Page 21 of Dear Future Husband (The Dearly Written #1)

Maybelle

The next few days were a blur.

I was always sleeping, or how Chelsea liked to put it, always recovering .

I hated it.

The sluggish, hollow feeling of my body lacking the strength to even stand on my own two feet?

Absolutely horrible.

It had been eight days since I woke up. Eight days…and I was just as useless as when I had been in a coma. Except now, I was cognizant—fully aware of my stale existence.

The only time Chelsea encouraged, or more like, kindly forced me out of bed and into the land of the living was to be brutally tortured in my physical therapy sessions. It was cruel and unusual punishment, the stretches and exercises my body was being subjected to.

Annalise Jones, the sadistic tormentor that claimed to be a physical therapist, came to the Turner home the last three days to bend and push my body in ways I refused to believe were healthy.

“I promise, if we keep up with this, May, you’ll be walking on your own in no time,” Annalise promised in her chipper, southern accent as she pulled my joints into a new, excruciating position.

I had to keep my mouth closed when she said things like that, because I was all too tempted to scream at the woman each time.

Despite that, I really liked her. She was a sweetheart, and what I appreciated most was how much she pushed me.

Yeah, I may have wanted to maim her in the heat of a painful muscle extension, but I was starting to feel the progress.

I wasn’t feeling strong by any means, but my body was starting to feel more solid, even reliable. Still, by the end of each of the sessions with Annalise, my body would ache with absolute exhaustion.

I got into a routine in which I would wake up at some embarrassingly late hour of the day. Eat what I could get down. Get through therapy without a scrap of my dignity left, eat again, shower, and sleep.

Each day was a poor regurgitation of the last.

Especially since Trey left back to school for football training at the beginning of the week.

He had spent the first few days at the house, helping me settle in, but was gone by Sunday.

Even when he was here, I didn’t see much of him due to my “recovering”.

We hadn’t spoken nearly as much as that first day, which I couldn’t help but be a little disappointed about.

Trey said, before he left for school, that he would be back next weekend and would spend Friday night, Saturday and part of Sunday back home. But would have to be back at school before Monday.

Today, Thursday, I laid supine on my bed, staring up at the white, cloud-textured ceiling, mentally preparing myself for the torture session I had with Annalise in an hour. My gaze meandered and settled on the three picture frames hanging on the wall above my bed.

There was a shift in my chest, like a lightweight dumbbell had been placed there to rest, making it almost painful to breathe.

When I had first seen the pictures, I could only focus on the facts, pointing out my face, and acknowledging the other unfamiliar faces of the people I couldn’t remember.

The photographs now only loomed over me as a reminder that I was a stranger in my own body.

An outsider that had no real connection to the world around them.

It terrified me. I tried desperately, in the few hours I found myself awake and staring up at the ceiling, like I did now, to remember.

My brain was a massive library. Aisle after aisle, row after row of filing cabinets filled with memory files. I could spend hours scouring each of the drawers for the information I lacked. But each time, the files were empty—blank.

Two soft knocks clicked against the bedroom door.

“Come in,” I answered.

Chelsea poked her head in, a wide smile splitting open her face. “Good to see you’re awake,” she said sweetly, but I cringed. It was a couple of hours after noon. Chelsea, being surprised to see me already awake, was proof of just how lazy I’d been.

“I know. I need to get up,” I acknowledged sheepishly, but she stopped me from rising off the bed with a hand on my shoulder.

“You’re good to rest until your session. I know it takes a lot out of you. Don’t beat yourself up about it though, it will get easier.”

I snorted. “I sure hope so. Annalise has been telling me the same thing.”

Chelsea reached and brushed a ratted blonde curl from my forehead to behind my ear.

I adored Chelsea. Since I moved in with the Turners, she had continued to treat me with so much belonging, never making me feel like a burden or even a stranger, though I was.

“Can I join you?” she asked, gesturing to the bed space beside me .

I scooted over, allowing more room for her to sit comfortably beside me. She sat down on the edge, swiping her hands against her palm leaf, green dress pants, then adjusted the frilly collar of her flowery, white blouse with puffed sleeves that barely capped her petite, tan shoulders.

The pretty, professional, and girly clothing that she had worn the last eight days greatly differed from the clothing that now stocked my closet.

It was all very basic, neutral colored clothing that leaned more toward comfort and casual.

I was grateful for it. If I was wearing the blouse Chelsea wore now, I’d probably die.

Made me feel claustrophobic just looking at the ruffles that brushed at her neck.

I, instead, wore a very light fabric, long sleeve white top, with a low, swooping neckline. The bottom of the shirt stopped just over my belly button, showing off an inch of my skin between the shirt and high-rise black yoga pants.

“Do you work tonight?” I asked as I remembered the light blue matching scrub set she had worn that first night we met. She’d been up with me every day, getting me to my therapy sessions and keeping me fed.

Had she also been going to work each night?

The blood vacated my veins, leaving me cold and uncomfortable with the thought.

Chelsea shook her head. “My boss gave me time off to help you these first few days, but I’m back to work Saturday night.”

My lungs filled with relief.

She shifted, looking back at the wall, obviously admiring those three picture frames that stared holes into my soul.

“You know, I knew your mom,” she said without looking away.

Curiosity and a bit of excitement shot through me, sitting me up straight.

This was the first time someone brought up my mom.

I heard so much regarding Liam from Trey and even the nurses when I woke up, but nothing specific about the blonde woman pictured next to me in that first photo.

I turned to Chelsea, anxious and waiting.

“Trey didn’t know I knew her.” Her gaze finally slipped back to me, a sad half smile on her lips.

“Why?” I whispered, eager to know more.

In this moment, Chelsea wasn’t expecting me to know. She wasn’t waiting for my brain to be whole, but she was offering information that my mind craved to fill the blank files with.

“She was my therapist. Stephanie Mason was an amazing counselor that worked with women. Helped them heal, helped them overcome. I was one of those women.”

She smoothed her pants again with her long feminine hands. She splayed her palms and fingers out across her lap, emotion flooding from her. Not in tears yet, but the heart, the story that lingered in her stiff movements.

“Trey’s dad left me for another woman a couple of years before your family moved to San Francisco.

I was a mess. I was so lonely and just trying to hold myself together for Trey.

Most of the time, though, he sadly was the one taking care of me—I knew I needed help.

Some ladies with sons on the football team at the high school talked about your mom being a therapist who specialized in helping women who suffered from betrayal trauma.

That night I looked at her website and spontaneously signed myself up for one of her group sessions. ”

Chelsea let out a chuckle, turned and swiped at a stray tear that escaped down her cheek.

“I was so nervous. I was terrified there was a way I could mess up or that my hurt would be small compared to the experiences of the other women in the group—I don’t know.

I think I was more scared that nothing could help, that I was too broken.

Stephanie Mason was the first one to talk to me when I arrived at my first meeting.

Instead of introducing herself or even saying hello, she pulled me into a hug.

I collapsed into her arms and just sobbed. ”

I soaked up every word, every chuckle and tear. My heart full, not for the loss and pain that Chelsea endured, of course, but for the love and emotion that spilled from her story.

“With one look, your mom knew I couldn’t hold myself up alone for one more second, so she held me.

One day a week, for months, your mother held me and the women of that group up until we started to hold each other up.

Friendships and relationships blossomed to stabilize us in our own personal lives of turmoil.

Then we got better at holding ourselves up.

We relied on each other when needed, but we learned to be free and rely on our own strengths… Your mom saved my life, Maybelle.”

Chelsea punctuated that last statement by reaching over and grasping my hand.

“Trey knew I was in therapy, but I didn’t tell him that the mom of his best friend was my therapist until those first weeks after the accident.

I finally told him, and we realized we both had a shared interest in making sure you were taken care of.

I hope you never feel alone in this. I can’t imagine what you might be experiencing but know that this is your home now too.

You may never get your memories back, but no matter if you do or you don’t, you will forever have a place and people to call home. You understand me?”

I was crying. I couldn’t recall when I started, but the tears poured from me.

I hadn’t realized just how much I needed to hear that.

Even though I couldn’t remember the family I’d been born into, the people I’d lost and the love that I once had for them—I was anxious and scared that I was alone, never to be completely accepted into a world I couldn’t remember.

The only response I could give Chelsea was a nod as I sniffled through the overwhelming tears.

I didn’t realize how much emotion I’d been holding in from the last week of events.

The buildup of the confusion, the frustration, the loneliness, exhaustion, the inadequacy, and heartache from the last eight days finally came crashing down, and it felt so good to just sob, shamelessly blubber.

Chelsea’s arm swooped around my shoulders, her hand pressed into the side of my hair, gently guiding my head until it laid on her shoulder as the sobs continued to come. Her fingers brushed through my tangled hair, hushing me calmly, holding me up.

Holding me up the way Stephanie Mason had once held her.

The way I imagined a mother would hold her daughter.

The way Stephanie might’ve held me.

That night I didn’t fall asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow like every other night. I was awake, staring up at the ceiling again, my body energized with a whole new motivation. If I was going to be a part of this world around me—I needed to wake up, I needed to walk.

I stood myself up, leaning heavily against the bed. My limbs trembled from the soreness and excessive use from my earlier physical therapy session, but I hissed in a breath, and I made myself walk.