“I would keep the household quiet. Establish a daily routine, stick to it.”

“Sure. Just because she doesn’t remember me is no reason for her not to do as I say.”

The doctor continues as if he hasn’t spoken: “You should expect her to tire easily. I would limit screen time—no video games, iPad usage, even TV shows and movies. Let her brain rest. Oh, and no driving.”

“So . . . quiet home life, in bed by ten.”

The doctor gives him a stern frown. In response, the man/my husband runs his hand through his rumpled hair.

I feel a whisper of memory. Standing in another room at another time.

Please, Nicky, let’s not fight. Not again.

I realize I must have loved this man once. It’s the only way to explain how much his presence hurts me now.

Dr. Celik is still talking about my ongoing needs, follow-up care. She’s obviously familiar with my case. Multiple TBIs, she’d said. I feel like I should know what that means, but the letters won’t stay still in my head. They flip upside down, backward, a dizzying display of alphabet acrobatics. I give up. My head hurts, the familiar sensation of a migraine building behind my temples.

I think of Vero, learning to fly.

I did have a dream. I can almost remember it, like a word on the tip of my tongue. Once, a long time ago, in a tiny apartment that smelled of stale cigarettes, greasy food and general hopelessness, I fantasized of green grass. I pictured open fields and places to run. I wished for the sun upon my face.

I yearned. A giant aching need that took me years to identify.

I yearned for someone to love me.

Oh, Vero, I’m so sorry.

Dr. Celik leaves. The man who is my husband returns to my side. His face is serious again, deep lines creasing his dark features. But again, not unattractive.

He tries to smile when he sees that I’m awake; it doesn’t reach his eyes. He’s worried. About me? Something else?

His collared shirt is light blue, unbuttoned at his throat. My gaze focuses on the exposed patch of skin, sun-bronzed from years spent outside. For a fraction of an instant, I can picture myself kissing that spot, trailing my tongue along his collarbone. I don’t just remember him. I can taste him. It makes me shiver.

“Hey there.” He takes my hand, as if to reassure me. His thumb is calloused.

My head pounds again. I am suddenly, bone-numbingly tired.

He seems to know. “Headache?”

I can’t talk. I just stare at him. His fingers release mine, rub my temples instead. I nearly sigh.

“Do you remember the accident?” he asks me.

I don’t, but I can’t speak yet, so I remain silent.

“According to the CT scan,” he continues, “you’ve suffered another concussion, the third in six months. For that matter, you bruised your sternum, dislocated a few ribs, and earned enough stitches to rival a quilt. But the ER docs have already done a nice job of patching you up. It’s the concussion, your third concussion, which has the neurologist concerned.”

“Causes . . . migraines,” I murmur.

“Yes. Not to mention varying degrees of confusion, anxiety, general exhaustion, light sensitivity and short-term amnesia. Plus, you know, other minor complications such as not recognizing your own husband.” He tries to sound lighthearted; it doesn’t work. “Your memory will come back,” he says, more seriously. “The headaches will fade. You’ll regain your ability to focus and function. But it’s going to take time. You need to rest, give your scrambled brain cells a chance to recover.”

“Alcohol is bad.”

He stills, regards me carefully with his dark-brown eyes. “Alcohol is not recommended for people suffering from traumatic brain injuries.”

“But I drink.”

“You did.”

“I’m a drunk.” He doesn’t say anything, but I can see the answer on his face. That once upon a time, he thought he would be enough for me. Obviously, he isn’t.

“What did you dream about when you were little?” I ask.

He frowns. He gets crow’s-feet around his eyes when he frowns. It should age him, make him less attractive. But again, it doesn’t.

“I don’t know. Why do you ask?”

“Why not?”

He smiles. His thumbs are still moving on my temples, massaging little circles. This close, I can catch a hint of spice wafting from his skin, a clean, soapy fragrance that is both familiar and slightly intoxicating. If I could move, I would lean into him, inhale deeper.

But I don’t. Instead, I feel a darkness growing in the back of my head. A feeling of dread to counteract the allure of his scent.

Run.

But of course, I can’t. I lie on a hospital bed, pinned by white sheets and a concussed brain as my husband rubs my temples, strokes my hair.

“I dreamed the first time I saw you,” he murmurs, his voice low and husky. “I spotted you, across the proverbial crowded room. You weren’t looking at me at all. But I saw you and I . . . I felt I’d waited my whole life just for that moment. To find you. You consumed me, Nicky. You still do.”

His breath feathers across my cheek. Once again, I respond to the scent, would turn my head if I could.

Run.

Then I see it, a faded bruise along his jawline. I can’t help myself. I pull my arm from beneath the bedclothes. I touch the bruise, trace it with my fingertips, feel the rasp of morning whiskers he hasn’t had a chance to shave. He doesn’t retreat. But his fingers fall from my temples and I can tell he’s holding his breath.

I inflicted that bruise. I know that without a shadow of a doubt. I hit this man. And I’d do it again, if given half the chance.

“You hate me,” I whisper, not a question.

“Never,” he says. An obvious lie.

“You hate me,” he corrects, more quietly. “But you refuse to tell me why. Once, we were happy. And then . . . I still dream, Nicky. What about you?”

I’ve gone wrong, I think, taken a misstep. Because even if I don’t remember who I am, I like to think I know what I once dreamed, and it wasn’t this. It was never this.

Vero, I see her again, the image dark around the edges. Like the vision is fading from my tired mind, becoming impossible to focus. She turns, as if to walk away, and my first thought is to grab her hand. It’s important to keep her. I can’t let her go.

She looks at me. Her face is thinner, older, I realize with a start. She’s not a toddler anymore, but a girl, maybe ten, eleven, twelve.

“Why me?” she asks, voice plaintive.

“Vero,” I whisper.

“Shhh,” my husband says.

“Why me, why me, why me?”

She’s turning away again. Leaving me. I reach for her arm, but it slides free. I can’t hold her. The world so dark. My head about to explode. Or maybe it already did.

“Vero!”

“Nicky, please!”

I’m thrashing. I’m fighting. I know that, but I don’t know that. All that matters is that I get to Vero. He’s going to keep me from her. I realize that now. And it’s not the first time.

“Nurse, nurse!” Someone is yelling. The man who claims to be my husband is yelling.

Vero, Vero, Vero. She’s walking away from me.

I run. In the hospital bed? In my mind’s eye? Does it matter? I run; then I catch up to her. I snag her arm, hold on tight.

Vero turns.

As maggots burst from the empty sockets of her eyes and wriggle around her gleaming white skull.

“You should’ve told me that little girls were never meant to fly.”

*   *   *

ONE MOMENT. ONE memory. Then it’s gone.

And I’m no one at all, but a woman twice returned from the dead.

*   *   *

THE NURSE COMES. I don’t fight anymore. I lay perfectly still as she administers the sedative. I stare straight ahead. Past the nurse’s bent form. Past my husband’s haggard face. I stare at the open doorway and the two detectives waiting for me there.