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 drop her bag and move in to comfort her, fighting back my own tears. ‘Come here.’ I pull her into my chest and cuddle her, looking up to the ceiling in despair. What the hell am I going to do? Her petite frame is jumping against me as she cries, her grief pouring out as her reality crashes down. ‘It’ll be okay,’ I vow, dropping my head and burying my nose in her dark hair. ‘We’ll be okay, I promise.’
‘Why can’t I remember you? Why can’t I remember my children?’ She pushes me away violently, clenching her fists. ‘Why can’t I remember?’ she screams, shaking the house with the volume. ‘I need to remember! Please, help me remember!’ She folds to the floor, landing on her knees, sobbing like I’ve never seen my wife sob before. The sight will torment me for the rest of my days. Fucking kills me.
I brush at my wet cheeks harshly and force myself to pull it together. She needs me to be together. Strong. Her husband. I scoop her up and cradle her in my arms, getting my own sense of comfort as she curls up into me and clings to me like her life depends on it. Like it’s natural.
I walk us to the kitchen and sit down on a chair, holding her close to my chest while she lets it all out. What more can I do? Just be here. Hold her when she needs to be held. Tell her it’ll be okay. I keep my face close to hers, hushing her quietly until she eventually calms down. It could be a minute. It could be an hour. Time means nothing at the moment.
‘I’m sorry,’ she sniffs, wiping at a wet patch on my T-shirt.
‘Don’t be silly.’ I reach up and wipe her eyes, and she lets me, studying my face closely while I savour the tender moment. I’m so grateful that she’s allowing me to comfort her like this. Does she realise that?
‘Where are the children?’ she asks, looking to the doorway, maybe listening for the sounds of kids.
‘I’ve asked your mum and dad to take them to the coast. Just so you can settle in and get used to things.’
‘But they’ll think I don’t want them.’ I see panic on her face, and it strangely reassures me to know that she cares about how they must be feeling. She may not remember her children, but she still has a mother’s instinct.
‘They’re fine, I promise you, Ava. I told them that I need time with you to help you remember some things.’
Her eyes fall to my chest and flit across the material of my Ralph Lauren shirt. She’s thinking. ‘I do want them,’ she says on a frown. ‘I know I want them.’ Looking up at me, she takes her hands to my T-shirt and fists the cotton. ‘I know they’re mine.’
I nod as I breathe in, my eyes glued to hers. ‘I know you know.’
She returns my nod, thankful for my faith in her, as she smiles through a suppressed yawn. She’s knackered. She needs to rest.
‘You should get some sleep.’
She looks down her front and then feels her ponytail. ‘I’d love a shower.’
A shower. I’ve lost count of how many times we’ve showered together. The times I’m oblivious as I’m washing myself and that waft of cool air hits me, a sign my wife is about to join me under the spray. Now isn’t going to be one of those times, and it hurts so bad.
‘Sure.’ I stand and set her on her feet, backing up, reluctantly showing my intention to let her get on with it.
A tiny frown wrinkles her brow. ‘Where’s the bathroom?’
I close my eyes briefly, gathering air into my dying lungs. Of course. She needs a tour of her own home.
‘I’ll show you.’ Resisting claiming her hand, I take the stairs, my feet heavy, my heart heavier as Ava follows, gazing around as she does.
I enter our suite, trying not to be nervous of showing my wife where we sleep. ‘The dressing room is through there,’ I say, pointing across the bedroom to the double doors. ‘And the bathroom is there.’
Her dark gaze drags across my body as she passes me, taking tentative steps towards the dressing room. Uncertain whether I should, I follow, standing on the threshold as she absorbs the space. ‘You keep your underwear and nightwear in that chest,’ I tell her.
She slides open the top drawer and surveys the contents. Then she moves to the next, pulling out one of my favourite negligées, feeling it for a while before sifting through the rest of the drawer. ‘There’s a lot of lace,’ she says quietly, making me smile a little. ‘Where are my cotton pyjamas? The cosy stuff?’
‘You like lace.’
Her eyebrows slowly rise. ‘Clearly.’