Page 17 of Manhattan State of Mind

“I’m twenty-seven now,” I blurt out, the statement sounding alien to me. “How did I celebrate?”

“Oh! You, Priya, and Libby went to the spa then had dinner afterward. And you and I had dinner at Captain’s Crab in town.”

So that’s it? Am I the most boring person alive?

“Lucy.” Dr. Ramirez knocks before entering the room. “Are you ready to discuss your treatment plan?”

“Is it a magic pill that will bring my memories back?”

She smiles gently. “I wish I had better news, but we must consider all possibilities. We’ll provide you with the necessary support if your memories don’t return.”

Oh my God. I hadn’t even considered the possibility that my memories might not come back.

I manage a weak smile because if I don’t, I’ll cry. And by cry, I mean bawl all over the floor, kicking and screaming.

“Let me guess: the future is fabulous?” I quip, waving the pamphlet at her.

“I can’t promise that, but things will become easier, Lucy,” Dr. Ramirez says, standing by the bed.

“But some people remember, some don’t? Which type am I?”

She hits me with one of those trust-me-I’m-a-doctor smiles. “Unfortunately, the brain isn’t that predictable. Each case is unique, and we approach them accordingly.”

“But why am I missing a whole year, not just the night at the Plaza?” I question, trying to make sense of this new reality.

“Sometimes, our brain tries to shield us from painful memories. It’s a protective mechanism. Maybe there’s something from this past year that you’re not quite ready to confront yet.”

Dread rises up in my chest.

Mom clasps her hands together dramatically, eyeballs aimed at heaven, as if begging for some divine intervention. Helpful as always.

I work on swallowing the emotions lodged in my throat. “I think I could use a top-up on that morphine, doc.”

As far as scariest moments in my life go, this ranks high.

Because right beyond that hospital door is a year’s worth of change waiting to flatten me the second I step out.

FOUR

JP

Every damn time I think life has settled into a predictable rhythm, it drop-kicks me in the balls. Again.

My steps echo ominously through the corridor of the neurological ward.

I should have been here sooner. All of this—it’s on me. I thought I had already done enough damage before the accident. Because evidently, smashing her heart to smithereens wasn’t enough. I had to go ahead and have a crack at her body too.

“Mr. Wolfe, you’re back,” the nurse chirps, falling in step beside me. Her eyes linger a beat too long, irking me. “Can I get you anything?”

I grunt out a terse “no,” trying to fend off any idle chit-chat. It’s not her I’m pissed at, but Lucy’s dicey state has me on a razor’s edge, my temper one misstep from boiling over. I feel like a fucking pressure cooker.

Nearing the door to Lucy’s room, I grip the handle, when a woman’s voice freezes me in my tracks.

“Mr. Wolfe, hold on!”

I stop, turning to see Dr. Ramirez closing the distance. “What’s the matter, doctor?” I ask.

She motions for me to follow her. A cold weight of unease settles in my chest as I match her stride.