Page 31 of Love Wells Kept

“Does he remember when Santa tracked soot across the floor on his boots last year?”

“No, Dess.”

“Does he remember when we hid those barn kittens in my closet?”

I raise an eyebrow. “When you what?”

“Oh, I forgot you didn’t know about that.” She presses her lips tight together, but a menacing grin plays at the corners of her eyes.

“He doesn’t remember….” I mull over my words, trying to choose them carefully.

I sat down with her prepared to spill the truth of the situation because I’d rather her hear it directly from me instead of catching part of an adult conversation elsewhere. But now that I’m here, it’s dawning on me that I have to tell her Jackson doesn’t remember her. It’s not only that he doesn’t remember the shenanigans they got up to. He had to be told about her very existence, and he only knows her from the pictures I showed him today.

“Odessa, Daddy’s brain was injured, right?” I squeeze her knee. “And the brain has a lot of extremely important jobs. One of those jobs is holding on to your memories…and his brain’s having a hard time doing that right now.”

“So he doesn’t remember anything at all?”

“Very little.”

Her eyes cut to the floor, and the small twitch of her lips tells me she’s thinking hard. Making sense of something that doesn’t make sense at all.

“Does he remember me being born?”

I exhale heavily through my nose. “No…No, Odessa. He doesn’t. Not yet. We’re hoping he just needs time to heal, and he’ll remember everything again.”

“Oh.” Tears brim her eyes and when I lean in to comfort her, she leans away. For a moment she stares at the paused television, silently processing. “S-so am I like…am I a stranger?”

“No,” I clip. “No, baby. He knows who you are, and he loves you. He just doesn’t have all his memories right now.”

She mulls that over for a second, then, with a quivering lip, asks, “Does he remember you?”

“Not yet.”

Not yet. Two tiny words containing immeasurable hope.

“But…” She drags the back of her hand across her wet eyes. “Does his brain need to be all better before he comes home?”

“Nope. He should be allowed to come home soon, and we’ll take care of him here.” I hold her small hand in mine, running my thumb along the length of each finger. “I showed him pictures and videos, and told him all kinds of stories today. Talked his ear off. Even if he doesn’t remember us yet, he’ll feel like he does.”

“Good. I want him to be back, even if his brain is still hurt.”

I sniff against the sting in my nostrils. “Me too. It’s weird not having him here, isn’t it?”

She nods. “I miss his bedtime stories. Don’t tell her, but Gran doesn’t do as good of a job as Dad does.”

I chuckle softly. Jackson’s imagination runs wild at bedtime, coming up with stories on the spot that tend to incite a lot of laughter, squeals, and even the occasional bed-jumping. And though I roll my eyes and poke my head into the room to remind them all that story time is meant to be quiet time, I love the love they have for each other too much to be mad.

“He is really good at bedtime stories…. Finish your show, then I’ll make an attempt at doing story time justice.”

“Is Daddy going to be able to tell us stories when he comes back home?”

The wistful shimmer in her eyes cinches something around my heart.

“He might be a bit rusty the first couple times, but I’m sure he’s still got some good stories in there.” My index finger taps the side of my head, and I wink at Odessa.

After giving Rhett a quick kiss, I slip out into the hallway and head toward the busy kitchen. Everyone’s gathered around the table, drinking and snacking and yapping, and when I walk into the room, Denny’s wife, Blair, pulls out an empty chair for me.

The ice-cold beer in the fridge is awfully tempting, but somehow a tiny part of me is holding on to hope that the heavy bleeding, excruciating cramps, and empty feeling in my heart are false alarms, so I opt for iced tea.