drank and I fucked many women. That was my life. We’ve had some pretty shitty times, but the good far outweighed the bad, and you stuck by me through it all. I really don’t deserve you, but you stayed with me despite all of my sins, and to top it all off, you gave me my babies. Two perfect babies. Did I mention I was married before you? No? Well, I was. I also had a little girl, but I lost her . . .