Before I can respond, the doorbell rings. Jack rises to his feet and walks to the door as if he owns this house. On the doorstep, there’s a white-haired man with an impatient look on his face and a sheaf of papers under his arm.
Jack waves him in.
“Kate, this is Dr. Dixon. Dr. Dixon, my…” He trails off, revealing the first signs of uncertainty that I’ve seen him display all day.
“Kate Chandler.” I get out of my chair and go to shake the man’s hand. “I didn’t know doctors made house calls anymore.”
“We don’t, but Mr. Harris is a special client,” the doctor admits. He shakes my hand. The papers start to slip. I reach down to help him at the same time Jack does. Our fingers brush and a shock of electricity courses through my body. I jump back.
“You can put them over there.” I point to the kitchen table. “What do you mean he’s a special client?”
“He means I pay him a lot of money,” Jack answers for the doctor. “Dixon is here to answer any questions that you have.”
“How do I even know he’s a medical doctor?”
Jack looks to Dixon to explain this.
“Ah, I guess I have a card. No, wait, I have this.” Dixon fumbles in his pocket and then produces a badge with his picture on it. Under the picture are the words, “Dixon, Kenneth, M.D. Dept. of Neurology.”
I scratch my head. This is an elaborate ruse if Dixon is not an actual doctor, and as Jack pointed out before, why would he go to these lengths? I sink into the kitchen chair and flip through the records, not quite understanding what all I’m reading.
The doctor clears his throat. “On the third page is the diagnosis.”
I flip to the third page and scan the contents until I come to a part titled, “Assessment.” Retrograde amnesia is the first item.
“Mr. Harris suffers from a memory loss of events preceding an event—usually disease or illness.”
I jerk around to stare at Jack. “You’re diseased?”
“No.” He shakes his head. “Just the hit on the head.”
Which made you forget everything important.
“They didn’t know,” he declares. “If they’d known, they would have brought me here.”
But they did know. I wonder if I should tell Jack that. If this is all true…then his family has been lying to him for months. If being the operative word here.
Dr. Dixon clears his throat. “Mr. Harris suffered a blow to the head and this blow induced the memory loss. Because we do not know much about how amnesia works and there are no obvious cures, we do not encourage forced remembrances. Therefore, Mr. Harris and those around him were advised to approach any memory retrieval methods cautiously. At first, Mr. Harris did not listen to us and attempted various methods, which led to heart failure—”
“I think she gets it, Doc,” Jack murmurs. “Thank you for coming by.” He leads the doctor to the door.
A heart attack? I reach up and clutch my chest. Jack could’ve died? He is only thirty-five—seven years older than me. I’d actually wished for that in the past, but when faced with the reality of a world without Jack, I find my own heart seizing up in real pain.
“I’m glad I could help,” Dixon replies, his voice faint from the distance between the door and the kitchen.
I don’t hear Jack’s reply. I close my eyes. He doesn’t remember me. At all. There’s a pocket of memory loss and in that pocket, I lived, which means the night we met, the days we loved, the sweet smiles, the lusty nights were all gone for him. How he moved in and didn’t want to leave. How he said he loved me. Then he disappeared and I was pregnant and so lonely and scared.
I hate him.
But at one time I loved him.
I drop my head into my hand.
“This is a lot,” I tell him when his heavy footsteps stop behind my chair.
“I know it is. You have every right to hate me, but I’m hoping that you’ll get over that because I plan on being part of your life.”
“For how long?”
“Forever.”
Chapter Four
A braver woman would’ve challenged Jack, but I was too emotionally worn out. I get up. “I need to sleep. Anna only rests for a few hours at a time. She’ll be up soon and I’m exhausted.”
“All right. Take your nap. I’ll be here when you wake up.”
It sounds more threat than promise. Keeping my eyes averted, I hurry down the hall to my own bedroom. I tear off the shirt Jack left behind and toss it into the dark recesses of my closet. I don my torn Hufflepuff T-shirt and climb into bed. The minute my back hits the mattress, I realize I’ve made a big mistake because in this bed, I remember how he touched me. How he held me. How he kissed me all over. How he loved me.