Rebuilding Her World

"I'm Derek," I said gently. "Your husband, and father of your twins."

"I..." She looked around the hospital room, horror creeping into her eyes. "I don't remember anything."

The older doctor, one Dr. Adams I'd specifically requested, examined her thoroughly.

"Mrs. Morrison, you've suffered a head injury. Retrograde amnesia is common with this type of trauma. Your memories may return gradually, or they may not return at all."

"Not at all?"

"I'm afraid it's possible. The important thing is to keep you stress-free for the remainder of your pregnancy. Your babies' health depends on it."

I squeezed her hand. "We'll get through this together, darling. I'll help you remember our life."

She looked at me with those wide, trusting eyes. The same eyes that had looked at me three years ago when I'd told her I loved her. I'd meant it then, in my way. She was beautiful and the sex was good.

"My mother called," I told Vivian in the hospital room. "Patricia Morrison. She's flying in from visiting her sister. She'll be here next week. She's been so worried about you."

"I don't remember her either."

"That's okay. We'll help you remember everything." I kissed her forehead. "Rest now. I'll be right here."

Claire arrived twenty minutes later, playing her role flawlessly. "Oh, Vivian! I heard about the accident! Are you okay?"

"I'm sorry," Vivian hesitated. “Do I know you?"

"I'm Claire. Your best friend since after college."

Over the next week, we rebuilt Vivian's world exactly how we wanted it.

I told her about our fairy-tale romance. How I'd swept her off her feet. How we'd married despite her grandfather's objections. How we'd tried for years to have children before IVF finally worked.

I told her about the scandal with her stepbrother Nathan, how it had devastated us both, how her grandfather had fired her as CEO because of it… and she cried.

"We moved past it already, love. Not remembering, It's probably for the best. What he did to you... to our marriage... it's better forgotten."

Claire visited daily, bringing flowers and stories of their friendship. We cut off Vivian's access to the internet and television.

"You heard the doctor," I explained. "Too much stress from news and social media. We need to keep you calm."

Instead, we played games, did exercises, watched movies. Sometimes I rubbed her swollen feet while we watched old movies.

She was so grateful, sweet and so perfectly obedient.

Two weeks after the hospital, Claire moved into our house.

"Housing issues," I explained to Vivian when she asked why our "friend" needed to stay with us. "She lost her apartment. It's just temporary."

Claire immediately began redecorating the nursery Vivian had spent months preparing. She painted over Vivian's sunny color choices, threw out the handmade decorations, replaced everything with expensive designer items.

Vivian watched from the doorway, looking confused but not saying anything.

"Do you like it?" Claire asked, smiling.

"It's... I don't know."

"You said you wanted me to help," Claire lied smoothly. "You said your taste wasn't good enough."

"Did I say that?"

"You don't remember, but yes. You've always known I have a better style."

Vivian touched her belly, looking lost. "Okay. If I said that."

One evening, I found Vivian in the kitchen crying quietly while making dinner.

"What's wrong?" I asked, though I knew. We'd been slowly increasing her confusion, her isolation, her dependence.

"I don't remember who I am," she whispered. "Everyone tells me stories about my life, but they don't feel real. It's like I'm living someone else's existence."

I pulled her into my arms, feeling her pregnant belly press against me.

"You're Vivian Morrison," I said gently. "My wife. The mother of our children. The woman I love. That's all you need to be. My mom just got back. She'd be here tomorrow, okay? You guys have always been best buds.”