Free From Bad to Wurst by Maddy Hunter Page B

racked my brain for occasions on which Dad had voluntarily uttered a complete sentence. “You do realize that conversation isn’t Dad’s strong point, right?”
    â€œI’m not entirely convinced that your father is as taciturn as you make him out to be, Emily. He might turn out to be a regular chatterbox if someone would take the time to listen to what he has to say. I don’t think he lacks verbal skills. I think he lacks an audience.”
    I swallowed slowly, enlightenment hitting me like a lightning bolt. “Omigod, you’re right. The whole family does it. We ignore Dad—we talk over him, we forget he’s there, we assume he has nothing to say, so we don’t even try to engage him anymore.” I pinched my eyes shut, mortified. “What if he’s had tons of stuff to share all these years but kept it all to himself because the rest of us were talking so much, he couldn’t get a word in edgewise?”
    â€œThen you’ll have a lot to look forward to when you give him your undivided attention and let him talk.”
    I fell into a kind of exhausted haze as he feathered soft kisses along the curve of my ear, stirring fluttery sensations from my breastbone to my toes. “Umm…would this be a good time to tell you about Mom’s threat to fly home early?”
    â€œNo.” He tilted my face upward and placed a long, lingering kiss on my mouth, rendering me blissfully numb. “But I do have a question. The Halloween costume you mentioned—the French maid outfit?” He whispered the words against my lips, his voice low and throaty. “Do you still have it?”
    Bam, bam, bam .
    I opened one eye to find the room still dark and the nightstand clock aglow with red numerals indicating it was 4:54.
    Bam, bam, bam . “Emily? Emily!” Bam, bam, bam .
    The door.
    Someone banging on the door.
    I shot out of bed and raced across the room. I threw open the door to find Dad in his bare feet and pajamas.
    â€œYou gotta come quick. Your mother’s had a stroke.”

six
    â€œTransient global amnesia.”
    I stared at the same trauma specialist who’d treated me yesterday, my anxiety so crushing, my heart pounding so fiercely, that I could scarcely catch my breath. “Amnesia? Not…not a stroke?”
    â€œYour mother’s MRI and EEG show no neurological anomalies, Mrs. Miceli, so we’ve ruled out a stroke, as well as epilepsy.”
    â€œAmnesia?” questioned Etienne, who’d suffered his own bout with the affliction before we were married. “From the explosion yesterday?”
    Dad continued to look as shell-shocked as he had when he’d pounded on my door five hours earlier. “She didn’t know where she was when she woke up this morning, and she couldn’t remember how she’d gotten here. So I told her, but five minutes later she asked me the same questions again.”
    â€œAnd five minutes after that, did she repeat her questions?” asked Dr. Fischer.
    Dad nodded. “That’s when I ran down the hall to fetch Emily.”
    Dr. Fischer swept his hand toward the table in the center of the consultation room. “Why don’t we sit down while I explain a little more about the condition.”
    Etienne pulled out a small notebook and pen as we seated ourselves. Dr. Fischer continued. “The type of amnesia Mrs. Andrew has can mimic the symptoms of a stroke, but unlike a stroke, the condition is harmless, has no lasting effects, and is usually short-lived.”
    â€œHow short?” I asked.
    â€œTypically, memory functions return to normal within twenty-four hours.”
    Dad was so juiced by the prognosis that his voice cracked like a twelve-year-old. “No kidding? Come tomorrow, she’ll be her old self again?”
    Dr. Fischer massaged the crown of his shaven skull. “Typically, that’s the case, but there are always exceptions, and we don’t