He smiles crookedly. “From you.”
I put down the tweezers, although I’m still watching Graham out of the corner of my eye. I start to unfold it, but then I look up at him. He is standing over me, watching me.
He notices my expression and rubs the back of his neck. “I’ll go take a shower. Give you a little privacy.”
At first, I’m worried he’s going to strip right in front of me. If he is truly my husband, I suppose he would have the right to do that. But I’m grateful when he goes into the bathroom, still in his boxers and undershirt. A second later, I hear the water running in the shower. My shoulders relax—the stranger is gone.
Gingerly, I unfold the piece of paper. The creases of the letter are worn, like it’s been folded and unfolded dozens of times before. The entire page is filled with writing. I recognize my own handwriting.
And I start to read.
Chapter 3
Dear Tess,
I know what you’re thinking. I know how you’re feeling. Because it’s the same exact thing that I was thinking and feeling this morning. So today I am writing you a letter hoping it will help you/me in the future.
So here are the basics:
You have been in a car accident. You were the one driving, and nobody else was hurt. You swerved to avoid an animal on the road and lost control of the vehicle. You hit a tree. The animal was unharmed.
Unfortunately, you suffered a brain injury during the accident. You had a lot of bleeding in your brain and the doctors did what they could. You survived, but you have permanent memory problems. Some days are not that bad. Some days you remember more than others. Other days, you wake up and can’t remember anything that happened in the last seven or eight years. I’m writing this on one of the better days. If you are reading this, it’s probably because you’re having one of your bad days.
If you’re having a bad day, you may not remember Graham. So let me assure you, he has been a good husband to you for many years. You had a beautiful wedding that was the happiest day of your life. He has been taking care of you since the accident. This has been hard on him too, and he’s been trying his best.
If this is a bad day, you are probably also wondering where Harry is. Harry is no longer a part of your life. Trust me, it’s for the best. He wasn’t who you thought he was. He did something unforgivable to you.
If you relax and try to have a good day, you will be much happier. Just remember that the people around you care about you very much and only want you to be safe. Do what they say.
You are in good hands. Trust me.
Love,
Tess
After I finish reading the letter, I read it a second time. And then one more time. After the third time, the stream of water shuts off in the shower. Graham will come out any second. I am seized by the almost irrepressible urge to make a run for it. Before Graham comes out, I could throw on some clothes and run out the door.
But where would I go? This is my home. And I don’t even know what year it is.
The door to the bathroom swings open, and I’ve missed my chance. Graham comes out wearing a towel around his waist. At first, I look away, but then I take a peek. I can’t help it. And…
Oh my God. My husband is hot. He must work out or something.
“Tess?” His light brown eyebrows scrunch together. “Did you read it? Are you okay?”
I nod slowly. “When did this happen? When was my accident?”
“A little over a year ago.”
A year. I’ve been living this way for a year. Waking up every morning and not remembering my life.
He stands there, waiting for me to say something. When I don’t, he goes over to the dresser and starts rifling through the closet. “I’ll get dressed in the bathroom, okay?”
“Thank you.”
He selects his clothing and disappears back into the bathroom as I push away a stab of guilt. I am his wife, apparently, and this is his own bedroom. He shouldn’t feel forced to hide in the bathroom to get dressed. Yet I’m absurdly grateful that he did it.
I put down the letter and rise from the bed. I can’t stop staring at the collection of photographs on top of the dresser. My eyes are drawn like a magnet to the wedding photo. It’s right in the middle, after all.
I pick it up—it’s heavy. The frame is probably expensive, like our bed and our fancy toilet. Part of me is convinced this all might be some sort of crazy dream, but the weight of this photograph feels so real.
This is no dream.
I squint down at the photograph, studying it for traces that it might be a forgery. Harry would know if it was real or not. Of course, Harry is long gone if that letter is to be believed. So it’s up to me.