“Are you going back in?”
“Of course I am. That’s my husband in there.” I just needed to get myself back in control.
Mace stares at me, his gaze settling on me for a moment, and seconds tick by before he speaks. “This is a fuckin’ mess, Vanna. What do you want to do about Cas?”
I have no idea. Borrow a two-year-old so I don’t upset him?
“He needs to know, Vanna.”
But I’ve been here before. Telling him facts when he didn’t want to hear them.
“It’s different this time,” Mace insists, clearly reading my expression.
But what’s changed? He didn’t accept the truth back then. How can I explain to a dad that this teenager is his and he’s no longer two years old? Would he be able to cope with the truth? That the reason I look different is that I’m twelve years older, and his hair is long as he now chooses to wear it that way.
“Talk to him, Vanna. Try and explain to him.”
“What if I fuck everything up? What if he collapses again?” What if he can’t handle what he’s being told?
“He won’t,” Mace says with certainty. “The tumour is gone. Hopefully this memory loss is only temporary. The doctor said the op may have some effects until the swelling goes down.”
“What if it’s like last time, Mace? What if he never remembers again? I think I need to talk to the doctor or someone…”
Mace leans in. “A fuckin’ therapist made you give up on him. Go with your gut instinct this time, Vanna. I’ll stay out of the way as I’m agitating him, but I won’t go far. We won’t be giving up on him, and I won’t listen to any fuckin’ therapist who tells me to stay away from my brother.”
I bite my lip. “You really think it’s the right thing to do?”
“Vanna, he’ll see you look older. The evidence is right in front of his eyes. You can’t rewind the clock, even if you wanted to. How else would you explain Cas?”
The door opens and the nurse comes out.
Mace turns to her. “He seems very confused.”
“It’s not unusual after this kind of surgery. I’m pleased with him actually, his eyesight, hearing, and speech check out which can all be initial problems after surgery. We’ll assess his mobility when he’s a little stronger.”
“Is it okay to talk to him? To bring him up-to-date with the years he’s forgotten?” I’m worried sick about setting him back.
“He may start remembering as you talk to him. It’s quite normal for someone to get muddled when they’ve undergone an operation like this and have difficulty placing names and faces. It’s certainly not unusual.”
I don’t think the nurse is right. That’s what I was told last time, give him time and he’ll remember. But they’d been wrong.
“What else can you do, Vanna?” Mace stares after the retreating nurse. His eyes appear to be on her ass. He turns back to me when she disappears around a corner. “Cas is going to want to see his dad.” He wipes his hand over his face. “Christ, but that kid has been through a lot. It’s going to hit him hard that his dad now remembers him, but only as a babe in arms.”
“A toddler,” I automatically correct. “Cas was eighteen months when Lizard went on his last tour. He’d all but completed six months when the bomb went off. Cas turned two while Lizard was still in the hospital.” I’d been too focused on keeping my husband alive to celebrate my son’s second birthday. Something I still feel guilty for.
“He’ll want you.” Mace gives me a prod to get me moving back into Lizard’s room.
I’m torn. Half of me longs to go back and talk to him, knowing he knows who I am. The other half knows our problems are far from over and wishes I could get into my car and put miles between us, but I can’t run from this. Pulling back my shoulders I step back inside.
“Vanna.” Lizard gives me a weak smile. “Come sit beside me.”
“How are you feeling?”
“The nurse gave me some shit instead of the morphine. The pain’s already easing. She said the weakness on my right side was normal. But fuck that.” His mouth twists. “What’s happened to me, Vanna? And you, your hair… I can’t get over it. How could it grow so long in six months?”
“You grew yours too. I like it.” I don’t know how to handle this.
His hand feels his straggly lengths, again pulling at it as if to prove it’s his. Then he frowns and snarls, “Tell me what the fuck’s gone on. How fuckin’ long have I been here if my hair’s grown out?”
“Shouldn’t you rest?” He’s only just come around from brain surgery, surely, he should rest for a bit? But in typical male fashion he dismisses my concern.
“I’m not waiting any longer. Tell me, Evangeline.”
When he uses my full name, I know he’s serious. I take his right hand and hold it tight, a liberty I never dreamed I’d be taking again and a feeling of rightness wars with the unease I’m feeling.
“You were hurt overseas.”
“Sort of guessed that.” He touches the bandage on his head with his left hand. “How bad, Vanna? Did it cause the tumour, or was that already in my head?”
“You were hurt badly. You sustained a traumatic brain injury. For a while it was touch and go, and we didn’t think you’d survive.”
“Christ.” He leans his head back and closes his eyes. “But I’m going to be okay, now? I feel so fuckin’ weak, Vanna.” His fingers twitch in my hand, but don’t tighten.
“You’re going to be fine, Lizard.” I put as much strength in my voice as I can.
“Worrying about me was how you got those lines on your face?” Now his fingers trace the etchings left by time. Again, with his left hand.
“Lizard. I don’t know how to tell you this.”
“Spit it out, babe. Get whatever it is off your chest. You said I was fine, but what the fuck is it? Am I going to die?”
I take a deep breath. “You’re not dying. But this, this isn’t the first time you’ve been in the hospital. It’s the second. This time you had a brain tumour, and they had to cut it out. It was benign, and they got it all. No need for more treatment, you’ve just got to recover, okay?”
His brow creases. “The second time?” When I nod, he continues, “I don’t remember being in the hospital before.”
“It was twelve years ago.” I tell him the worst.
He inhales sharply, and his brow creases in confusion. “No.”
“Yes.” I don’t know what to say. How to explain.
His eyes examine me again, his brow creasing. “What’s the fuckin’ date?” he rasps.
I take out my phone and show him.
Again, his head rests back, and he closes his eyes. “How the fuck did I lose twelve years? Have I been in a coma and just woken up?”
“No,” I choke. “You’ve been living a good and full life. You’re the manager of a tattoo parlour—”
“I got my dream job?” That seems to brighten him up. “It pays the bills then?”