Page 3 of Wed By the Lumberjack

“We can’t say for sure, but we believe she has post-traumatic retrograde amnesia due to her car accident. Physically, she will make a full recovery, but her memories may take longer. Since there doesn’t seem to be any extensive damage, it is likely that her memories will come back in the next few days.”

Well, that’s a bit of good news. Hopefully, by tomorrow Dixie can clear up all the confusion.

And, she’ll finally be able to remember me.

“For the most part, victims can’t remember the recent past and they’re typically confused about what’s going on around them. It’s important to remain calm and patient with them. We don’t want to confuse and frustrate them further.”

I nod at the doctor’s stern look. “Don’t add to the confusion. Got it.”

“She also inhaled some smoke,” she goes on. “Thankfully it’s mild and she’s being treated with an oxygen mask.

“It must be the smoke from the engine exploding.”

The doctor frowns. “Until Dixie can tell us herself, we can’t be certain, but it seems unlikely that the car smoke caused it. You did say she was pulled from the vehicle almost immediately, right?”

I nod.

“We think she inhaled the smoke much earlier, and far more of it than what you described coming from the hood. Do you know where she was earlier?”

I swallow and shake my head and Dr. Brooks can barely conceal her disapproval.

What sort of husband doesn’t know where his wife was for hours on end?

With a sigh, she gestures with Dixie's folder for me to follow her down the long corridor.

When we reach room 213, Dixie stirs at the sound of the door opening. There’s a small bandage on her forehead, but otherwise, she looks relatively unharmed.

“Ms. Fox, your husband is here to see you.”

My stomach clenches at her words. She's probably trying to be clear and direct with Dixie to avoid any confusion, but how am I supposed to backpedal on that now?

Dixie looks at me, pulls down her oxygen mask, and smiles sleepily. “The gentle giant. You came back for me.”

“I never left, peanut.”

Something in my chest tells me that I never will.