“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.”
“But—”
“This is good for him.”
“It can be good and cruel at the same time.”
The elevator descended.
When the doors opened, we remained inside until a man pushing a laundry cart cleared his throat.
We stepped out.
At the café, Leah chose soup. I bought a sandwich I did not want.
We found a table in a corner away from the television.
“He remembered my old house,” she said after a while. “The yellow one near the elementary school.”
“I heard.”
“He remembered Emma being afraid of dogs.”
“That’s encouraging.”
“It’s devastating.”
I looked at her.
She turned her spoon through the soup.
“He was so certain she was still little. When I showed him Clara, he looked betrayed.”
“Time moved without him.”
“It moved with him. That’s the part I can’t understand.”
Neither could I.
The years had happened.
Noah had lived every hour of them.
He had laughed, worked, slept, desired, chosen, forgiven. His body had crossed the distance even if his mind had lost the road.
“How bad is it for him?” Leah asked.
“Physically?”
“All of it.”
I leaned back.
“His arm is healing. His pelvis is stable, but he can’t put full weight on his right side yet. They’re hoping to get him standing with support this week. His headaches vary. Some days he can hold a conversation for half an hour. Other days, five minutes is too much.”
“And his memory?”