I’m not there when you open your eyes. I’m getting lunch. Not that I’m hungry. My stomach has flipped over too many times, once for every pause between your heartbeats. I guess I left mostly because I couldn't breathe in there — that hospital gave me a migraine — but maybe also because there was a part of me that knew I would completely snap if you stopped breathing. 
	I’m just sitting down when the doctor calls. I almost don't answer; I stare blankly at the little screen on my phone, my face pulled taut. But how can I just stay there, uncertain? 
	I answer it. The doctor's voice has to be, honestly, the most beautiful sound in the world — "He's awake. Your husband is awake." My smile stretches so far across my face that my cheeks hurt. I stand up, my chair scraping across the floor, and sprint to my car. All I can think about is you, your warm smile, your arms as they pull me into a hug, your soft, sweet voice. My mind fills with hope as I pull into the parking lot and dash through the doors, up to the hallway where your room is located.
	I pause before the door, wondering what to do, what to say. And then I realize that I shouldn't have to think that through. I push open the door, imagining your eyes lighting upon me and your lips widening into a smile.
	My eyes scan the room, looking for you. For the past few months since the accident, I had watched you, worrying. Your face had been covered in bandages and bruises, and your eyes had been closed. But at this moment, as I look at you, they’re looking straight at me. For an endless moment, I stare into them, those bright blue eyes. And then, you shatter the moment. 
	You turn to the nurse and say, "Who is this woman?" 
	I stand there, open-mouthed. No, I think. How is this happening? In the corner of my vision, I can see the nurse putting her hand on your arm, her mouth moving quickly. Maybe she is saying something along the lines of, "Eric, this is your wife. You haven't seen her because she conveniently went out for lunch and wasn't there when you woke up." 
        I’m frozen in shock. I can't believe it. The doctor hadn't said a thing about this. I step out of the room and blindly sit down on a bench in the hallway. I’m reeling. No. No. No.  
	One of the doctors comes, and he sits next to me, gently explaining to me that you have amnesia, and so you remember nothing of your life. You hit your head very hard, and everyone is very glad that you just got amnesia and didn't stay in a coma forever, and we are so lucky that you are awake. I don't listen. I politely excuse myself and run out to my car.
	I stay there, for a long time. Thinking. You, my husband, my love, have no memory of your life. You will never be the same. And you have no memory of me. Me, the woman whom you have been married to for five years. How could I love you so much, while you don't even know my name?
	It seems like I sit there for hours, curled up on the leather upholstery. My throat burns, and the tears that had been waiting finally slip out, slowly, and run down my flushed cheeks. I squeeze my eyes shut as the round drops slip over my face, tasting a hint of salt on my lips.
        Usually when I have a good cry, it kind of helps. Helps get out all the pain. This time, though, it doesn’t do much. When my vision clears, I looked at my watch. 12:27; I have been here for about 45 minutes. I eventually manage to get up. I don't want to leave. I couldn't desert you like that. But how can I go back? And more important, how can I start over? Our relationship had been relatively simple. And now...now it seems impossible. Would you even love me anymore? I couldn't bear it if you want a divorce, but yet, I will have to understand. I will have to let you go. And so I come to a decision. I’ll try my hardest. I’ll fight for you. And if you don't love me, I will be strong. I’ll move on. 
	I march out of the car and back to the hospital, swiping at my eyes with a tissue. I know that I love you, and that if there were anything I could do, it would be to spend time with you. Help you recall all the little moments that we spent together, loving each other. 
	I go to you, tell you little random details that I never thought about before. I tell you who I was, the things I liked, what our house looks like. I tell you about yourself, who you were.
	But I don’t think that I tell you enough.
	At times, I look at your face. You have on a distant expression, though you’re smiling. You tell me that you’re trying to remember. You tell me that you know we really loved each other, but you say nothing like, “I think it would be possible to get back together,” or “I am pretty sure we could keep our marriage.” It was probably unrealistic, but a little part of my mind had been hoping for just that.

        I’m lying in bed, with my cat curled up in a furry ball next to me. I doubt that I will be able to fall asleep –– there are too many thoughts running through my mind –– so I don’t bother to turn off my lamp. Instead, I take out one of those cheesy romance novels to take my mind off things.
	I thought the novel would help, but all it does is remind me of the things I can’t have. Things like you. And it makes me remember all the times we spent together and wonder if they even count. Every kiss, every instant I spent with you is gone, except in my own mixed-up mind.
	I take another book, a mystery, that I hope will keep me busy enough to forget temporarily about the day. I try to immerse myself in the story, and surprisingly, it almost works. The plot is simple enough, and before long I find myself trying to guess what will happen next. Soon my mind begins to feel fuzzy and my vision blurs, turning the words on the page into gray lumps when I don’t focus. My eyes drift shut of their own accord, and my body slumps back onto my pillow, the book landing on my stomach. I peer at my alarm clock in my peripheral vision; 2:46 am. My brain hasn’t even registered how late it is when I fall asleep.

        It’s morning. A gray morning, and the clouds are saturated with rain, ready to let loose. The funny thing is, I’m usually a morning person. Not today, not with the rain and your absence. Now that you aren’t here, I don’t really know what to do with my life. But I decide that, what the heck, I’ll just do something that I enjoy. 
        I figure that I’ll just go to the animal shelter; I’ve always loved animals, and my cat is a perfect companion. It couldn’t hurt to spend more time with animals to help distract me from the rest of my life.
        I reluctantly drag myself out of bed and pull on a light blue sweater and jeans. I hurry down the stairs and snatch my keys from the hook, running out the door and into my car. The little droplets of rain that fall out of the clouds transform into big fat drops, smacking loudly against the windshield. I stuff the keys into the ignition and drive away, suddenly eager to get away from my old life and begin anew. On my way, I think, I can get over this. I just might be okay in the end.
        I don’t pay attention as I drive, letting my subconscious take over since I know the way well enough. The drive isn’t long, and soon I find myself opening the door of my car and stepping on to the rain-darkened gravel of the parking lot. I look toward the welcoming doors in the front of the building. The doors, painted with a fresh coat of bright blue paint, look out of place today next to the dreariness of the rain. 

        I step up to the doors and gratefully enter the warm entryway, glad that the pounding rain is now only a sound reverberating on the roof. Now that I’m inside, I can make out the familiar noise of purrs and scratching claws. Despite myself, my lips curve into a small smile.
	I quickly sign in at the front desk and walk over to the dog section. Dogs always make me happy, with all their energy and floppy tongued smiles. 
	I take a little time to pet the dogs and smooth down their beds, but I head over toward a large cage in the back of the room. On an earlier visit, I had noticed an old, large, yellow dog that always sat in the corner and looked quite dejected until someone would come over. Then he would instantly perk up and his pink tongue would poke out of his mouth in a doggy grin.
	I unlock his cage door and take his leash off a hook. “Come on, Danny!” I say softly. “Time for a walk. I know you like rain.” I grin slightly as he leaps to his feet and, tail wagging wildly, follows me to the door at the end of the wall. 
	I hook on his leash and yank open the door, bracing myself against the onslaught of rain. Thankfully, after a few minutes of walking through the deluge, the downpour lessens to a drizzle. I release the edges of my jacket from my death grip and relax a little, ambling down the path as the light rain mists my hair.
	Back at the animal shelter, I put Danny back in his cage, feeling slightly guilty as he stares at me with sad eyes, pleading me to let him back out. “Bye, boy,” I call quietly. He’ll forgive me. 
	Soon I am back at my house, snugly wrapped up in a quilt with a mug of coffee. I had also absentmindedly grabbed the mystery book that I was reading last night, a thick volume full of yellowed pages. I’ve pretty much forgotten all that I had read in my exhaustion-induced trance, so I just start over from the beginning. The first chapter is a little boring, but I’m surprised to find that after that, it’s actually okay. I pull the quilt tighter around me and shift deeper into my chair, my eyes darting over the page.
	I’m not sure how long I read, only that when I finally get up, the sun is high up in the sky. I make a quick sandwich and eat it outside under the bright spring sun, watching the shadows of the trees sway. The rest of my day is nondescript, doing simple chores to keep my hands busy and even cleaning four of the rooms in this big, empty house. It’s only later that I realize that during the whole day, I didn’t think of you once. Not once.
	How was I obsessing so much about you yesterday, and today I didn’t even save one thought for you? It’s so confusing. 
	I suppose that maybe, even though I almost can’t bear to come to this conclusion, my subconscious has realized that this is hopeless. All this waiting for you to come around, to remember –– completely and utterly hopeless. I mean, what could I do? Just hope that some random thing will magically trigger all your memories? Seeing me obviously didn’t and I doubt that there’s anything else that is –– was –– so important to you that it could dredge up all the memories that the crash shoved so deeply into your mind. 
	Which makes me think, what’s the point? Do I even love you anymore? I know that I love your sweet disposition, your quick logic, your compassion. But your memories were a critical part of your personality that is now lost, and I can’t be sure that you’re the same person anymore.
	This is such a mess. Such a complete mess.

	The next day, I go to the animal shelter again. And the next. On the third day, I wake early and, at a loss of what else to do, I head over again at 8:00. It isn’t raining in the slightest and the sun shines unhindered through the sky, brightening the trees and grass to a dazzling emerald. 
        When I get there, I walk over, as usual, to the dog section and head toward Danny’s cage. Except this time, there’s someone else there. A tall man with brown hair, looking around my age, stands next to Danny’s cage. He hears me and turns around.  
	I stand there, unsure of what to do. But he smiles comfortably, asking, “Are you the one who’s been walking Danny every morning? I’ve heard the people at the front desk talking about you.”
        I smile a little, feeling embarrassed. “Yeah. I like to come here and get a little time outside.”
        “Danny’s a good dog. I would adopt him, but I live in such a small apartment.” He frowns, but his expression quickly shifts back into an easy smile. “Would you like to walk him with me? I was just about to take him around the block.”
        “Sure,” I say. I may as well, and he seems friendly. I can feel myself smiling, eager to get out in the fresh air.
        We walk slowly down the path. I let the soft breeze tease my hair away from my face, grinning as I watch Danny prance happily after squirrels. He barks, very loudly, every time as he watches them scamper up a tree. 
        Finally, I suppose to break the silence, the man asks, “What’s your name?”
        “Rebecca,” I say, then quickly add on, “Er, Becca.”
        “I’m Chris,” he tells me.
        There is another small period of quiet. Needless to day, I’m beginning to feel a little awkward when he surprises me by asking, “Why do you do this?”
        I suppose I look at him funny, because he quickly explains himself. “Why do you do this every morning? And please don’t take offense –– I mean this in a good way –– but I don’t think anyone under normal circumstances would come walk a dog every day for an hour.” He stops, blushing. “I’m sorry. I know we’ve only just met, but...” He trails off.
        I’m silent for a minute. He looks away, guessing, I suppose, that I wouldn’t want to speak with him anymore. But I do.
        “It’s because ––” I pause, searching for the right words. He looks over. “My husband. He was in a car crash, and...” I continue, somewhat haltingly. “He remembers nothing about our life together. And now...” I sigh. “I come here because the animals make me feel better. They have all this... this happy energy.”
        Smiling slightly, I look over at him. He looks sympathetic, and a little caught off guard. I wait until he composes his face. “I can understand that,” he says a little hesitantly. “Their energy, as you put it.” We both glance over at Danny, his big golden retriever body bouncing with every step.
        We walk mostly in silence for the rest of the walk, exchanging comments about the weather and making small talk. It isn’t that awkward, not anymore. He’s easy to talk to, and we understand each other. I find myself smiling more than I have in a long time.
        Every day now, I drive up to the animal shelter at 8:00. I meet Chris at Danny’s cage, and we walk together for a while. Our friendship grows with each walk we spend together. We tell each other more and more –– all the little things that happen in our lives. And slowly, I begin to feel better. About everything.

        One month later

        As usual, I meet Chris in the dog section, next to Danny’s cage. Danny fairly wiggles when he sees me, and I grin, already unhooking his leash. Chris comes soon enough, and we set out. It’s mostly the same, with our easy conversation as Danny hops haphazardly between the trees. The spring breeze gets drier and drier as summer inches forward.
        This time, though, as we amble along, I feel his hand folding mine into his. I don’t say anything. Neither does he. We just walk like that, together.
        When we come back, we don’t mention it. It doesn’t feel, to me, like something we should mention. We just say goodbye, and leave, like we always do. After he leaves, my lips stretch into a broad smile.
        As I’m driving home, I think about my life. I miss you. I know that. But I also know that the you I miss isn’t coming back. You don’t know me, I don’t know you. So what’s the point? Is there even a reason to be all dramatic about it anymore? No. What’s done is done.
        And Chris. Maybe I’m not ready yet, or maybe he’s not ready yet –– that doesn’t matter. We can take our time. We can let our friendship grow and blossom into something else –– something that, this time, can stay forever.
        I almost feel like I’ve been asleep this whole time –– missing the point of things. And now, I’ve woken up. Woken up to a new life, a life where I am free of bindings, free to live like I need to. 
	And I’ve woken up to the reality that things change. I know that they can’t always be fixed in the way you want them to be, and yet, sometimes it turns out that there’s a way to repair them after all. Regardless of the past, you can always change your future.



p. 1
                                                                                                                       Awakened,   6-8,