“Okay,” I say, but it comes out distant and flat because in that moment I realize Bridgitte probably doesn’t remember breaking up with me. She doesn’t remember me leaving for Boston, lying to her and being a fucking prick.
The guilt I felt returns and I have no idea how to handle the situation. I could completely use the fact that Bridgitte doesn’t remember anything that occurred over the past few days to my advantage, fix our relationship and go on as if none of this ever happened.
But I won’t.
I need Bridgitte to know what’s been going on. I need to be honest with her and hope she can forgive me.
The nurse walks me down to Bridgitte’s room and stops outside before turning to me. She explains to me that Bridgitte is on some heavy painkillers and might be a bit out of it. She also tells me that she has very little memory of the accident or the days prior so I shouldn’t be alarmed if she doesn’t immediately recall simple events like why I was out of town or what day of the week it is. And I suddenly want to ask the nurse if Bridgitte referred to me as her fiancé, if she has any memory of what happened prior to me leaving for Boston, but I refrain.
The nurse quietly opens the door to the darkened space and I take a deep breath but it does nothing to calm my anxiety. How am I going to explain all of this to Bridgitte?
I can hear her slow and labored breathing as I walk into the otherwise silent room. Just hearing her breathing is relief all on its own. The room smells of antiseptic and the faint smell of Bridgitte comes through the closer I get to the bed.
I close my eyes and immediately I can picture her face, her blonde hair falling over me while we slept next to each other and the way it smelled like honey. And I hate myself.
I turn around and the nurse is gone. I was almost hoping she’d be here with me so I’d have an excuse to avoid the conversation I need to have with Bridgitte. Not that I think now is the perfect time to inform her I was on a trip to find a girl I fell in love with twelve years ago.
I pull a chair up next to the bed and sit down and for a moment I just watch her. Her face is bruised and her bottom lip is swollen and split. There are burn marks on her wrists and neck, and it takes everything in me not to start crying, because I know this isn’t even the worst of it. I can’t see what’s under her gown and I have no idea how much she remembers.
I lean forward and kiss her softly on her forehead and she stirs slightly. Her eyes begin to open slowly and when she sees my face a small smile appears on her lips.
“Elliot,” she mutters, her voice raspy and hoarse. She reaches out her hand and I take it in mine. “I lost my ring. My engagement ring,” she says, her eyes falling closed.
As soon as she says it, I can feel the tears form and before I know it, I’m crying. I feel so fucking horrible.
“I have your ring,” I assure her, but I know the story of why I do will do nothing to ease her anxiety over losing it.
“Why do you have my ring?” she mumbles, but this time her eyes open and she focuses on my face and even in the dark she knows something’s wrong. “Why are you crying?” she asks, but I can hear a hint of panic in her voice.
The pause between her question and my answer seems unusually long, like the words hang in the air, like they somehow get lost. But it’s the guilt and the fear and the disappointment that makes me cling to them, makes me not want to say them out loud.
“I have something to tell you.”
Chapter Seventeen
Bridgitte tries to sit up and winces in pain. Just seeing her like this breaks my heart. I should’ve never left. I had something great with Bridgitte and I let some stupid fucking idea of perfection ruin it all.
It’s over this time and I know it. I sacrificed everything I have with Bridgitte for nothing and now there’s the complete fucking chance that after I tell her everything she’ll never forgive me. At this point, it’s a chance I have to take. Bridgitte needs to know.
I stand up and help her lie back down, but now she’s crying and asking me what’s wrong. The panic in her voice is evident and I’m sure her confusion is even worse. From what I can tell, Bridgitte’s memory loss begins at least a week ago. I don’t even think she remembers I was in Boston, let alone that she broke up with me.
“Elliot,” I hear Bridgitte sob in the darkness of the room. “What is going on?”
“You were in an accident,” I tell her and I know it’s an excuse, a way to stall for time.
“I know that,” she says, a demand to her tone. “Something else is wrong.”
I sit silently for too long and the sound of her voice grows louder in the darkened room, echoing, nearly startling me.
“This is not the time for your fucking silence, Elliot,” Bridgitte practically screams through her sobs. “I have no idea what’s going on.” I watch the tears spill from her eyes and hear her suck in a few deep breaths, but the anger radiates from her body. She knows everything is wrong, all wrong.
I’m taken aback by her tone and the loudness of her voice, this is not common for her and I realize she’s more than just confused. I understand her fear and her anger, but I know what I’m about to tell her isn’t going to subside any of it.
“I’m sorry,” I say immediately following her demand, still unable to find the words to explain to her what is happening. I take a deep breath and without thinking about it anymore I begin to fill in the missing pieces for her including the piece that has been missing from the day we met.
Nora.
The words come out and they sound stupid as fuck. There couldn’t be a worse way to begin this conversation.
“This isn’t because of you, Bridgitte,” I say and she lets out a loud huff as if she already knows what I’m about to say and that it’s somehow a total lie.
It was never Bridgitte’s fault. It never had anything to do with her or our relationship. I wanted to blame her. I wanted her to be my excuse for why our relationship failed, but it’s not true. It just made me feel like less of an asshole or so I thought.
“Elliot,” Bridgitte says and there’s something about the way she says my name that’s detached and void of emotion. “Spare me the clichéd response.”
I understand she’s in pain and she’s confused, but rarely does Bridgitte respond so harshly and rightfully so, I think I deserve it.
I don’t stall any longer and I begin filling in the missing pieces for her. I start with our breakup, but it still leaves Bridgitte confused. She doesn’t understand how we went from being engaged and happy, shopping for a wedding cake to her walking out on me.
I leave out what a shithead I’ve been and how detached I became, as the wedding planning grew more intense. I fail to mention how she became consumed with the wedding rather than our relationship. She can see I’m leaving things out.
“What really happened, Elliot?” she asks
What I’ve told her would not lead to what has happened. None of this is her fault and so now, as I tell her what really happened, I place all the blame on myself.
“I met a girl,” I say and Bridgitte gasps out loud and begins to cry again. She thinks I cheated on her, and while I didn’t in the physical sense, I did in the emotional sense. I was never fully present in our relationship. There was always someone else.