mARch Exclusive - "Foggy" - Part 2

He should have taken Jane's phone. A chance to catch up on ten months of news. He's been offline for forever and a day.

He doesn't feel the tug to use Twitter or Facebook. Funny how going cold turkey can cure him of social media. But how is the world, and how is business? Such a long time to be away, and it is work Robert wonders about; clients, his network of interdependencies. Right now, names, numbers, and subject matter are still muddled, but with time, it will come back. Once the headache goes away, he will have clarity.

The urinals aren't an option. Robert enters a stall and latches the door behind him. He grabs the elastic waistband of his trousers and pulls them down, well aware that these are the type of trousers his mother sent him to primary school in.

There's the nappy; at least it's white, no infantile design, but that's the best thing Robert could say about it. He pulls the tabs, lets it fall down to his ankles, and then rolls it up and places it on top of the toilet cistern. Hell, it wasn't even that he had to pee that badly; he just wanted rid of the nappy. But he urinates anyway, wondering at how long it's been since he did this without an audience. And then he pulls his trousers back up; he can go commando until he's back in normal underwear.

Robert leaves the stall and goes over to the sink. It's now that he remembers the bib around his neck. He finds the Velcro tab behind his neck and pulls it off. Why hadn't he done that before? Always waiting for 'Mummy' to take off his bib, his mittens, his everything. God, he's been so dependent on Jane!

No more dinosaurs. He rolls up the bib and puts it on the wastebin.

And now finally, as if he's been avoiding it (he has), Robert looks at himself in the mirror.

He's put on weight, gained the pounds that Jane shed. A rounder face, and closely cropped hair. Not his style, but just one thing he hasn't been asked about since the accident. Running fingers over his head, he feels and then sees the pink line of a scar.

Was there a scrap of doubt in Robert’s mind about Jane’s story? He can’t remember a thing about the accident. But the evidence is there on his head.

He can grow his hair. And he can change the sweatshirt at the first opportunity. Thomas the Tank decorates the front. There is lettering below the train that Robert can read now, as long as he concentrates, pushing the ache in his temples to the back of his mind:

This is how I roll.

Robert grimaces. How ‘adorable’? How humiliating. Jane has made some choices that make sense given the medical circumstances, but dressing her husband like this?

And it's more than just clothes. His head squeezes, makes him groan, as he remembers the train set in the living room – he has been obsessed with it, knocking the magnetic carriages together, the satisfaction of feeling the chunky wooden pieces in his hands.

Those damn wooden trains, another relic from Robert's childhood that Jane must have unearthed in the attic. What will she say when he goes back to their table? That she just wanted to keep him happy? That he asked for it, like the teddy bear? She's probably coming up with all kinds of justifications right now, preparing lines to take. And maybe it all makes sense, just like it makes sense for everything to change now that he is getting his mind back.

He should be...grateful? But instead, he feels embarrassed and resentful. A year of his life, almost, lost to the routine of early childhood. And Jane is the one who is glowing, slim and youthful.

Christ, how about he forgets about waiting for Jane’s explanations – how about he just leaves?

And then he laughs out loud. He has no wallet, phone, car keys, no identification. He is effectively at her mercy. So, okay. Let’s talk. He has plenty of questions.

He rubs at the tension in his jaw, massages his neck muscles. The headache can’t last forever, and yet when he leaves the toilet and returns to the table, his headache is even worse.

“All right?” Jane asks. She looks nervous. She should be. Robert imagined for a second that Jane had finished the apple crumble, taking his food as well as everything else in his life. But the bowl is untouched.

“Did they turn up the lights?” Robert asks, blinking.

“That’s just your headache, honey,” says Jane. She holds up the bottle of red liquid. “Ready to take your medicine?”

Robert turns up his nose. "How long have you been feeding me that stuff?" Robert asks. "For all we know, it's been keeping me..." He shrugs. "Foggy."

Jane frowns. "Oh, I don't think so."

"You said it yourself, the doctor didn't want to give me anything for the headaches."

"That was early on, they didn’t mean forever."

Robert points at the bottle. “That stuff on prescription? Doctors know I’m on it?”

Jane purses her lips. “All I’ve done since the accident is take care of you and talk to doctors. II taught you to talk again, to walk. You've made so much progress, and you’re grumbling about having to take a little medicine.” She nods sympathetically. "I know it's hard to focus when your head feels all tight."

Robert blinks.  “I’m focusing just fine. And I’d be okay with a couple of ibuprofen.” Something to take the edge off. If the nausea returns, he might change his tune entirely.

Jane shakes her head. “Besides, that stuff doesn’t work. Not for your headaches.”

Robert shrugs. “I’m all right, then.”

“You sure? Those headaches always made you miserable."

“Pretty much gone,” Robert lies, “I can feel it going away.” It’s a small price for having his mind back. If anything, the headache is like a badge of honour. He’s been through a lot and come out the other side. For now, he can keep rubbing his temples.

“Okay,” says Jane. She puts the bottle back in her bag. “Don’t forget about your pudding.” She pushes the bowl towards him.

“I’m not that hungry.”

“Oh, go on,” Jane says. “Vicky went and warmed it up while you were away, she even put extra custard on it because you like it so much. She’s really very fond of you.”

Robert rolls his eyes. “She doesn’t know me. I’m sure she’ll be okay.”

“Oh come on,” says Jane. “Take one little bite. She’ll get her feelings hurt.”

Robert groans. “I don’t...” He looks at the apple crumble that’s drowning in custard. “I’m really not that hungry. And the headache-”

Jane points. “Aha! I knew it, you’re still feeling bad.”

“Jesus,” Robert hisses. “I’m fine, woman, give it up.” And he takes his spoon and swallows a generous portion of pudding. Better to eat than talk to Jane, who still want to control everything, from the medicine to the food he eats.

And is that so different to their marriage before the accident. It hadn’t been wedded bliss before, Robert knows.

So is this a fresh start, or is it the end? He eats more of the crumble, thinks about his job, selling network server solutions to small businesses. He was brilliant, bringing home the bacon, and he was on the road. Which Jane hated, because what was she supposed to do all day by herself and Robert had told her, Get a hobby, get a cause, God...even get a job.

I’m sorry that you’re stuck. But I’m not stuck. I’m loving it, all of it. And if you can’t get on board, then maybe we’re finished.

He hadn’t been kind. He keeps his head down, eating in silence, and then rests his spoon in the empty bowl.

“Good -” Jane begins brightly, and then trails off.

Robert looks at Jane, dares her to finish the sentence. Good boy!

She blushes, mumbles, “Vicky will be glad.”

“Good for Vicky,” says Robert. “He takes a napkin and wipes his lips.”

“Honey, where’s your bib?” Jane asks, and then she blushes more deeply. “I mean, not that you need it.”

Robert steeples his fingers beneath his chin. "So everyone...friends, family, work, waitresses, they all think I’m...what? A moron?"

"No!" Jane looks horrified. "Not at all. We thought...they said you might never walk, never talk! You’ve made so much progress, but we had to do it slowly. Couldn’t rush you, and there were the headaches, you were miserable.” She pats her bag. “Ever since I found the right medicine, you've been so much happier."

As an idiot. As a mental two-year-old.

“What about money? How have you been doing all this? You haven’t been working.”

Jane nods. “Well, there was the insurance, and then...well, we moved out of London, and Brighton...the house...”

Robert feels the colour drain from his face, and he is sure that the headache will split his head in two, and then he notices...the headache has gone.

“You sold the house,” Robert says calmly. “You sold my inheritance.”

“So I could take care of you!” Jane says.  That's how we could get out of London, move down here.” She reaches for his hand, grasps it. “We have everything we need! It was the only way.”

Robert’s childhood home is gone, except for a trainset and a ragged teddy bear. She sold it without asking, she tossed it all away.

Jane’s face looks pinched, smaller, as if she’s waiting for his rage.

Instead, Robert squeezes his wife’s hand. “You’ve had to make some hard choices." He looks her in the eyes. "Thank you."

Jane flutters her eyes, squeaks a laugh. “Oh!” She exhales. “I wasn’t sure how you’d take it.”

“You’ve had to do all this on your own,” says Robert. “But I’m back now, I’m better.” He looks up to the ceiling and deadpans, “Divine intervention, maybe.” He pats her hand. “Second chance for both of us. Fresh start.”

Jane nods enthusiastically. “And Brighton, you’ll love it, and really, we have plenty of money now, we can-”

“We can’t stay here,” says Robert, cutting her off. “I’m not living in a town where everyone thinks I’m a drooling idiot. I’m not walking the damn beach and I’m not having lunch in this damn café. He gets up. “But we can work it all out. We’ll talk at home...back at the house.”

“Oh,” says Jane. “Oh.” She stands up, fumbles in her bag for cash. “Yes, we’ll talk at home.” She looks at Robert. “And how are you feeling now, any better?”

“I feel fine,” says Robert. “No headache.” He produces a smile that he knows is smug. “Told you it was temporary.”

Jane nods, smiling. “I’m glad.” She reaches for the teddy bear and puts it in her bag, humming tunelessly.

And who knows, perhaps this really is a fresh start. Through the course of their marriage, Jane always hated it when Robert was right about something.

They cross paths with the waitress on their way out.

“I left money,” says Jane, pointing back to the table.

“Great!” Vicky says perkily.  She beams at Robert. “Finish your pudding?”

“Of course, I did,” Robert says crisply. It’s easier to tolerate her, now that his headache has gone, but he can’t quite forgive the waitress for treating him like a little boy. He fixes her with a level stare and pulling back the sides of his coat so she can see his Thomas the Tank sweatshirt before saying pointedly, “This is how I roll.”

To be continued...