Total pages in book: 181
Estimated words: 177690 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 888(@200wpm)___ 711(@250wpm)___ 592(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 177690 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 888(@200wpm)___ 711(@250wpm)___ 592(@300wpm)
“I made some eggs and bacon for breakfast if you’re hungry? I’m afraid the fridge is pretty bare right now. The food stamps are refilled tomorrow and I’ll go shopping… though now that I… err we, have the motel that will probably end. I don’t like using them anyway, but you do what you have to do,” she says, her back turned to me. She’s nervous. I may not remember her, but just from yesterday I can tell that when she gets nervous she avoids looking at me and talks nonstop.
“We’re on food stamps?”
“Well, I… I mean we, had to after I lost my job. Then we moved here and there’s the motel now, but it won’t open until after the inspection and that had to be put off with your accident. I need to call the inspector to come back out, actually. It’s on my list of things to do today.”
“You lost your job?”
“Yeah… there’s nothing wrong with having to use food stamps, Aden. They’re made to help people get back on their feet,” she says defensively. And she’s right… unless she had a man who didn’t do shit to help her, or anything apparently, other than somehow navigate around his limp dick and knock her up. Jesus Christ.
“Did I work?”
“Well, no, but…Aden don’t—”
“Christ did I ever work?”
“Cwist!” Jack giggles.
“Do we have to have this conversation now?” Hope asks with a pointed look at Jack.
“You like bacon little man?” I ask the child, moving a piece of his bacon to him.
“Bacon,” he answers, which I guess is answer enough.
“He likes microwave bacon.”
“Microwave bacon? Is that even real food?”
“Of course it is, plus it’s extra crispy and I can make sure it doesn’t have the fat on it to strangle him.”
“Oh. I guess that’s good,” I admit, realizing I have… “How old is Jack?”
“We went over this. He’s a little over two,” she says bitchily. Which pisses me off.
“Excuse me for not remembering. I’ve had a pretty fu—”
“Aden! Jack!”
“Aden’s Jack’s!” Jack giggles, handing me a piece of his bacon. I somehow divert getting the piece of microwave-probably-not-real-bacon in my mouth and in his. I’m not sure how I do this, but I do it with him laughing, so I figure it was good.
“Excuse me for not remembering, because I’ve had a screwed up couple of days, darling.”
“I thought you weren’t going to call me darling anymore?” she asks.
If she knew the names I want to call her in my head, I doubt it would help our marriage at all. So, instead of answering I shrug.
“Jack pway trucks!”
“I can’t sweetheart. Mommy has to work. But, Aden will play with you.”
“Shouldn’t you call me dad when you talk to our son? I may not remember him, but I’m sure I’d rather have my child call me daddy instead of Aden,” I mumble as Hope puts a plate of food in front of me.
“Daddy pway with Jack?” Jack says, using a complete sentence and when I look up at him, he’s looking shy again. Definitely cute.
“Don’t I have a list?”
“Excuse me?” Hope asks, confused, and I really wish I’d quit noticing that frown that appears in the middle of her forehead. I find myself liking it and for some reason I don’t want to like Hope right now.
“A list of things I need to do? I’m supposed to be the man of the house, right? Where’s my list?”
“I… well Aden, you just got out of the hospital.”
“I feel fine and having my memory all screwy shouldn’t affect how I work. So, what do I need to do to get us ready for inspection.”
“I… well, honestly Aden you don’t really do any work here.”
I hold my head down. If what Hope is saying about me—and not just now, but all of it—if it’s all true then, fuck, I am a waste of space.
“Well Hope, honestly, that’s going to change. I don’t know what kind of sad fu—”
“Aden!”
“I don’t know who I was before, but I know without a doubt that I am not that person now. So tell me what needs to be done and I’ll do it.”
“But Jack…”
“You can spend the morning with Jack, while I do what’s on your list,” I insist. I don’t know who is responsible for the loss of manhood that I apparently had in the past, but I do know I’m getting it back.
“Well, the railing where you fell needs to be repaired before the inspector comes out,” she replies, and you can see the doubt written all over her face.
“Then I’ll fix it,” I tell her, and I start eating. It’s not much, but at least I feel like I’m doing what a man does. A man I clearly wasn’t before.
If this is my life, then by God I’m going to take my loss of memory as a gift that I need to be grateful for and get my shit together.