Chapter 108
[Rose's POV]
Christopher's face held an expression I'd never seen before—not mere concern, but something closer to fear. The kind of fear that came from witnessing something fundamentally wrong with the natural order of things.
"What kind of problem?" I asked, my voice steady despite the cervical collar restricting my movement.
He drew in a slow breath, visibly steadying himself. "His vital signs are stable, no signs of internal bleeding or brain swelling. Physically, he's recovering as well as we could hope."
"But?" I prompted, reading the hesitation in every line of his posture.
"But when he opened his eyes..." Christopher paused, seeming to search for the right words. "They were empty, Great-grandmother. Completely empty. The doctors spoke to him, the nurses tried to engage him, and he just stared at the ceiling like he didn't understand why anyone was talking to him at all."
The cold weight in my chest spread outward, numbing my fingers. "What are you saying?"
"The medical team believes the crash caused traumatic brain injury. The initial assessment suggests retrograde amnesia—he doesn't remember who he is, where he is, or who any of us are." Christopher's professional composure cracked slightly. "When the nurse asked his name, he said he didn't know. When they asked if he recognized his surroundings, he seemed genuinely confused about why he was in a hospital."
I thought of Benjamin's face in those final moments before the crash—the way it had contorted with sudden, inexplicable pain when I'd mentioned Robert's name. The way his hands had left the steering wheel as if something had physically torn him away from reality.
This is my fault. The thought hit with brutal clarity. I mentioned Robert, and something happened to him—something that caused both the crash and this.
"I need to see him," I said, moving to sit up before the sharp pain in my neck reminded me of my own limitations.
James's hand settled gently on my shoulder. "Rose, the doctor specifically said—"
"I don't care what the doctor said." I looked at him, letting him see the guilt and determination in my eyes. "Benjamin is lying in that ICU with no idea who he is, and the last thing that happened before the crash was me talking about..." I trailed off, unable to finish the sentence.
"The doctors said forcing memories could cause more harm," James said gently, but I could hear him wavering.
"I'm not going to force anything. I just need to see him." I met Christopher's gaze. "Please. I need to understand what we're dealing with."
Christopher exchanged a long look with James. Some silent communication passed between them—the kind that only came from decades of shared family crises. Finally, Christopher nodded.
"I'll arrange for a wheelchair and a nurse to accompany us. But if the medical staff says you need to leave, you leave. No arguments."
"Agreed."
Ten minutes later, a nurse was pushing me through the sterile corridors of Boston General's ICU wing. The cervical collar forced me to keep my head rigidly forward, but I could see Christopher walking beside us, his normally confident stride replaced by something more cautious, more uncertain.
"He asked three questions when he first regained consciousness," Christopher said quietly, his voice barely audible over the soft squeak of the wheelchair. "First, 'Where am I?' Then, 'What happened?' And finally..." He paused, and I heard him swallow. "He asked, 'Who are you?'"
The words hit like physical blows.
We stopped outside a glass-walled observation room. Through the window, I could see him.
Benjamin sat propped against pillows, his head wrapped in white bandages, his right arm encased in a cast from wrist to shoulder. But it was his eyes that made my breath catch—they stared at the white wall across from him with absolute emptiness, as if he were looking at nothing and everything simultaneously. A nurse spoke to him, gesturing toward a cup of water, and he turned his head slowly in her direction but made no move to respond.
"Dear God," I whispered.
The nurse beside Benjamin tried again, this time holding the water directly in front of him. Benjamin blinked—a slow, mechanical movement—then took the cup with his uninjured hand. But there was no recognition in the gesture, no acknowledgment of the kindness being offered. He simply performed the action and set the cup down, his gaze drifting back to that same empty point on the wall.
"The neurologist believes the amnesia is likely temporary," Christopher said, but even he sounded uncertain. "The brain scans show some swelling and minor contusions, but nothing that would suggest permanent damage. It could be a protective mechanism—the mind shutting down to deal with severe trauma."
James stepped closer to the window, his reflection ghosting across the glass. "I'd like to see him. Talk to him, if the doctors allow it."
Christopher nodded. "They've cleared family visits, but they stressed the importance of not pressuring him to remember. Any forced recollection could potentially cause secondary trauma or trigger additional complications."
"I understand." I looked up at Christopher. "Take me in."
The ICU room smelled of antiseptic and sterile air. Benjamin's head turned as we entered, Christopher and James following behind. For a moment, his gray eyes met mine, and I searched desperately for any flicker of recognition, any hint that somewhere beneath the emptiness was the man who'd looked at me with such knowing intensity just three days ago.
There was nothing.
"Benjamin," I said softly, keeping my voice gentle despite the restriction of the collar. "Do you recognize me?"
He blinked slowly, his gaze moving from my face to the wheelchair, to the cervical collar, then back to my eyes. His expression remained blank, confused, like a child trying to solve an impossibly complex puzzle.
"Should I?" His voice came out hoarse from disuse, but worse than that was the complete lack of recognition—not just of who I was, but of the very concept that he should know me at all. "I'm sorry, I... I don't know who you are."
The words landed with devastating finality. I'd braced myself for this possibility, but hearing it confirmed was something else entirely.
His breathing quickened slightly, and for the first time, real emotion broke through the emptiness—panic. "Where is this? Why am I in a hospital? What happened to my arm?" He tried to lift the cast, the movement jerky and uncoordinated. "I can't... I don't remember anything. I don't even know my own name."
Christopher moved closer to the bed, his corporate confidence softening into something gentler. "Benjamin, I'm your brother, Christopher. You were in a car accident three days ago. You're in Boston General Hospital. You're safe."
Benjamin stared at him with that same bewildered expression. "Brother?" The word came out tentative, almost questioning. "I have a brother?" His eyes searched Christopher's face desperately, looking for any trigger that might unlock his sealed memories. "But I don't remember you at all. I don't remember having a brother, or... or anything." His voice cracked. "I don't even know if I have a family, or where I live, or what I do for a living. It's all just... gone."
James stepped forward, his weathered face creased with grandfatherly concern. "Benjamin, I'm your grandfather, James Sullivan. We're all your family. You don't need to be afraid."
Benjamin's panic seemed to ebb slightly at the gentle authority in James's voice, but the confusion remained. "Sullivan," he repeated slowly, testing the sound of the name. "Is that my last name? Benjamin Sullivan?"
"Yes," James confirmed.
"And you're really my grandfather?" Benjamin looked between the three of us, his expression still lost. "Then who...?" His gaze settled on me again, lingering this time. Something flickered in his eyes—not recognition exactly, but a sense of searching, as if part of him knew there was something he should be remembering but couldn't quite grasp it.
I kept my voice steady, professional t. "My name is Rose. You and I were both in the car when the accident happened. The doctors believe the trauma caused you to lose your memories. It's not permanent—your brain just needs time to heal."
He absorbed this information slowly, his brow furrowing with concentration. Then, after a long moment of silence, he spoke again. "Rose." He said my name carefully, deliberately, as if trying to unlock something with the sound of it. "I feel... strange when I look at you. Like I should know who you are. Like there's something important I'm supposed to remember, but I can't reach it." His expression shifted, became almost pleading. "Can you tell me what we were to each other? Were we... friends?"
I shook my head gently.
His eyes widened slightly. "Colleagues, then? Did we work together?"
Again, I shook my head.
He fell silent, visibly struggling with the puzzle. When he spoke next, his voice carried a note of desperate hope. "Given your age... were you my girlfriend? My fiancée, maybe?"
Despite everything, I felt a faint smile touch my lips. "According to public records, your reputation in Hollywood is that of someone remarkably uninterested in romantic relationships. A refreshing anomaly in your industry."
Confusion deepened across his features. "Hollywood? I'm... I work in Hollywood?" He looked down at his bandaged form as if seeing himself for the first time. "What do I do there?"
"We can discuss all of that later," I said firmly, cutting off the spiral before it could deepen. "Right now, the most important thing is that you understand you're safe, you're being cared for, and your memories will likely return with time."