Czytaj książkę: «The Memories of Us: The best feel-good romance to take with you on your summer holidays in 2018»

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Acknowledgements

About the Author

About the Publisher

PROLOGUE

We have been arguing for six minutes. Blake switches off the radio. We never travel with the radio off. Unless we are arguing of course, something we hardly ever do. He takes one hand from the steering wheel, flicks open a tin of mints with his thumb, tilts back his head and lets one fall into his mouth. He crunches it between his teeth before swallowing. He doesn’t offer me one like he usually does. I sink deeper into my seat and stare at the tin lying in the console between us. The car seems quieter than it did before.

‘How are we going to handle this, Gracie? What do you want to do?’ he says finally, the sharp scent of mint permeating the space between us. His brow creases in a way that makes me want to reach over and smooth it out. Make things better. Only now would be a terrible time to do that. I check my watch. Another eight minutes and we’ll be off the freeway and at the restaurant. We’re already late. We are never late. Except for today because we are arguing and the radio is turned off and I don’t know how I’m going to tell my fiancé the truth.

‘I don’t know,’ I say through gritted teeth. Only I do know. And it’s going to throw our lives into total disarray.

‘You don’t know?’ he says, tossing me a glance. He resets the cruise control, lets his window down, and undoes the button on his collar. A rush of cold air enters the car.

‘Can you put the window up?’ I say, the annoyance in my voice evident as I try to hold my hair in place.

He presses the window switch and looks over at me. ‘If you don’t know what you want, then how should I know?’

‘Keep your eyes on the road. Let’s talk about it later. I don’t want to ruin Scarlett’s birthday.’ I clasp the flowers I’m holding for my best friend closer to my chest, a classic spray of creamy white Claire Austin roses, the same blooms I manage to source for her every year.

‘Don’t change the subject,’ he says. ‘You were the one who brought this up, and I think it’s time we work out once and for all how we want things to go. So, let me ask you again so we can put this to bed—’

Deep breaths, Gracie. Deep breaths.

There will never be a perfect time to tell him how I’m feeling. I fumble with my engagement ring and form the words I’ve been too afraid to admit out loud. ‘Okay, so if you want to know the truth, I don’t want to m—’

The sound of Blake slamming the brakes robs the breath from my chest and seals our fate. We slide towards the truck that’s pulled out in front of us on the freeway and then we are spinning into a lane we shouldn’t be in. Blake calls my name. He sees what’s coming before me. I scream. Two dozen flower stems lurch from the safe crevice of my arm. They hit the dashboard before I do, the force of the impact showering the car with petals as I’m tossed in one direction and then the other.

And then, the world goes silent.

ONE

When I open my eyes, the first thing I notice are the dinner-plate dahlias on the table at the foot of my bed. They’re café au laits. They struggle in cold soil and you plant the tubers when the soil temperature picks up and there’s no more risk of frost.

My eyes flutter closed again. I can’t seem to form any words to answer the woman who is patting my thigh. She keeps squeezing my hand, repeating the name, ‘Gracie.’

‘Open your eyes, Gracie. Can you hear me, Gracie?’

I want to tell her she’s in the wrong room, that she has the wrong person, but I can’t seem to find the energy to.

She squeezes my hand once more.

This time I find the strength to squeeze back.

‘Good girl. Open your eyes now, sweetheart.’

I hear footsteps. A male voice. Hushed whispers. Pages flicking. A pen clicking. There is beeping that I hadn’t noticed till now, and a steady hum. The room smells sterile. I open my eyes and the room slowly comes into focus. My eyelids feel so heavy.

The woman is wearing a blue shirt with white trim around the collar and her name badge tells me she’s a nurse. Her name is Bea. Which means the man standing beside her with a stethoscope around his neck is a … doctor. Which means I’m in a … hospital.

‘Hello, Gracie, I’m Dr Cleave. How’s that head of yours feeling?’

My arm feels like lead, but I manage to lift it and run my fingers over the bandage that’s wrapped around my head. Did I fall? I must have fallen. But when? Where? My heart starts to beat faster. Bea glances at the monitor by my bed and adjusts the pulse oximeter on my finger.

‘Gracie,’ I whisper, repeating the name that doesn’t seem to fit me. I search for another name for myself, but nothing comes.

Dr Cleave narrows his eyes, appearing slightly concerned.

‘Can you tell me your full name?’ he asks.

I take a moment to think about it, but there is blankness in that space where my name should be.

‘Not to worry,’ says Dr Cleave, after an abnormally long silence, which makes me worry more.

‘How did I … get here?’ I can’t seem to remember yesterday, or last month, or last year.

‘You’re in the hospital. You were in a car accident and you’ve been intubated in the ICU for three days. You’re going to feel a little tired, but that’s to be expected,’ he says.

I try to sit up, but it requires too much effort and I collapse back into the pillows. Everything in my body aches.

‘Take it easy, sweetheart,’ says Bea, resting a hand on my shoulder. She readjusts the hospital gown so it covers my collarbone. ‘Are you warm enough?’ she asks, rubbing my forearm. I’m not, yet I nod anyway.

My mouth feels dry. I go to speak, but only a croak comes out. I try again. ‘Car accident?’ I say, looking at the doctor.

‘That’s right. You hit your head and you’ve got a few bumps and bruises. You’re going to be fine, though. Are you in pain?’

I pat the bandage.

‘Let me get onto that for you,’ says Bea. She leaves the room and Dr Cleave moves closer. He fiddles with the stethoscope around his neck.

‘By any chance, do you remember anything about the accident?’ he asks casually.

I frown, trying to summon my past, but it’s like reaching into a vast crater. There’s nothing to remember.

‘No. Nothing,’ I reply.

‘That’s okay,’ he says in a voice so reassuring, I almost believe him. He pulls a torch from his coat pocket and shines it into my eyes. I wish he wouldn’t do that. ‘Now, I’m sure you’re wondering about Blake. He was pretty lucky to come out of the accident with only a few stitches and contusions.’ He clicks off the light and tucks it away. I blink, trying to regain focus.

There’s a knock on the door and a woman enters the room. I can tell she’s not a nurse because she’s wearing a tailored red coat, a felted wool beret and is carrying an umbrella. Her bow-shaped lips form a smile when she sees me.

‘Gracie,’ she says, relief in her voice. She hovers in the doorway, seemingly unsure of whether to stay or go.

‘Come in,’ says Dr Cleave.

‘I’m Scarlett,’ she introduces herself to him. ‘Did she just wake up?’ She removes the beret from her head, letting a mass of caramel-coloured curls fall around her shoulders.

Dr Cleave nods. ‘I need to ask her a few questions.’

‘Should I come back later?’ She points to the door.

‘No need, I’ll be done soon,’ says Dr Cleave, glancing over my chart.

I can’t stop staring at the woman—Scarlett, who is now sitting beside the bed and holding my hand. I think I am supposed to know who she is. She obviously knows me. Why don’t I know her?

Dr Cleave slides out a pencil from behind his ear. ‘I’m going to ask you a few more questions, but I don’t want you to worry if you can’t answer them all, okay?’

I swallow nervously and nod, feeling the colour drain from my face.

‘Can you tell me when your birthday is?’

December? No. March. September? I look up at the ceiling, my eyes darting left and right. Surely I must know the answer. Why don’t I know the answer?

‘Gracie?’ says Dr Cleave, trying to grab my attention.

‘I … uh, I don’t know.’

How can I not know my birthday? What month are we even in now? It’s raining outside. Scarlett is wearing a coat. Okay, it must be winter. I was in a car accident. I hit my head. I’m in the hospital. My name is … Gracie.

‘How about your address?’

Oh God, I don’t know my address, either.

I stare blankly at him. I want to tell him but can’t. It’s on the tip of my tongue, and then … it’s not. And I can’t tell if it’s slipped away or if it was never there in the first place. I glance at Scarlett, who is in the chair near my bed, her mouth ajar. She closes it when her eyes meet mine and resumes fumbling with the hat on her lap.

Dr Cleave continues. ‘Favourite colour?’

I shrug. ‘Purple?’ My voice is barely audible.

He looks at me over his glasses before pushing them up his nose. ‘Really?’

‘Pink?’ I say, feeling hopeless.

I squeeze my eyes closed for a second as I draw a long, deep breath. My mind starts to scramble, attempting to search for a recollection of the past, but it’s as if my life is like an empty container. I shake it, turn it upside down, except nothing comes out.

Dr Cleave pats my leg. ‘I think that’s enough for now. I don’t want you to worry,’ he says, but I can’t help noticing the way he’s scribbling down notes. ‘It’s normal for you to feel a bit disorientated like this. I’m going to order a few more tests.’

‘Tests?’

‘I’m going to order a neuropsych assessment and maybe a couple of scans. You had a significant blow to the head, and while I don’t think we have anything to be too concerned about, I’d still like to double-check things, just to be sure.’

‘Okay,’ I reply quietly.

‘I’m going to have a word with Scarlett, and I’ll be back a little later. I want you to rest up for now. Do you have any questions in the meantime?’

‘I don’t think so.’ I allow my eyes to momentarily drift shut before opening them again.

‘I should let Blake know she’s awake,’ says Scarlett, who is still sitting beside me. She’s stroking the back of my hand with her thumb. I pull away and ball my hand into a fist.

‘What’s wrong?’ she says, her deep-blue eyes trying to meet mine. I don’t know how to tell her that I have no idea who she is. I look the other way, avoiding eye contact with her.

Dr Cleave peers over his clipboard, and glances at the hand I’ve pulled away from Scarlett. He clicks his pen, tucks it in his coat pocket and turns around to leave the room.

Scarlett stands up to follow him.

‘Actually … I do have a question,’ I say, directing my words to Dr Cleave. My voice wobbles. ‘Who’s Blake?’

Scarlett lets out a noise, like a whimper, only louder.

Dr Cleave flips back around, failing to hide the look of disquiet on his face.

‘You don’t know who Blake is?’ he asks, tilting his head.

‘Should I?’

Dr Cleave glances at Scarlett, who interjects, ‘Gracie, Blake’s your fiancé.’

‘That’s … impossible,’ I reply.

Isn’t it?

‘You’re supposed to be getting married in three months. You’ve known each other for …’ She looks at the ceiling, as if she’s trying to work it out. ‘Fourteen years,’ she says finally.

‘That can’t be … I’m not …’

Engaged?

‘It’s okay,’ says Dr Cleave, trying to reassure me. ‘We’ll get Blake in and I’m sure that’ll help—’

‘I can’t … I don’t … just wait,’ I say, trying to make sense of all this. I press my hand against my forehead. Think, Gracie. Think. Maybe if they give me a chance to think about it all, I’ll be able to remember.

Scarlett places a hand on my wrist.

‘Gracie,’ she says. ‘Look at me.’

I swallow past the lump that’s formed in my throat.

‘I know you’re scared, and I know you’re freaking out, but we’ll help you to remember.’

My heart starts to hammer.

But what if I never do?

When Scarlett returns to my room after chatting with Dr Cleave, she’s carrying a fresh arrangement of flowers. They’re not just any flowers. They’re tulips. Rembrandts. Like the painter. Butter-coloured petals variegated with bright-red flames.

‘The perfect way to brighten up your hospital room,’ she says, her lips forming a smile as she carries them over to the round table in the corner. She starts arranging them into a vase that’s much too small. She needs to cut the stems shorter.

‘It’s too early for tulips,’ I whisper. ‘Tulips don’t bloom in winter.’

Scarlett pauses with a stem in her hand. ‘What did you say?’ she asks, narrowing her gaze.

‘Neither do dahlias. They must be imported,’ I murmur.

Why do I know this? How can I know this but nothing else, like my birthday? Or my favourite colour? Or Blake?

My fiancé. The fiancé who, according to Scarlett, I am supposed to be marrying in three months’ time. The fiancé I am supposed to be spending the rest of my life with but can’t remember.

‘Dr Cleave said he’s going to run those extra tests as soon as possible. We’re just waiting for Blake to arrive.’ She wrings her hands together. ‘I told him you’re having some trouble recalling things, but I didn’t exactly tell him you couldn’t remember who he is.’ She scrunches her face. ‘I think it’s better if Dr Cleave tells him, don’t you?’

I bite down on my lip but don’t answer her.

‘Anyway, he left with Noah and went home this morning for a shower and change of clothes. We practically had to force him out of here. He didn’t leave your side for days and then the moment he leaves, you wake up …’

Scarlett continues rambling on, which appears to be more out of nervousness than anything else. ‘Noah will pop in after work. Oh, I called Ava from your office to let her know what happened, but I need the number for—’

‘Where are my parents?’ I cut into her blather.

Scarlett almost knocks over the flowers. She tilts her head and blinks at me as if she hasn’t heard me properly. Her brow creases but she stands there, frozen, her fingers gripping the vase.

‘My mum? Dad? Brother? Sister?’ I press.

Scarlett’s eyes widen with each passing second until she regains her composure and sucks in a breath as she approaches the bed. She speaks softly, the way a mother might break bad news to a child in the most honest and gentle way possible. ‘You never knew your dad. You’re an only child and your mum … well …’

I search her eyes for answers, holding my breath, waiting for her to explain.

‘Your mum passed away twelve months ago. Her name was Lainey and she … it was her heart. It was sudden and she hadn’t been diagnosed before it happened.’

This can’t be true. None of it can be true. How can I not know any of this? I don’t even remember my own mother? Scarlett reaches for my hand, but I pull it away before she can touch me.

‘Why do you keep doing that?’ She raises a hand to her lips as understanding dawns. ‘Oh my God. You don’t know me either, do you? You have no idea who I am.’ She takes a step back. ‘Gracie,’ she says, her voice fractured, filled with disbelief. ‘We’ve known each other for years. You don’t remember anything about me … us … the past?’

I’m scared to answer her, scared about what this all means.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say, my voice hoarse.

She cups her mouth, tears forming in her eyes—eyes that are blinking at me in shock. ‘I don’t believe it.’ She snivels. She takes a tissue from the bedside table and blows her nose, turning her back to me. She stands in front of the window, staring out to the carpark. Raindrops slide down the glass pane, the focal point of Scarlett’s attention as she takes the time to process this. Finally, she glances over her shoulder at me. I register the crestfallen expression on her face and wince. I don’t mean to hurt her like this and I don’t know how to make this easier for her.

She starts tearing the tissue she’s holding into tiny pieces.

‘What if my memory never comes back?’ I say quietly.

She approaches the bed. ‘You don’t have to worry about a thing. We’ll tell you everything you forgot. Everything that made you who you are, and everything you would have never wanted to forget.’ She sits down and cups my face. ‘Okay?’ she says, smiling through her tears.

‘Um, okay,’ I say, agreeing. My head feels full.

Scarlett rubs the moisture from under her eyes and inhales sharply, as if she’s hitting a reset button.

She scrunches the pieces of tissue into one hand and tosses them into the bin beside the bed. ‘Okay so, where to start?’ she says, sitting up straighter. ‘Do you know where you were going before you had the accident?’

I look blankly at her. I don’t really want to hear this. I want some time alone. To sleep. To think.

‘Of course you don’t,’ she says before I have a chance to answer her. ‘It was my birthday, and we were going out for dinner. There were about twenty of us. You baked my cake for me,’ she says, smiling. I can tell she’s trying to inject some lightness into our conversation to downplay the seriousness of all this, but it doesn’t work. She pauses, and I’m almost sure she’s waiting for me to nod or show some kind of sign that I recognise what she’s telling me; I simply stare back at her.

‘You and Blake were running late. You’re never late, which is sort of weird,’ she says, wrinkling her nose. ‘Never mind. Chrissie and Tom were there, Mel and Jack, Erin, Maddie …’ Her words trail off and fizzle into the air as her gaze meets mine. ‘You don’t remember any of these people, do you?’ she says finally.

‘Um, no.’

‘Okay, well, what if I tell you about—’

‘My mother,’ I interject.

‘Gracie,’ she says softly. ‘Are you saying you don’t remember anything about your mum, either?’

I don’t need to answer her because my expression says it all.

‘Oh, love,’ she says, closing her eyes momentarily. When she opens them she inhales deeply. ‘You were very close, more like sisters than mother and daughter. You used to talk on the phone all the time, at least once a day. And you used to visit her every weekend. You know that much, don’t you?’ she says hopefully.

‘No, I don’t. Do I … miss her?’ After I ask this question, I realise what a silly one it is. Naturally I must miss her, only I can’t seem to tap into any feelings that resemble the heartache of missing someone you love.

‘Of course you do,’ says Scarlett. ‘It’s been a difficult year, but you’re strong and you’re doing okay—slowly coming to peace with things. Nothing could have prepared you for it. She was only fifty-six … no … fifty-eight …’ She places a finger on her lips. ‘Sorry, I can’t remember exactly.’

‘What did I love most about her?’ I whisper.

She smiles. ‘Well, I’d say you probably loved everything about her. She was kind and generous and loving, and she knew how to make you feel better when you were feeling down.’

Something about this answer doesn’t sit well with me. It doesn’t sound … I don’t know … specific? I’d imagine that’s the sort of description you’d get about any mother. And I want to know about my mother—something unique, something to give me a connection to her. ‘Um, what did I love most about her?’

Scarlett frowns. ‘I just told you.’

I swallow. How do I explain it to Scarlett? ‘I … I want to know exactly why she was special to me.’

‘She was your mother. That’s why she was special to you,’ says Scarlett quietly.

I rub my head, which has started to ache. I must look unhappy because Scarlett goes on.

‘Well, I know you loved spending time outdoors with her. You also liked baking. Every Christmas Eve you’d bake together.’

‘What did we bake?’ I ask.

She shrugs. ‘Um, shortbread cookies, I think.’

I rub at my head again. She doesn’t sound very sure and it isn’t the sort of detail I was hoping for.

‘It was Christmas,’ she adds, looking as though she wants to say more. But right now, all I want is to close my eyes.

‘Um, I’m really tired. I think I need to sleep now,’ I say, avoiding her gaze as I burrow under the blanket. My eyes drift shut and I let the world fade away, hoping that by the time I open them life might feel a little more familiar.

When I wake up, Scarlett is sitting in the same position she was before. She notices me looking at her and sets down the book she’s been reading.

‘Are you thirsty?’ Before I can nod, her hands are already on the jug of water. She hands me a glass and guides the straw to my mouth.

‘Good news. Blake has parked the car and should be up here soon.’

I stop sipping my water and splutter. My body tenses up.

‘What’s wrong?’ she asks.

‘I don’t feel good about this.’

She shakes her head in confusion.

‘About seeing him. I don’t remember him. I don’t know anything about him—or how we were—what sort of relationship we had.’ I desperately want her to understand.

‘Why don’t you tell me what you want to know and we’ll start there?’

‘Um, I think I’d rather have the chance to—’

Our conversation is interrupted by a knock on the door.

‘I bet that’s him. Come in,’ she says. ‘See, now Blake can tell you everything himself.’

My chest tightens. ‘No.’

Scarlett fires me a look of confusion. ‘No, what?’

‘I don’t want any visitors,’ I whisper. A surge of adrenaline floods through me. I want to be left alone.

‘But it’s Blake.’

‘No,’ I repeat, close to tears.

‘Why not, Gracie?’

‘Please, I don’t know who he is. I don’t know how I’m meant to act around him or what I’m supposed to even say.’ My eyes plead with her. ‘Scarlett, I can’t face him right now.’

‘But …’ Scarlett is unable to hide her shock. ‘He’s your fiancé.’

The door creaks open.

‘Gracie?’ says a voice. A voice that is completely foreign to me.

‘I mean it. I don’t want to see anyone right now.’ I draw my knees up to my chest, squeezing my eyes closed, wanting to block everything out.

‘Blake, hold on,’ says Scarlett, approaching the door. She presses a hand against it.

On the next inhale, my future outside the hospital flashes in front of me—the countless questions, the endless stories, the photographs. The people who have become strangers to me will be desperate to help me fill the gaps, become the person they knew me to be. Blake is going to tell me I loved him and he loved me and I will have no choice but to believe him. And when I leave this hospital I’m going to have to consciously try to fall in love with him.

At this realisation, the world constricts around me and it suddenly becomes harder to breathe. I press my palm against my chest, which seems to be hammering much faster than it should be. I can’t seem to stop the rush of thoughts spiralling around in my head. If Blake walks into this room, I will have to look into the eyes of the man I am supposed to marry and tell him I feel nothing for him.

‘Gracie,’ calls Blake through the doorway.

I shoot a look at Scarlett, pleading with her. ‘I don’t want to see him. Please just tell him I need some time.’ I pin my lip between my teeth and scrunch my eyes closed again.

‘Okay, okay,’ says Scarlett.

I roll onto my side so that I’m not facing the door, and curl into a ball, bringing the covers up to my chin. I can’t seem to get a handle on this feeling of being completely and utterly out of control. Despite my requests, the door opens.

‘Gracie? What’s going on?’ says a male voice from behind me. I close my eyes tighter. I can’t answer him. And I still can’t seem to control my breathing.

‘What’s wrong with her?’

‘Maybe I should page the nurses,’ says Scarlett.

‘Gracie, it’s me,’ he says softly, resting a hand on my arm. He runs his fingers through my hair, moving the loose strands away from my face and then he kisses my cheek, the stubble from his face grazing my skin. The fragrance of his aftershave wafts through the air, and along with that comes a shattering confirmation that I don’t recognise it. This aftershave could belong to any man. A series of unintentional moans escape me.

I hear Scarlett whisper to Blake, ‘Maybe you should wait outside. Give her a few minutes and I’ll explain everything.’

There are footsteps and a moment later the door clicks shut. When Scarlett re-enters the room a minute or so later, she sits on the edge of the bed. ‘Breathe, Gracie. Deep breaths,’ she commands, rubbing my back. I can’t seem to stop shaking. She presses the buzzer for the nurses. ‘Open your eyes, I want you to look at me.’

I flick my eyes open. ‘I think I’m going to be sick. I don’t know what’s happening to me.’ My face contorts into a grimace. ‘I’m scared,’ I croak. ‘I’m really, really scared.’

Bea enters the room. ‘Gracie? What’s going on, love? Is everything okay?’

‘I don’t know what’s happening to me … but I can’t … I don’t want to see him … I don’t want to see anyone.’

‘I think she’s having a panic attack,’ says Scarlett.

Bea nods and tells me to breathe, but no matter how hard I try, it still feels like there isn’t enough air.

The door clicks open again. ‘Gracie!’ calls Blake. ‘It’s just me, I promise you, everything will be okay if you let me in.’

‘No,’ I say, my eyes pleading with Bea.

‘It’s okay, honey,’ she says, pressing a hand on my shoulder.

She leaves the room and a few seconds later Blake’s voice reverberates through the hospital.

‘You need to let me see her!’ he yells.

‘That’s not what she wants, she’s distressed enough as it is, and we need to respect her wishes,’ she says.

‘This is ridiculous, I’m her fiancé.’

‘She’s having an anxiety attack,’ Bea says firmly. ‘This is not the right time.’

‘Let me talk to her, I’ll help calm her down.’

‘I’m sorry, but she’s not in the frame of mind to see you right now. This is all a huge shock for her. It’s a lot to take in. She needs time to adjust, to get her head around what’s happened. She’s frightened and very fragile, not to mention exhausted, and I think it’s best to let her accept this first and then—’

‘Please let me see her. Five minutes, that’s all I’m asking for.’

I cup my hands over my ears. Scarlett rubs my back more furiously. ‘Someone needs to tell him I don’t remember him,’ I say, but it comes out like a drawn-out moan.

‘It’s okay. It’s going to be okay,’ says Scarlett, exhaling a long breath.

No matter how convincing she sounds, I don’t believe her.

The following days pass like a blur. Scans, sleep, neuropsych assessments filled with questions I can’t answer. The constant thrum of monitors and footsteps of nurses coming in and out to check on me. Scarlett humming away from the armchair in the corner of the room, turning the pages of a book, repeatedly telling me that everything is going to be fine when nobody really knows for sure whether it will be.

After he’d run a series of tests, Dr Cleave told me (rather unconvincingly) that there was every possibility my memory loss could be temporary. ‘Retrograde amnesia,’ he said, confirming the diagnosis. ‘You need to be really patient. Life is going to look a little different for you when you go back home. There’s a chance your procedural memory has been affected, and we won’t know the extent of that immediately. You might find that certain everyday functions are challenging at first. You’ll need support, and I encourage you to take things slowly. Lean on those who love you to help get you through this. I know that’s going to be hard for someone like you, but it’s important you don’t try to go through this alone.’