“I’m so sorry, I feel awful, but I don’t remember your name,” I confess, feeling my face flush with embarrassment and guilt.
“I know, honey. Honestly, the doctors are impressed that you’re doing as well as you are. We weren’t expecting you to talk again for another month or so,” he says as he absently plays with my fingers on my right hand. “My name is Adas Poltorak.”
Adas.
Still, no memory. No alarm bells either, but no familiarity at all.
For a moment, I don’t speak. I’ve just awoken from what seems to be a life-threatening traumatic brain injury, and I’m having the details of my life spoon-fed to me by someone I feel like I’ve never seen before. This whole thing feels like a bad dream, and I’m waiting for my work alarm to go off so that I can wake up somewhere familiar and safe.
“Why was I anywhere near a shooting?” I ask incredulously. Being in a situation where a shooting is possible doesn’t seem like an intelligent thing to do. I’d like to believe that even in the absence of my memory, I still had some common sense before.
“Well, that’s something that might shock you a little,” Adas replies, his tone cool and casual. “The business I’m in… it’s dangerous. But that’s what got us where we are. It’s the reason we can afford to have you recover at home.”
A knot forms in my stomach. This is already so stressful. Why is he being so withholding? Does he want me to play a guessing game with him?
“Can you explain to me what it is? In plain terms? I’m not sure how good my, um, info retention is right now,” I say, inching my way up into a sitting position. I can still feel the pressure in my head, but I’m going to sit up straight, goddamn it.
His expression is blank. “In plain terms? I am the leader of the largest organized crime syndicate in this region. I control the influx of drugs, weapons, and other contraband through the border down to my distributors,” he explains.
“I married a mafia boss?” I ask in disbelief.
He nods, his lips curling up into a self-congratulatory grin.
I sit back again, glancing around the room and reassessing my situation. It would be stupid not to believe him; how else could he afford to have me lying here connected to all of these machines in his own house?
But why the hell can’t I remember any of this?
“I know it’s a lot to take in, and I knew you wouldn’t remember anything, so I was anxious to tell you everything when you woke up,” my supposed husband continues, lifting my hand to his lips and kissing it a few times.
He seems to be very in love with me, which pierces my heart with guilt. I feel nothing for him except perhaps a surface-level attraction.
At least I can work with that.
“Do you need anything? Are you thirsty?” he asks, looking deep into my eyes.
“Um… what do I normally like?” I ask. I could just request some water, but I figure I have so much to learn about myself that I might as well start with the little things.
Adas chuckles a bit. “Before your injury, you were a big fan of vodka cranberries. I’ll have somebody get you some cranberry juice, just to give you a little taste of your old self.”
He sends a quick text to somebody, placing his phone face-down on my bed when he’s done. “There. Someone should be up with a glass of juice for you soon.”
Despite how insane all of this is, I’m not upset about the fact that this person appears to be absolutely loaded. I’d love to see the rest of this place, but…
I can’t feel my legs.
“Oh my god. Am I a paraplegic? Did this just happen because of the shooting?!” I beg, desperately trying to move my legs and panicking internally when I can’t even move my toes.
“Calm down, calm down. Right now, you’re a little impaired. Sure. But I have the best doctors working on your case, and they have assured me that if you cooperate with their recommendations and physical therapy, you’ll be able to walk again in a year or so,” Adas replies without a hint of concern or empathy.
A year?
I can’t walk for a year?
With that, I begin to cry. Crying feels stupid and alien to me right now, especially allowing myself to let go so easily in front of a virtual stranger.
But he’s myhusband.He has to have seen my cry before. I just have to remind myself that this is only weird for me, not him.
Without a word, Adas takes my hand and strokes it, attempting to soothe me without getting too far into my personal space. At least he understands how to handle my emotional outbursts. Even still, something in his eyes, his expression, is just wrong to me.