A Happy Coincidence

Chapter 7

He's not Tyler.

He is physically Tyler, but he's not him.

He doesn't have Tyler's sense of humor. He doesn't know what to do when the kids ask him questions.

I feel like a pedophile because Tyler is mentally eighteen years old.

The doctors let him come home, and he's fully healed, but he doesn't have his memory back.

He's in the backyard, playing with the kids, tossing a tennis ball to them, He loves the kids. All the family is here.

I want him to remember.

He's trying. I know he is. He asks a lot of questions, and I've told him everything I possibly could, he just doesn't remember.

He doesn't come into the bathroom when I'm showering. If he walks in on me changing he starts apologizing and leaves in a panic.

He's not my Tyler.

It's been three months now. The kids are back in school and only Emily is in sports because Baseball and Track are out of season.

I'm sitting in the backyard, watching him laugh with the kids, nodding when they ask him things, smiling.

He's happy.

He's so fucking happy.

"How are you doing?" Mrs. Cerda asks gently. "I haven't seen you guys in a week. Any changes?"

I shake my head.

"I'm doing terrible, and no, no changes."

She nods.

"I'm sorry." She says.

"He's happy." I whisper, watching him. "He's really happy. That's all I care about."

He trip on his shoelace, crashing to the ground. I sit up.

Emily asks him something, and he nods, standing up again.

I sigh.

Ethan throws the ball, and Tyler catches it, and he stands there, his hand in midair, staring at the ground.

"What's wrong?" Blake calls.

No reply.

Tyler says something to the kids, handing the ball to Ethan, and then he crosses the field to me, his hands in his pockets.

"Do we have a firebox?" he asks.

"Yes." I say, confused.

"Can I see it?" he asks.

I shrug.

"Alright." I stand up, and everyone follows, excited.

Why the hell would he want the firebox?

The kids follow us. I go to the kitchen, getting the firebox out from the cabinet. I grabb the key from the junk drawer.

He opens it, and he starts digging through it, putting social security cards and birth certificates and the marriage license out of the way.

He keeps digging.

"If you tell me what you're looking for, I can help you."

"I don't know what it is." He says.

"Then why are you looking in here?"

"Because I think I have to." He says.

"Alright then." I shrug, getting a glass of apple juice from the fridge. I chug it, putting the fridge in the dishwasher.