75.

I don’t know why Melody’s come to the hospital with us, but then again I don’t know why I’ve come either. My existence unhinges Autumn – she cannot reconcile why everybody’s telling her that she should know me, but she doesn’t. It’s just a hole in her mind. I’m a hole. I don’t understand it either, unless it’s just that fucking rule Luca told me about – one thing would change.

This is a pretty big thing to change, though, and unfair to change Autumn, rather than change me. When I didn’t remember Peta, that only impacted me. Autumn’s issue impacts her, her work, her family, and her world.

I should cycle out, I will cycle, but I keep hoping that there’ll be some other explanation – a doctor will emerge and offer some logical explanation, and then they’ll be able to fix it.

Dennis arrives first, though, dressed in coveralls and wearing an expression like he’s miffed – this has inconvenienced him to come to the hospital.

Victor, Bell, and Shia greet him, and I feel some jealousy – like they have this connection with him now, which means they have a connection to Autumn that I didn’t think existed. Everybody in the office is office-friends. The friendships begin with the work day, and the occasional function aside (like a Christmas party) end with the work day. But seeing this makes me think that they have a friendship outside of work, and I’m jealous that exists when mine withered away, but also frustrated (at myself) for not knowing more.

A small, cool hand clasps mine – Melody, trying to offer me comfort. “I want to tell you she’ll be okay,” she says. “But it’s scary she doesn’t know you – like she’s had a stroke or something that’s knocked that memory of you in her brain.”

I hadn’t even considered something like that, and am unsure how it’ll affect us. She could get to know me all over again, but like Rachel showed, change the time, the circumstances, just the mood, and not everything unfolds the same way. Autumn might get to know me all over and conclude I’m an unimaginable dick. I think I would if I met me.

Melody rubs my hand. “Are you okay?”

But I’m focused on Dennis and Max, Bell, and Shia, and I catch snippets of their exchange slicing through the other hospital sounds – others talking until their words become a collective murmur, people shuffling on linoleum floor, and the occasional beep and hospital page.

“… actually separated,” Dennis says. “She … tell …?”

Max shakes his head. “She keeps her private life private,” he says – I can hear him fine because he’s a loud talker.

“… thought … … … happily …” Bell says, and I barely pick her up because her voice is so subdued.

“It’s … over … months,” Dennis says.

“She did not let on to any of us,” Max says.

But she did to me, although we didn’t explore it in any great depth because I didn’t push the conversation. I would’ve, once. I would’ve asked, tried to console her, would’ve been there for her, rather than her there for me (which was prevailingly the rule), but I’ve fallen out of the habit of that because of Lana. No, I should stop blaming her. It’s because I’ve become too self-involved. Lana’s just a good crutch to support that argument, but crutches aren’t forever.

“What’re you thinking?” Melody says, leaning into me.

“How do I fix this?” I say so quietly I’m sure she wouldn’t hear me, but she does.

“Some things we can’t fix,” Melody says. “My mum died from ovarian cancer. She tried everything. Chemo. Changed her diet. Affirmations. Reiki. Vibrational therapy. Things I can’t even name. Some things just are. I was just fourteen when she died. I’ve missed her every day ever since.”

I don’t expect such profundity from somebody whose writing I consider so shallow, and now I profile her and believe her writing is vacuous to cover that pain, but one day she’ll shed that, she’ll realise just how awful and pretentious it is, and she’ll write as herself and be fucking magnificent.

A doctor strides into the waiting room, her purpose something that cuts through the din. I feel the exhaustion weighted into her body, and see the way it drags arms down until her shoulders sag, how it’s worn away the material beauty from her face, and left this care in her expression that speaks of boundless empathy.

“Who do I talk to here?” she says.

“I guess me,” Dennis says.

“Her vitals and everything else are good,” the doctor says. “She’s healthier than most people her age, except for this one blank spot. We’re going to perform an MRI, so we’ll have a better idea then. But outside of this, she’s damn healthy.”

I can read his tone. He doesn’t have to explain: she’s so damn healthy this doesn’t make sense. A stroke would likely cause some other issue in the body. After all, a stroke fucks with the brain, and the brain operates the body. But this has been entirely focused on one thing.

Me.

The MRI won’t reveal anything; it’ll come back clear. I feel like telling them that. This isn’t an issue that’s bound by the physics and physiology we know. Autumn’s healthy, she’s healthy, she’s healthy. I’m the unhealthy one, a stain that’s blotched her life. This is my fault, too, cycling back, expecting to fix things until I’ve wrought damage that’s irreparable.

I rise; Melody’s hand slips from my own, but tightens around my wrist.

“Where’re you going?” she says. “You can’t fix this.”

I don’t know if she’s speaking to me from some greater level of understanding, or she’s just generalising, but I need to get moving, because all I see here is the damage I’ve wrought – Autumn, and now the lives around her that it’s touched.

“I think one day you’ll be a magnificent author,” I tell Melody.

She blinks, surprised. “Sorry?”

“But I guess it really doesn’t matter what I think,” I say.

I leave the waiting room, and my initial intention is to go home and you know what comes next – what can only come next.

And I do get as far as sitting in my car, in the underground parking, thrusting the key in the ignition and starting my car. There’s no dramatic roar of the engine – just the putter of my little Kia, and the pounding of a heartbeat that I’m sure will rupture my heart, and leave me dead here.

Then I force myself to think this through. New cycle – that has to be a given, surely. But that won’t reset Autumn’s memory, will it? Or will something else change entirely? Maybe if I come back, it’ll be something worse.

Luca said some forgotten things were re-discoverable – could I introduce myself to Autumn, like she’s meeting me for the first time? Is that a launching pad? Could she get to know me again? Would she even like this older, more jaded version of me? I don’t think I’ve ever liked me, and I like this version even less.

I turn the key, and switch the car off.

76.

Just before 8, I get out of my car, take the lift back into the hospital lobby, and ask for Autumn’s room. The receptionist tells me she’s on the fifth floor in room thirty-seven, but cautions me visiting hours are almost over. I know. I budgeted for this. The only thing I can’t be sure about is if Dennis has remained behind.

Taking the lift up the fifth floor, I make my way down the corridor, counting the room numbers until I get to thirty-five. Then I slow, keening my ear, trying to hear any conversation that might be coming from Autumn’s room.

Nothing.

Well, the television’s playing quietly.

I walk slowly now, and peer around the door jamb.

Autumn sits on the bed, knees drawn to her chest, staring forlornly at the television hanging from the ceiling. But she’s not watching – not as in watching as if she’s taking whatever’s on (something utterly banal, like one of those reality shows where they try to pair up singles – something Lana would watch).

I knock on the jamb.

Her face cycles through so many expressions – alarm, panic, shock, fear, then hopelessness. But she doesn’t cower away like she did at the office. If nothing else, she’s had enough time to process what’s happened, and while it might scare her, the initial terror is gone.

“I’m sorry,” I say, taking tiny steps into her room.

“I don’t know why I don’t know you,” Autumn says.

“We were friends,” I say.

“Were we?”

“Good friends.”

“That’s what Dennis tells me, what everybody tells me, but I look at you, and there’s nothing – no recognition, no feeling, nothing but emptiness, and that terrifies me.” Autumn’s runs her wrist across her eyes. “How could I forget somebody who was meant to be so close? How can there be nothing there now? How can there just be … just be this?”

“We can be friends again,” I say, stepping into the room, “can’t we?”

“I don’t think it can ever be the same again,” Autumn says.

“But we can try, right?” I take another step into the room.

“You don’t know why this has happened,” Autum says, and now she’s crying freely, but she’s not just sad but angry. “You don’t know why. And I can’t change that. You can’t. We can’t. None of us can!”

Her voice lifts with every word. I’ve only seen her angry sporadically – she’s not somebody who typically gets angry. But this is rage that I recognise: rage at the unfairness of this happening, rage at the injustice of her mind betraying her, rage at the fucking world doing what the fucking world does.

“We can try,” I say.

And for an instant, some bit of uncertainty flickers across her face. She sees that despite the anger, despite what’s happened, maybe, just maybe, there’s some bit of hope remaining, and that can give birth to something greater, but then the seeming impossibility of it must crash out as she shakes her head, then lowers it, so she’s resting it between the perch of her knees, as she sobs.

“Please go,” she says.  “I’m sorry I did this—”

“You didn’t do this—”

“Please go,” she says in such a small voice, that I finally acknowledge just how much pain my presence is causing her.

But it’s not just her. Not really. I’ve caused pain to so many through these cycles, through this life – my mother, Lana, even idiots like Dom. I’m Godzilla through the construction of my relationships. And here it’s worst of all.

Here it’s Autumn.

This may be something she never gets over – not me; I’m not so egotistical to think that somebody forgetting me is going to irrevocably damage their life, but just that this is capable of this happening. It’s a glimpse at our own frailty, and where there’s a glimpse, possibly there’s much more to see – something overwhelming. Nobody really understands how vulnerable they are until something breaks, and what’s broken in Autumn is her mind – it’s broken and she’s terrified of what that means.

“I love you,” I say, although I’m unsure why – maybe because during all the tumult with Lana and work and my career, she’s always been there for me, always been there to pick me up and set me right, even though she’d know it’s temporary, but it has to be done.

I wait for her to respond, as if the declaration will rouse some memory, or will force some reconnection, like this is some idiot romcom where the equivalent of the Prince kissing the sleeping Snow White is the magical solution, but Autumn just keeps on crying – cries harder, in fact. It might’ve been because what I said, or this might just be the same continuing whirlpool that she thinks she can’t get out of.

“I’m sorry,” I say, and then leave the room.