“You said I was depressed?”
“That’s what the doctors believe.”
It’s time to ask a hard question—but it’s not as difficult as it would be if I felt anything for this man now. Still, he’s the father of my children.
I do find my heart yearning for them now that I know they’re there.
“Why didn’t you know?”
I’m looking at his real face now, and his eyes…there’s a glint of something, like I touched on a sensitive subject. I’m not sure. “Perhaps you don’t realize that I’m away from home for weeks, months at a time. And you had your own things going on. We hardly spent time together.”
Maybe that was why I was depressed—but I’m not going to say that out loud. If I’ve hurt this man, I don’t want to make it worse.
“Are…are the children okay?”
“They’re fine.”
“How old are they now?”
“Emma will be five in the fall. Ollie is three.”
“So they look different now. Do you have any new photos?”
He shakes his head. “Not with me.”
“Why didn’t you bring them with you to visit me today?” While I would have been shocked at first, I would love to hold and hug and kiss my children, see them playing, smiling. The picture is nice but in person would have been so much better.
“This is the first time in a long time you’ve been lucid, Anna. Our children don’t need to see that.”
“So where are they now?”
“We have an au pair who cares for the children when I’m not home.”
Oh. Another woman is caring for my children. I’ve abandoned them.
“When—when can I get out of here?”
Don arches an eyebrow, and I have a flash. I remember seeing that expression before. But instead of exploding like I expect, his voice remains cool and calm. “That’s up to the doctors.”
“Then I need to talk to them. Children need their mother.”
“Children need their mother alive, Anna. It’s going to take a lot for me to trust you with them.”
What is he saying? “Did I ever hurt them?”
“Not intentionally. But what if Emma had found you instead of me? An overdose is an ugly, ugly thing, and you could have scarred our children for life.”
Oh, God, I’m a monster. A horrible, selfish monster.
“And you said it was caused by depression?”
“That’s what they’ve told me.”
He extends his left arm and then bends it at the elbow to glance at the watch on his wrist. We’ve been here for quite some time, with spurts of silence and sentences, and I try to organize my thoughts. Before he leaves, what other questions do I have?
I want to ask him if we loved each other—but I don’t.
I want to ask him if my children remember me, ask about me, love me—but I can’t bring myself to do it.
I want to know so much more about myself, but I’m afraid my overloaded brain and heart can’t take anymore today.
But what brought me here? That I want and need to know right now.
“Do you know what might have made me depressed?”
“I’m no psychiatrist. But it’s your brain, Anna. It’s defective.”
Does that mean I’ll never get out of here?
The door behind me opens. This time, it’s a different tech, not Rose, and he asks, “Everything okay in here?”
Don’s voice, authoritative and commanding, reaches across the room. “I’ll need to talk with Dr. Wilson before I go.”
Maybe he’s going to get me out of here.
Then he shifts his eyes back to me. “I do have a schedule to keep. I’ll see you next time, Anna.”
“But I have so many other questions,” I say as he takes the photo from my hand.
The tech says, “Come on, Anna. You’ll get to see your husband again soon.”
I want to argue, but I know it won’t do me any good. “Please bring the children then. Please.”
Don gives me another short nod but says nothing.
I look at the tech. “Can they visit soon?”
“We can ask Dr. Wilson.”
I calm myself. Knowing my husband is going to arrange perhaps to get me out of here and, if nothing else, to bring my babies to see me soon helps me relax.
Should I say goodbye? Tell him I love him?
It all feels too foreign.
Instead, I say, “I’ll see you next time.”
Again, he nods and then sits back down as the tech guides me through the door.
After he closes it behind me, I hear the click of the lock, so I know I can’t just rush back in. And maybe it’s wrong, but now more than ever I want to see Joe, tell him everything.
Obviously, whatever’s been happening between us romantically must stop. Now. But he’s still my friend and maybe as a team we can put together this weird puzzle of my life. I feel more lost now than ever, but I need to prepare myself. This will likely happen again and again as I learn more information about my past. Not all of it will feel familiar or…right.
I walk in the rec room and stand just inside the doorway. I have no idea what my doctor looks like and maybe I can avoid some surprises in the future.
At least five minutes pass and, in that time, only one other patient has come through the door to the rec room. For that, I’m glad, because I don’t want anyone asking any questions. Another few minutes, though, and a middle-aged woman approaches the door to the waiting room. She’s wearing a light brown tweed suit and she lumbers through the hall as though her feet and back hurt. She’s a large woman and I can’t quite see her face but, from this angle, she appears defeated and irritable.
I hope Don can handle her all right.
As soon as she’s through the door, I leave the rec room. Joe and I have a lot to discuss.
15
Where is he?
I’ve checked my room and his. The living room. The rec room, of course. I’ve wandered the corridors.
It’s not like there are a lot of places to hide around here.
As I head toward the cafeteria, I find him in the hallway.
When he sees me, Joe asks, “How’d your visit go?”
The first words out of my mouth are “Did you know I was married? I mean am married. I’m married. Did you know that?”
“You’re married? No. How the hell would I know that?” His eyes shift to behind me and he lowers his voice. “Maybe we should have this conversation somewhere else.”
Ah, yes. I’d been so emotional, I wasn’t hiding anything—and, perhaps, I’m giving myself away once more.
I say, “Let’s go to my room.”
We round the corner, trying not to walk too quickly, and soon we’re standing next to my bed.
“So who was your visitor?”
“My husband.”
“And you had no idea.”
“No. I told you, Joe. I don’t remember anything before, um…Friday? And I have kids, too.”
“You’re shitting me.”
“Two. A boy and a girl.”
“Holy shit.”
I swallow. “You know what I felt like? I don’t know why the hell I remember this—but did you ever see someone pull out a tablecloth and all the dishes are still exactly the way they should be?”