Chapter 3: I'm Curing You

Maya's POV

It's past nine when I get home.

Adrian's on the couch with his iPad, probably editing photos. He looks up when I walk in, smiling. "Hey, you're back. Thought you'd be working late again."

"We need to talk."

"Sure." He sets the iPad down. "What's up?"

I drop the printed diagnosis report on the coffee table.

"This. I went to Mount Sinai today." My voice comes out calm. Steady. "They don't have any record of you. Dr. Foster's an obstetrician, not a neurologist. And the medical record number format is wrong."

Adrian stares at the paper. His face changes.

"This report is fake, isn't it?"

"Maya, I can explain."

"Then explain."

"I do have trouble remembering things, you know that." His words are coming faster now. "Maybe it wasn't that hospital, maybe I got the name mixed up—"

"Stop lying."

"I'm not lying! I really do have memory problems, I just... maybe I didn't need an official diagnosis, but the problem is real—"

"Is it?" I pull out my phone, open the comparison chart I've been building. "Then why do you remember Sienna likes oat milk lattes with an extra shot? Why do you remember her cat's name? Why can you recall every single place she mentions wanting to visit, every exhibition she wants to see, even when her passport expires?"

"That's work related—"

"What's my birthday?"

Adrian opens his mouth. Nothing comes out.

"Our anniversary?"

Silence.

"My mother's name?"

"This isn't fair, Maya." His voice goes up. "You can't just ambush me with a pop quiz—"

"When's Sienna's birthday?"

"September third."

The words are out before he can stop them.

Then he realizes what he just said.

The air goes still.

I nod. "Thanks. That's all I needed to hear."

---

"I already made an appointment with a specialist." I keep my tone level. "Tomorrow at two. Dr. Rebecca Martinez, chief of neurology at San Francisco General. Since you insist you're sick, let's find out for sure."

"Maya, that's completely unnecessary—"

"You're scared to go, aren't you?" I meet his eyes. "Because you know there's nothing wrong with you."

"I just think it's a waste of time and money—"

"I'll pay for it. Tomorrow, two o'clock. If you don't show up, I'm calling a lawyer."

Dr. Martinez's office is all white walls and fluorescent lighting. The doctor herself is maybe fifty-something, sharp eyes behind rimless glasses.

"Mr. Cole, I've reviewed your case." She's looking at both of us. "Your wife tells me you were diagnosed with event-specific amnesia?"

"Yes." Adrian shifts in his seat.

"That's an extremely rare condition. In twenty-five years of practice, I've seen three cases. Usually caused by traumatic brain injury or severe psychological trauma. Have you experienced anything like that?"

"No. Maybe it's genetic?"

"This condition isn't hereditary." Her voice stays professional. "Let's run through some tests."

The next forty minutes are a series of questions.

"Describe your assistant Sienna's daily routine."

Adrian answers in detail. She arrives at seven, drinks oat milk lattes, is allergic to cat hair so no blankets in the studio, likes the temperature at seventy-two degrees, eats salads for lunch but no tomatoes...

"Good. Now describe your wife's routine."

Adrian freezes.

"She drinks coffee in the morning?"

"What kind of coffee?"

"Just regular coffee."

"With milk or without?" Dr. Martinez asks.

"With, I think?"

I close my eyes.

I don't drink coffee. I drink tea. Earl Grey with honey, no milk.

Five years. He's never noticed.

"What's your wife's favorite flower?"

"Roses?" Adrian guesses.

"Wildflowers." My voice comes out quiet. "Daisies and lavender. I'm allergic to roses. Remember?"

Dr. Martinez closes her notebook.

"Mr. Cole, you don't have any form of amnesia." Her tone is clinical. Matter-of-fact. "What you have is selective attention allocation. In simpler terms, you choose to remember the people and things that matter to you, and ignore everything else. It's not a disease. It's a choice."

Adrian's face goes red. "That's ridiculous—"

"What you need isn't a neurologist." Dr. Martinez cuts him off. "What you need is a marriage counselor. Or honesty."

On the drive home, Adrian keeps trying to explain.

"Maya, you have to understand, I didn't do this on purpose—"

"Don't."

"I really do love you—"

"Adrian, please just stop talking."

Back at the apartment, I head straight for the bedroom and start packing.

"What are you doing?" Adrian follows me in. "Maya, we can fix this, we can—"

"You think I set you up, don't you?" I'm pulling clothes out of the closet, throwing them into a suitcase. "That I deliberately took you to that doctor to humiliate you."

"I didn't say that—"

"But that's what you're thinking." I turn to face him. "Five years, Adrian. Five years I believed you. Accommodated you. Built my entire life around your condition. I turned down the National Geographic project because you said you needed me as your manager. I canceled the Africa shoot because you said you couldn't function without me. I packed away my dreams and told myself it was for our marriage."

"Those weren't—"

"And you?" My voice starts shaking. "You can't even remember my birthday. You forgot my father's funeral. You don't know what flowers I like, what tea I drink, or what I gave up for you. But you remember everything about Sienna. Every detail, every offhand comment, every insignificant preference."

Adrian stands there. His face is pale.

"I'm moving out." I zip the suitcase closed. "I need time to think."

"Maya, please—"

"My lawyer will be in touch."

I head for the door.

"Wait." Adrian's voice stops me. "I can change. I'll remember everything about you, I swear—"

I pause. Don't turn around.

"You know what the saddest part is, Adrian?" The words come out soft. "It's not that you forgot me. It's that you never tried to remember."

Three days pass before Adrian works up the courage to go back to the apartment.

He pushes open the door. The place is silent.

The photo wall in the living room, the one he's always been so proud of, covered with his award-winning work, looks bare.

No. Not bare.

The frames are still there.

But the photos are gone.

Adrian moves closer, fingers trembling as they touch the empty frames.

Vanishing Light, the shot that won him the Lucie Award. Me at Big Sur, sunset melting my silhouette into golden sky.

Empty.

The Muse, his first piece at MoMA. Me sitting in their first studio, surrounded by scattered equipment.

Empty.

Home, his breakthrough series. Me captured in different moments throughout their apartment.

All of them. Empty.

Twelve frames. Twelve awards. Twelve blanks.

There's a note on the floor.

Adrian crouches down, picks it up. My handwriting.

"Your memory never had room for me.

My life no longer has room for you.

—M"

Underneath the note is a document.

Adrian unfolds it. His heart stops.

It's a contract.

"National Geographic - Vanishing Species Project

Wildlife Photography Fellowship

Duration: 18 months, Kenya & Tanzania

Photographer: Maya Hartwell

Status: DECLINED - March 2019"

The date is from five years ago.

The year we got married.

In the notes section, my handwriting:

"Declined to support husband's career. He needs me here."

Adrian's hands start shaking.

He flips to the second page. Project details. Eighteen months of wildlife photography, full team support, all expenses covered, work published in National Geographic magazine...

This is every wildlife photographer's dream.

My dream.

I gave it up.

For him.

And he doesn't even remember.

Adrian sinks to the floor, those empty frames hanging above him like accusations.

He pulls out his phone. Dials my number.

Off.

He tries again.

Still off.

The living room fills with nothing but his ragged breathing and the shadows those blank frames cast on the wall.