A/N: I saw that I had two new reviews last night (and I thank-you for them!) and while I could read them in my e-mail, they don't seem to be showing up on the site! Bummer! The help forum tells me it is a glitch, but I sure hope it fixes itself soon – mostly because I really want to know what everyone thinks of this all-important chapter!

XXX

It was past lunchtime once Doctor Warren emerged from the operating room to inform Mary and Mark that Marshall had survived his surgery with flying colors. The next step was simply watching him for signs of a decline, as there was nothing else they could at this point. His ankle was wrapped, his leg was in a cast, and his lung lacerations could only start to mend. As the physician had said the night before, it was really the number and combination of injuries, rather than the severity, that was going to have him tethered to the ICU for awhile. Barring disaster, though, he seemed to be on a slow path to recuperation.

For as overjoyed as she was that Marshall had pulled through the first hurdle, Mary managed to restrain herself in a way she hadn't the previous day. Although Doctor Warren said she could go and sit with him while he came out of anesthesia, she didn't take him up on the offer right away. She couldn't forget how obscure her husband had seemed the last time she'd visited him, nor Mark's theory that she was expecting too much. It would be safer – and a better experience – to wait until he was lucid, even though it killed her to be apart from him.

But, when a nurse informed her about an hour after Marshall's surgery had concluded that he was asking for her, she couldn't hold back any longer. If he wanted her there, she wasn't going to sit around. She'd been losing her mind trying to be tolerant, especially since she was by herself, Mark having returned to work. Patience only took her so far in situations like these, and she followed the nurse back to the room with almost offensive enthusiasm, her brain chiding her to calm down and be reasonable all the while.

And yet, Mary knew the second she walked through the door that the Marshall in the bed was much closer to his original self than he had been at any point yesterday. Mentally, she congratulated herself for having waited to see him, because it had definitely paid off. He still looked sleepy, his eyes bleary and his pallor gaunt, but when she appeared he shot her a weak, wonderful smile, and she was surprised her knees didn't buckle at the sight.

"I was wondering when I'd see you…" Marshall's voice was raspy and he coughed upon trying to use it, but this didn't stop him. "Someone is going to have to poke fun at my battle scars; say I look like an ogre…"

"Maybe just a gladiator," Mary picked up the thread, her own grin trembling at how normally he was behaving, tired as he might be. "Although, you didn't battle with the Romans, just a car."

He nodded slowly, "Good to see I've taught you a thing or two about history."

"Too bad you weren't around when I was in high school; you could've been the nerd I cheated off of to save myself the studying."

This earned her a wan smirk as he closed his eyes against the bright lights, "For shame," he breathed, but the look on his face indicated he couldn't have been more besotted with her if he'd tried.

The rapport was lighthearted and fun to fall into; Mary felt her heart growing wings and it might soon soar clean out of the window. And yet, it was still hard to pretend that something so horrendous hadn't happened and she bit on her lip as she ventured closer to the bed. She wanted desperately to touch him, to hold him, but was afraid she might hurt him. He still looked so fragile, his face heavily scratched and bruised.

"How's your leg?" she stopped just sort of flinging herself on him, standing directly above his dewy-eyed stare.

"Not bad…" he groaned, although a hand went to his chest where he rubbed gently, obviously feeling the effect of having his lungs sliced up. "I don't expect it to last, though; once the meds wear off I think I'll be in pretty deep…"

"What about your ankle?"

"Well, I don't think I'm going to try walking anytime soon…"

"They told me it was a really bad sprain – that maybe your ligaments had already taken a beating before your tibia was broken. I don't know what that's about, and Melissa hasn't told me exactly what happened yet, but once she sees that you're okay I'm sure she'll talk."

Mary knew that she was speaking too speedily again, much as she had with Mark when he'd thrown her for a loop by showing up. And yet, her gibbering wasn't what she focused on for long. At the mention of his wounds, Marshall's face took on a clouded, mystified quality. His eyebrows met in the middle, eyes darting side-to-side before they closed again, as if even the act of thinking was taking it out of him. Suddenly, Mary couldn't help wondering if the thought of the accident distressed him – if it might even haunt him. She thought of her PTSD days after she'd been abducted and hoped fervently that Marshall wasn't going to go through the same thing.

"Did…are you okay?" she changed her question halfway through, wanting to get to the root of his feelings, knowing he would've done the same for her. "You look…I don't know…"

To say outright that he appeared confused might be insulting, and so Mary waited for him to deliver the conclusion, which he did, although still with that politely puzzled look on his face.

"No, I just…" his head shook side-to-side on the pillow, and the movement caused him to cough again.

Mary's hand automatically jumped to his hair, where she rumpled it playfully, "Don't overdo it," she cautioned. "Take it easy…"

But, her gesture or her words or both only heightened the stupefaction inside his bruised and beaten features. His bright blue eyes, seconds before skirting left-to-right just trying to get a handle on things, had suddenly flew up to stare directly at Mary. Immediately, she stopped scratching his scalp with her nails, wondering if she was irritating him.

"If…if you want me to quit, I will…"

"No, I mean…" he was almost too quick to refute her. "It…it's nice, I just…"

Again, the correct phrase seemed to fail him, and he continued to ogle her as she rubbed his droopy locks. Something about this was making Mary uneasy. Although infinitely more alert than he'd been last night, the disorientation he had displayed seemed to be returning. All of a sudden, she wished they could go back to teasing. That was safe; it didn't require so much intimacy or emotion.

But, in spite of her desires, she found herself unable to let it go, because his bewilderment was too strong to be ignored.

"Do you need something?" it was the best way she could think of to get the ball rolling without saying, point blank, that he appeared lost. "Are you in pain? You seem…kind of…well…" apparently, there was no good way to vocalize her concerns without being honest. "…I don't know. Mixed-up."

Contrary to Mary's beliefs that she might affront him, he seemed comforted to have been given the opportunity to come clean and didn't hesitate for a second.

"You just…you mentioned Melissa…"

"Right. And she's fine – she's okay. She's at school," the last thing she wanted was for him to fret over the child.

"Well, I'm glad…it's just…" he sighed and shut his eyes another time, and Mary's hand roved from his head to his shoulder and squeezed lightly. "…I guess…I'm having some trouble remembering what happened."

A wave of relief broke over Mary as powerful as the ocean tide. So that was it. That was why he looked like he didn't know which end was up. His memory of the accident had failed him. She knew that feeling too well from when she'd been shot not to realize how frustrating it was. So liberated she was by having figured out the mystery of his bewilderment that she laughed lightly, which was probably unwise, but fortunately Marshall didn't look as though it troubled him.

"It's okay…" she pledged easily. "It'll start to come back. And, if it doesn't, it isn't the sort of thing you want to remember anyway, is it?"

"Well…" Marshall didn't seem as consoled as Mary had hoped he might, but that was to be expected. "I mean, I wouldn't mind retaining a few details. My mind is a blank…"

"For the first time in your life," his wife felt confident in joking. "Don't sweat it, all right?" but, she altered her voice to sound more understanding, not wanting to trivialize his issues if they were important to him. "I guess…I mean, didn't someone give you a heads up on why you're in here, or did they just leave you to figure it out yourself?"

She hoped that wasn't the case, even as she gave his cheek a quick peck and migrated toward the end of the bed, the better not to suffocate him. It was so good to see him awake and functioning that she couldn't care less if his brain was a little behind, but when she took a seat on the edge of the mattress, careful not to disturb his bandaged leg, she noticed that he was giving her his most dizzying look yet. His fingers were touching the spot where she had kissed him as though he'd never felt anything like it before. There was a dazed, almost glassy-eyed stare on him and he couldn't take his eyes off her from where she perched beside his mangled limbs.

Unsure what this was about, but willing to feel flattered that her smooches could produce such a reaction, Mary smiled. The man only gazed in return.

"So…you were going to tell me if anyone filled you in at all," she reminded him awkwardly, her grin now turning to shaky laughter. "If you don't want to talk about it right now, I understand."

"No, I mean…" he shook his head, like he was trying to snap out of it. "They…that doctor…"

"Doctor Warren."

"Yes. He said I was hit by a car."

"Yeah, you were," Mary recapped softly, some of her elation evaporating. "Head-on. It wasn't pretty."

"So…so I've heard…"

"But…Stan's taking care of the guy behind the wheel. It sounds like it was an accident…"

"Yeah, you mentioned that last night," it was a little surprising that he had retained that little facet, considering how confounded he'd been after his sedation, but Mary was impressed nonetheless. "So, I guess Stan has things at the office pretty much covered, what with me out of commission for awhile…"

"Don't even have that on your radar," Mary spoke threateningly, not liking the idea of him anywhere near danger after such a close call, and that included his Marshal duties. "Seriously. Work is taken care of. Home is taken care of…"

"Uh…home?" he stammered doubtfully, losing his thread another time.

"Yes," the woman was game for bypassing his misgivings this time because she was so intent on him knowing that he didn't need to push himself to get back too quickly. "I have Mark and Jinx and Brandi to pitch in – they're at our beck-and-call until you're back on your feet. You getting better is all anybody cares about…"

"They said that, huh?" his flesh pinked just slightly in its paleness at the thought of everyone doting on him.

"More or less," Mary shrugged. "They've all been here, by the way – well, except Melissa. But, Stan was here yesterday and so was mom; they send their best…"

"And Abigail too, I guess?"

The name was so interfering, so jarring, that Mary almost fell off the bed. Indeed, she had to throw a hand to the covers to keep herself from slipping down and onto the floor. She didn't spare a second to mull over the possibility that she might've misheard Marshall, because she'd been so centered on him, so fixated on giving him her undivided attention, that she knew she couldn't possibly have mistaken his words for anything else.

And so, this left her to stare at him, not unlike the way he'd been gawking at her for the past five minutes as though she were something foreign he didn't even recognize. A cold, prickly feeling was stealing over her skin and into her bones, making her feel sick. How or why she knew that the outcome from this seemingly innocent question was not going to be favorable, she could not have said for sure. But, a nasty, ominous sensation in her gut was scaring her so badly that it took all her strength to question him further. He looked so casual, so naïve, and that was what terrified Mary most of all.

"Abigail?" the blonde's voice came out loud, almost accusatory, and it seemed to echo on the walls surrounding them.

Marshall barely blinked, "Yeah. Hasn't she been by?"

Mary's knuckles were gripping the blankets, turning her fingers white as she battled fiercely to stay calm.

"Abigail's in Texas," this time, her voice came out quavering with disbelief, all volume vanished.

Now Marshall frowned, "What…on…on vacation or something? Didn't someone tell her what happened?"

Mary was beginning to feel lightheaded. The longer they talked, the worse this got. Nothing he was saying added up and he, too, seemed to be realizing that something was off. Mary was supposed to be the balanced one, the one who had not been slammed to the pavement, and yet she had never felt more directionless in her life.

"Why would you want Abigail to know what happened?"

Marshall, with his furrowed brow, seemed to have only one logical response – it was a response that floored Mary, and yet he seemed to think it was perfectly commonplace.

"Because…she's my girlfriend."

Rapid, unsteady breaths began to issue from Mary's mouth so quickly that it was a wonder she didn't hyperventilate in a matter of seconds. A bundle of emotions was churning inside her, so discombobulated and chaotic that she couldn't pin down which was strongest. Something was wrong. Something was horribly, frightfully wrong, and it was obvious Marshall didn't even realize it.

"Marshall, she's not your girlfriend…!" Mary's timbre was rising again, becoming hysterical. "You're married!"

His shock materialized quickly and his eyebrows flew up.

"To Abigail?"

"To me!" in spite of knowing how unfair it was to shout at him, she couldn't help herself. "You're…you're married to me – you and Abigail broke up. You broke up…eight years ago…"

"What?" now he was the one who looked scared, and Mary longed to comfort him, when at the same time she needed someone to soothe her, because she was seconds away from flying into a fit. "We are not married! You're joking!"

"Of course I'm not joking!" leaping up from the bed, she shot him the most blazing look she possessed, as if she could propel him, by sheer force of will, into giving up this charade. "Don't…don't you…?"

But, the only word that would fit was the one that so obviously didn't line up, and it trailed weakly from Mary's mouth even though she knew it was to no avail.

"Don't you remember?"

But, it was clear from his shell-shocked face, not to mention his asking for his ex-girlfriend, that he did not. Mary didn't know where to go from here or how much to assume about his addled brain. Was Marshall thinking he and Abigail were still together some sort of temporary lapse? With Mary's reminder, would the light dawn and he'd be able to dictate dozens of happy times from their married life for them to relive? How far did this stretch? What else didn't he remember? And, how long was it going to last?

"I…I…I don't understand…" Marshall suddenly babbled, shaking his head wildly as if that would knock the correct pieces back into place. "I…I…I was in an accident…"

"Yes, you were in an accident," Mary seized the opportunity for solid ground, just barely stopping herself from lunging forward and shaking some sense into him. "You were hit by a car right in front of our house…"

"Our house…" he repeated, mystified. "You mean…your house?"

"Well, it was mine before we were married, but we live there together now…" this was turning very surreal very fast, and there was a stiff, clogged feeling in her throat that said tears weren't far away.

"I…I don't understand…" he said again, struggling for some sort of clarity, anything he could grab onto. "If…if I…what was I doing in the street?" he demanded. "To get hit as a pedestrian? In your neighborhood? What on earth was a witness doing in front of your house?"

"A witness?!" Mary squawked, more panicky than ever, wondering what he was recounting, what small snippets of recollections he was haphazardly piecing together. "What witness?! Where are you getting this…?"

"Well, when I couldn't remember what happened I tried to put it together!" he was yelling now too, his voice shrill and paper-thin from having been strangled with coughs. "I…I just assumed I must've gotten hurt doing something with a witness and you said something about someone named Melissa…!"

Mary was terrified to ask, and yet knew she had to.

"And…and who did you think Melissa was?"

"I…I didn't know…" he sounded ashamed, embarrassed. "You said a name…I guessed it was a witness."

"You thought Melissa was a witness?" Mary's voice had changed too, lean and with a mounting tremor.

"She's not?"

It seemed impossible to get the words out. She'd thought the nightmare was over. She'd seen her husband, propped up in his bed – frail, feeble, pale, but relatively sound. She was sure they'd been ready to climb the next hill, however slowly. It had been clear they were going to make it. And now they were further back than they'd been to begin with. Near as Mary could tell, Marshall had lost an indistinct number of years off his life. He was living more than eight years previously, his memory shattered from the force of a roaring pick-up truck.

"If…if Melissa's not a witness, who is she?" he persisted when Mary just stared and she bit hard on her tongue to keep from crying.

"Melissa…" she spoke barely louder than a whisper to avoid losing her marbles completely. And then, "Melissa's…my daughter."

If Marshall had been bowled over a few seconds earlier, it was nothing to how he looked now. Mary would've loved to believe that this was all some cruel joke, or else a bad dream, that any second she was going to wake up. But, the Marshall she knew – unwell, battered, or not – would never pretend about something like this. His sense of humor did not sway in this direction – hers didn't either, regardless of how sarcastic she could be. There was nothing funny about this.

And, no matter how ferociously she was aware that he was not playing games, the shoots of denial that still ran deep in Mary's veins reared their ugly heads.

"Marsh…Marshall…" her timbre trilled like she was a sparrow, so absurdly high-pitched. She found herself skittering over to him, fingers trembling with the need to touch him, to force him to see reason even if there was nothing she could do. "Come…come on…"

But, it was plain he was still trying to deal with the blow of Mary having a child, let alone one that he had helped to raise.

"Please…"

It was disgusting, the way she was begging – it wasn't his fault he couldn't recall, if that was indeed what was happening. No amount of tears or bedlam would change that, and still she pleaded.

"You…you were there when she was born…"

It was a story she had told just last night. All at once, it was like Mary had imagined the entire ordeal – the flames, the ambulance, the hospital…

"You can't have forgotten that…she was early…you pulled me out of the fire at the grade school…"

She never thought she'd tell it this way, and especially not with Marshall shaking his head uncomprehendingly.

"And…and I had a C-section…she was barely three pounds…you named her…"

It was apparent she needed to shut up, because having overlooked something so monumental was upsetting Marshall. It was entirely possible that any second he might start choking up, but a switch had flipped in Mary's brain and she just couldn't stop.

"You called her Little Missy when she was in the NICU and that's why we named her Melissa – you still call her that and Mark calls her Missy Jean and Stan calls her Captain. She's eight…she's eight years old; she's in the second grade. She's blonde, she has green eyes and glasses and she likes to wear overalls and she's brilliant…she's brilliant just like you…!"

It was as if she expected him to suddenly jump up, have some kind of epiphany, that if she beat him over the head with almost a decade's worth of information that he would shout, 'eureka' and have done with it. And still, Mary knew how utterly foolishly she was behaving, especially since her last sequence of prattling had brought her inches from Marshall's inner circle, crowding him, inside his bubble…

"You have to remember…you have to remember something!"

The harshness finally made him speak, and Mary instantly regretted that she was hollering at him when he was in such a poor state, but her heart was pounding so sadistically she seemed to have lost control.

"They…they didn't even say that I hit my head…!" this was obviously priority one, and Mary recalled Doctor Warren saying the previous evening that they had run CT scans, but they didn't have results yet. "Did I? Did I hit my head? I don't…I don't get it…I know who you are…"

Thank God for that.

"Is…is Melissa…?" here, he threw up his hands, physically and mentally grasping at straws. "…Is she the baby…the baby you were pregnant with…?"

Mary's mind kicked into overdrive, desperately trying to find a point of reference, and she was lucky she did.

"After Brandi got engaged to Peter!" she burst, nearly spitting on him she was so close.

"Yeah…yes…!"

"Yes!" Mary exclaimed. "Yes, that's her!"

"But…but I thought…" she could see him swallow, and his skin was so waxy that she could easily glimpse the lump going down his throat. "I…I mean…until I saw you…here…today…"

Mary's insides were crawling with impatience, but if she didn't let him finish, they would never get anywhere.

"…I…when I asked you yesterday if you were okay…"

"Right…"

"I thought we'd been in some sort of snafu with a witness…" he'd already gone over that, and Mary had to criticize herself, once again, to wait this out. "I had no idea…nobody told me, I just guessed…"

"It was a good guess…" she encouraged.

"I…I was worried you were hurt because…" he looked her up and down; his explanation was going to sound very stupid indeed. "…I…I thought you were pregnant."

When Mary stepped back, feeling distinctly weak in the knees, he seemed to feel he had to apologize for his blunder, even though none of this could be placed on his shoulders.

"I didn't think anything of it once I saw you again – I was barely conscious yesterday; it's feasible I was a little backwards, but this…"

"Marshall…I…" she would've loved to lie to him, to erase that aghast, dismayed look resting profoundly in his handsome face, but she couldn't. "I…I was pregnant, but it…" it was her turn to gulp. "It…it was eight years ago."

And there was nothing here to indicate she wasn't being perfectly, brutally honest. One look would tell Marshall she was not with child and hadn't been for a long time, for she had finally, about two years previously, gotten back to her original size. This left him to gape and wonder where all the misplaced puzzle pieces had gotten to between the car crash and now. Near as Mary could tell, he was stuck eight years in the past. He'd believed Mary was carrying a baby, that he was still involved with Abigail, that Brandi and Peter were not married and certainly not expecting a child of their own.

Mary had to strain to think what else had been going at that time in their lives, depending upon which portion of the year he had landed on. One thing was for sure. They had not been married, which explained why he'd looked so appalled after having such a reality thrown in his face.

It was imperative the woman remain composed, and yet she had never felt less composed in her whole life. Deep down, she knew her fears had to be nothing compared to Marshall's. After all, how frightening must it be to wake up and discover you were missing eight years of your life? Mary had-had enough trouble not retaining one instance after she'd been shot; she couldn't imagine how she would've fared if a decade had been wiped out.

But, regardless of how cool she tried to be, there was no denying the hot, overwhelmed sensation taking over her body. What would Melissa say when she was told that her beloved step-father had not a clue who she was? The thought alone was enough to reduce her to tears, and a stubborn, valiant one actually snuck out. Mary sniffled loudly to rid herself of it and, unfortunately, the noise caused Marshall to take notice.

"I…I'm sorry…"

"No…" Mary moaned, but she sounded whiny, and speaking caused more tears to fall. "It's not your fault; there's just been a mistake…" but, what mistake, she didn't know. "I'm…I'll…talk to the doctors. I'm sure they can do something…once…once they know what's going on…" she didn't even want to think about the physicians having no explanation for this behavior. "Don't…don't worry about it. Time will help…"

She was spewing all of those revolting platitudes that she hadn't held any stock in when no one had been sure if Marshall was going to survive. The words were empty, and she despised herself for using them, because it couldn't have been clearer that they were of no solace to Marshall. He seemed more enraptured by the way she was crying so freely than anything else.

"I…I'm…could I ask you something?" he requested, still watching her mop at her eyes.

"Yeah, of course…" Mary tried to appear agreeable and worry-free, even though she was neither of those things. Slipping back onto the edge of the bed and patting his good leg, "Sure. What?"

The man considered for a moment, and by the look on his face, Mary thought he might be pondering how foolish his inquiry was going to sound. There was no way around it, however. If he was going to get caught up, he was going to have to look as inept as she was sure he felt.

"Is…is Melissa my daughter?"

For the first time since their hectic exchange had begun, Mary didn't have a definitive answer to give; she wasn't the higher authority when it came to this. In many ways, Melissa absolutely was Marshall's child – in every way that counted. But, she couldn't be sure, when he was so muzzy, that this was what he meant. He was probably thinking in technical terms, and the thought of teaching him all over again that their family didn't operate in the technical sense was immeasurably daunting.

But, because the blonde was fairly certain that was what he meant, that was how she replied.

"Um…no…" she conceded, feeding him a watery smile. "Not…not exactly. The thing is, we don't really…" there had to be an abbreviated way to do this. "See…there's me and there's you and there's Stan and there's Mark…"

"Mark…" he interrupted with a sudden flash in his blue eyes. "Your…your ex-husband?"

"Yeah. Right."

This part, at least, seem to have returned to him, "He…he's Melissa's father. Isn't he? That's…what I thought you told me when…"

"Biologically, yes. He is," Mary interjected. "But, she doesn't call him 'dad.' She doesn't call anybody 'dad.' After you and I got together, we decided that you and Stan and Mark were all going to be on equal footing. So…I mean, Melissa isn't your daughter, but she is – as much as she is Mark's and Stan's. You know?"

"Sure. I…I guess…"

But, no matter what he said, Mary could tell that he didn't 'know' at all. He'd been a part of this delightfully melded family for so many years and now he couldn't remember any of it. Mary would've been surprised if he knew who Mark was at all; if he was rooted in the time when Mary had been pregnant, he would've only met Mark once. They were such good friends now – Mark had said so himself just that morning. It was so much to lose in just one day.

"Look…" the woman whispered and attempted, once more, to smile, but it was very forced. "Don't…don't blame yourself and don't worry…" she'd said that already, and it had been pointless advice the first time. "There's obviously a hitch somewhere here, but those doctors will sort you out, okay? I'll make sure of it."

The tough-girl persona she would've usually adopted after a statement like this faltered a little when Mary reached for his hand. Reluctantly, he slipped his fingers into hers; looking as though her touch alone was something unknown. She did everything in her power to ignore it, knowing it wasn't personal, knowing he was just trying to get his head on straight.

"Did you…?" Marshall spoke out of nowhere, his eyes fixated on their hands intertwined together. "You said we're married?"

"Yeah. We are."

Now he glanced up, still shaking his head in wholehearted incredulousness.

"You really married me?"

Mary couldn't tell if he thought this seemingly new development was good or bad, but it explained a lot of things that she had noticed in the last twenty-four hours. It couldn't have been plainer that he had no memory of their tying the knot, that he thought they were the mere partners they had always been.

It was why he had stared shamelessly at her when she'd tousled his hair and squeezed his shoulder. It was why he'd looked so brazenly confused when she had kissed his cheek and ran her fingers up and down his leg.

And it was why, the night before, he had appeared nothing short of wonderstruck when she had murmured, 'I love you' in his ear.

And it was also why, Mary realized with a jolt, he hadn't said it back.

XXX

A/N: Several of you guessed that Marshall might have amnesia and you were right! I admit I was wary of building a story around this, as it feels a little soap-opera-ish, but hopefully it will bring some good drama!