He doesn’t remember?
That could work in my favor, but holding on to the truth with the hope that he never gets his memory back is like pulling the pin on a grenade and praying it doesn’t blow your hand off when you get distracted. There’s no way this could work.
The repercussions of letting everyone believe Dalton was driving will only multiply and be exponentially worse when they find out the truth.
But I don’t open my mouth. I don’t confess. I don’t take the opportunity to tell Mrs. Payne that I was driving. I don’t tell her that I’m sorry for my own actions. I let her walk out of my room fifteen minutes later with tears still streaming down her face believing that her son wronged me, not the other way around.
I don’t even open my mouth to clear up the confusion when my mom returns, or when my dad gets off work and comes to sit by my bedside. I keep my lips sealed and my wishes in my head. I don’t reach for God. I don’t pray that Dalton never remembers. I feel like that’s an even faster way to end up in Hell. Surely sinning, then praying that the sins stay hidden would be frowned upon by not only God but anyone who’s privileged to hear the wishes.
The next day, I do my best to ignore the conversation Mr. Payne and my dad have on the other side of the room, but it’s impossible to distract myself with anything else. Due to my severe concussion, I’m not allowed to do much of anything. My phone has been taken away. The remote to the tiny TV mounted on the wall has disappeared. I’m not allowed to read. Dr. Columbus told me to rest and to avoid thinking at all, if possible. He’s reiterated more than once that my symptoms are acerbated by anything that really requires brain function. I snorted with derision when he told me that last part. He doesn’t have any idea what I’d give to never think of the things that have been plaguing me over the last couple of days, but without anything else to do but lie here, all I think about is the accident and how I could’ve done a million things differently to have prevented it.
“I don’t even know how this is possible,” Mr. Payne tells my dad. He has the same slump to his shoulders that his wife had yesterday. They’re both defeated and frustrated. “He doesn’t have a clue who he is or who any of us are. How do you forget your entire family?”
“I thought you said he remembers you, but he doesn’t have any recollection of the last decade or so,” my dad responds.
“All he remembers are flashes of early childhood,” Mr. Payne clarifies. “He doesn’t know who Preston is, and he freaked out to the point he had to be sedated again when Peyton showed up. His last memory of her was when she was a baby.”
“The brain is a complex thing, Devin. Things will get better with time. Many patients with amnesia get some, if not all, of their memories back. Dalton is young and strong, and if I had to bet on his recovery, I’d put my money on his memory loss being temporary. The swelling in his head isn’t completely gone, but things will change drastically when it is. You just have to have faith.”
“How is Piper doing?” Mr. Payne asks. I don’t know if he’s genuinely concerned or if he needs a change of subject.
Thankfully, I have my eyes closed. The sun went down several hours ago, but time doesn’t seem to matter anymore. Sitting in a hospital bed with nothing to do makes everything run together.
I feel both sets of eyes on me, so I do my best to keep my breathing rhythmic.
“She’s doing loads better. Dr. Columbus said he’ll discharge her tomorrow if her scans look good. She’ll still be in the soft cast for a few more weeks, but they expect a full recovery.”
“Thank God,” Mr. Payne says, relieved.
They exchange a few more minutes of conversation, but eventually, Mr. Payne says goodbye and leaves.
Exhausted, my dad settles in the chair beside my bed. I still don’t open my lying mouth to spit the truth about what happened, and as time goes by, I wonder if I’ll ever build the courage to utter those incriminating words.Chapter 7DaltonIt’s been twenty-three days since the accident.
Eight days since I woke up from a medically induced coma to parents who seem to have aged overnight. I lost all my memories since I was a young child, and I gained a brother.
Preston is ten, and I’ve never seen the kid before in my life.
Peyton is no longer a chubby-faced, curly-headed baby sucking on her thumb in a crib and learning how to stand. She’s almost fourteen and heading to high school.