Inseparable by Chris Scully Page A

and, even though I hardly know this man, I would do
    anything not to upset him.
    “I’m Joe,” he says and, once again, his calm voice pulls me back from the edge of panic.
    “You’re Adam. You were hit by a car.” He starts to pull away, but I refuse to let go. “It’s okay. I’ll be
    right back. I’m just going to get the doctor.”
    He isn’t gone a minute before he’s back with a nurse. Then another arrives. Then one doctor and
    two, and within no time my side of the curtain is crowded with people poking and prodding and
    asking me questions, talking over each other when all I want to do is sleep. Someone blocks my view
    of Joe’s anxious face, and I can’t bear it. As if sensing my distress, he moves to my side and takes my
    hand again. The contact soothes me. It’s the only thing I can hang onto in a world that has suddenly
    been pulled out from under me.
    They tell me I was hit by a car yesterday—SUV actually—while crossing the street. I have three
    cracked ribs, some bruising, and a concussion. Oh yeah, and I can’t remember shit. There’s a big
    black hole where my memories used to be.
    BY THE afternoon, the pain is manageable with a little pharmacological help, although nothing can
    completely eliminate the hammering inside my head. I’m able to open my eyes without tearing up as
    long as the blinds are kept closed. The doctors take me away from Joe to do some more tests. These
    hours without him are the longest. It’s as though I can’t rest unless I know he’s near. By the time they
    run an MRI and ask me questions about my name and what year it is, I’m almost ready to lose it.
    When they finally wheel me back to my room and I see Joe pacing the hallway with barely concealed
    frustration, I dissolve into sobs of relief that send shooting pain through my chest. Joe glares at the
    orderly, and the two of them help me back into bed.
    Once we’re alone, Joe wets a washcloth in the adjoining bathroom and sweeps it across my
    forehead and over my cheeks. The cool water on my heated face feels heavenly. “I don’t think you
    cried this much when I made you watch The Notebook ,” he teases.
    “I don’t remember.”
    “I know.” There’s a sad smile in his voice.
    “I don’t remember you ,” I rasp. And somehow that is worse than the pain, because this man has
    shed tears for me, has hardly left my side, and I’ve just forgotten him.
    “Maybe up here.” Joe gently strokes my forehead, then slides his hand down to hover over my
    heart. “But what about in here?” It’s so simple but it’s true. Deep down inside where it matters most,
    I do know him. From the moment I opened my eyes, something in me recognized him.
    He hands me a tissue, and I discover it even hurts to blow my nose. “I’m sorry to be such a
    crybaby,” I whisper. I’m exhausted. It’s a struggle just to keep my eyes open, but I don’t want to lose
    sight of Joe. “Thank you—for being here.”
    “Adam, I’d do anything for you. Anything .” Joe leans down close so our heads are almost
    touching. His unruly curls brush my cheek, whisper soft. I’d like nothing better than to reach up and
    run my fingers through them, but my arms feel like lead. I drift off feeling safe and loved.
    Sometime later, as Joe is trying to coax me into finishing an unappealing hospital dinner despite
    my lack of appetite, Dr. Singh, the doctor who examined me earlier, enters the room. “You’re a very
    lucky man, Mr. Beck,” he proclaims.
    “Lucky?” Joe practically chokes. “How can he be lucky? He doesn’t remember who he is.”
    “It could be worse—much worse. Your motor skills are unaffected; your new memories,
    anything since the accident, are fine. What you’re experiencing is called retrograde amnesia. It’s not
    uncommon with traumatic brain injuries like you’ve sustained. When the car hit you, you struck your
    head on the pavement which appears to have impacted your right temporal lobe. However,