005

Chapter 5: Notebook of Questions

Dennis woke up early in the morning, and the sound of the birds chirping outside his window filled his ears. The scent of freshly brewed coffee wafted from the kitchen, and he could hear the sound of Leslie bustling around the house as she got ready for work. So it was another day. The night they had spent ended with him not catching anything up.

He sat up slowly, feeling the weight of the past few weeks since he can remember bearing down on him like a heavy load. He couldn't remember anything apart from that before he was confined in the hospital, and it felt like he was living in a dream.

She came into the room, carrying a steaming cup of coffee for him. "Good morning, sweetheart," she said, her voice soft and gentle. "How did you sleep?"

He shrugged, feeling numb. "I don't know," he said. "It's all a blur."

She gave him a sympathetic smile. "I know it's hard, sweetheart. But we'll get through this together."

As she finished getting ready, he felt a sense of relief that she would be gone for the day. He wanted to be alone with his thoughts, to try to make sense of the jumbled mess that was his memory.

She gave him a quick kiss on the cheek before leaving their room for work, and he watched her go with a mix of emotions. He was grateful for her help, but at the same time, he felt like he was suffocating under the weight of her expectations.

As he sat alone in the quiet house, he felt a sense of unease. He couldn't shake the feeling that something was off, that there was more to his life than what she was telling him.

He reached for the notebook that he had started keeping since they went home, feeling the familiar weight of it in his hand. He wrote down a few questions, trying to be as specific as possible.

"What was my job before the accident?" he wrote. "What were my hobbies or interests? Did I have any close friends?"

He wrote quickly, feeling a sense of urgency building inside of him. He knew that he needed to find out who he was, but he didn't know how to go about it.

Left alone, he just spent his days roaming the streets of the manicured suburbs where they lived. He would walk for hours, taking in the neatly trimmed lawns and picturesque gardens that surrounded the homes. The warm summer air enveloped him as he strolled through the peaceful neighborhoods, feeling aimless and unmoored.

He found himself becoming more and more accustomed to his daily routine of aimlessly wandering the neighborhood while she was away at work. As he walked the streets, he couldn't shake the feeling that everything around him was too perfect, too polished, as if it was all just a facade.

He would pause now and then, examining the houses and the meticulously tended gardens with a mix of fascination and bewilderment. It all seemed so foreign to him, and he couldn't help but wonder what kind of person he had been before his accident to have ended up living in a place like this.

He relaxed in a park with a small pond. He sat down on a bench and watched the ducks glide through the water. He wondered if he had ever fed them before, or if he had ever come to this park at all. He closed his eyes and tried to conjure up some memory, but all he could see was darkness.

He had this growing frustration with his inability to remember anything about his former life. He knew that she was his only reliable source of information, but he was hesitant to ask her too many questions. He could see how it added to her distress, and he didn't want to cause her any more pain.

But at the same time, he couldn't shake the feeling that he needed to know more, that he needed to understand who he was and where he came from. So he began to compose himself. He sat down the bench at the bench to compile a list of questions that he wanted to ask Leslie, writing them down in his notebook that he kept hidden in his pocket as he walked.

In his mind, he planned to not do it in front of her as he felt like he was an actor who was a very slow student trying to learn an exceptionally difficult part. But this notebook gave him a sense of comfort like he was taking control of his recovery in some small way.

So he would wait until the day passed and for her to come home from work, anxiously anticipating the moment when he could ask her the questions that burned in his mind.

As the heat of the day had begun to ebb, he made his way down the tree-lined street toward his suburban home. He felt a sense of exhaustion from his long walk, and his feet throbbed in protest with each step. Despite the beauty of the manicured lawns and well-kept gardens, the monotony of the scene left him feeling bored and unfulfilled.

As he approached the house, he saw her waiting for him at the door. Her smile was welcoming, but it only reminded him of the gap between them. He couldn't help but feel a sense of guilt for his earlier relief when she left for work. He knew he was supposed to love this woman, to have shared a life with her, but he couldn't recall a single detail about their supposed history together.

As she cooked dinner, he edged closer and closer to her, trying to build up the courage to start the conversation. But the words always seemed to stick in his throat.

He ended up retreating to his thoughts, scribbling down more questions in his notebook and waiting for another time. The cooking inside the kitchen stretched on, each minute feeling longer than the last until he began to feel like he was living in a world that wasn't quite real.

"Sweetheart," she said, holding the spatula as she checked the dish that was ready for serving. "How was your day? You looked frustrated." She grabbed the pot and started walking to the table.

He hesitated, unsure of what to say. "It was...okay," he finally offered, and he followed her to the dining table. The aroma of their dinner filled the air, but he wasn't sure he felt hungry.

As he sat at the kitchen table, he felt restless as he tapped his pen on the blank notebook in front of him. She mindlessly placed the pot and he noticed that his notebook was on the table and it might be seen easily. He hid the notebook on his lap, under the table.

She walked out and stood by the stove, stirring another pot, of rice maybe since the aroma coming from it smelled delicious. He couldn't help but stare at her. In response, she stared at him as well, maybe by her instinct that someone was staring at her.

"What's on your mind, sweetheart?" she asked softly, her expression unaware.

He watched her as she talked, trying to read her face for any clues or indications of the truth he was investigating this day. But her expressions were familiar yet foreign at the same time, and he struggled to reconcile her words with his sense of dislocation.

He sighed, the emptiness inside him only grew. He knew he had to trust Leslie, but he couldn't shake the feeling that there was something more, something that he wasn't supposed to forget. 

He hesitated for a moment before speaking, unsure how to express the feelings that swirled inside him. "Do you ever get the feeling that there's something you're not telling me?"

She looked taken aback. "What do you mean?"

"I just… I don't know how to explain it," he said, his voice strained. "It's like I'm living in a dream, and everything feels so… unreal."

Leslie's expression softened. "I understand, sweetheart. It's normal to feel that way after what you've been through. But I promise you, I'm your wife, and I'm here to help you remember."

He nodded slowly, appreciating her reassurance, but also feeling the weight of his memory loss bearing down on him. "Okay," he said, gathering his courage. "Can you tell me more about myself? What kind of person was I before the accident?"

She moved to sit beside him at the table, her gaze warm and steady. "Well, you were always a very intelligent man, sweetheart. You had a company, and you worked there as the boss. For now, I am handling the business before the secretary says that you have to take over again. You were dedicated to your work and had a reputation for being reliable and efficient."

He bowed and scribbled notes in his notebook under the table as she spoke, grateful for any scrap of information that would help him piece together the puzzle of his former life. "What about hobbies or interests?" he asked, eager for any details that might help him connect with his past.

She thought for a moment before responding, a wistful expression on her face. "You were really into playing chess before if you had free time from work. You used to spend hours outside our room, learning more about how to beat me every time we played before. And you loved to watch TV— mostly news, but you also enjoyed a good mystery or thriller movie. You had a curious mind and were always eager to learn new things."

He wrote furiously, trying to capture every detail, even as he felt a sense of dislocation, as though he were hearing about the life of a stranger. He stopped writing and looked at her. "What about... relationships?" he asked hesitantly, aware that this was a sensitive subject for Leslie.

Leslie's smile faded slightly, but she met his gaze directly. "You and I have been married for five years, sweetheart. We met through a relative and hit it off right away. We've been through some tough times together, but we've always been there for each other. You were a devoted husband and a good son."

He nodded, trying to absorb this information, but he couldn't shake the feeling that something was missing, some critical piece of the puzzle that would bring everything into focus. He bowed again and wrote down one final question in his notebook. He closed it as he stared at the food on the table, now completely served for them to consume.

He lifted his hands onto the table, the deepest inside of him hoping against hope that she might have an answer to that question he wrote. He got himself a plateful of rice, as she gave him the dish she had cooked. He held her hand before staring her in the eyes.

"Do you know what caused the accident that led to my amnesia?" he asked, the words heavy with a sense of desperation.