Author's Notes::: Hey! I'm sorry I've been lagging on the updates... I'm going through a bit of a hell on earth right now, so just bare with me.... Anyways here is chapter nine, its on the short side, but I hope you enjoy it!!! Oh yeah, thank you so much for the reviews... And I hope everyone keeps it up... :-) They make me smile!!!

I walk into the room to see my ex-husband, peacefully sleeping in the dark room. I see the man I had spent twenty three years of my life with, the man I thought I could never live without. That was one big lie, me filling the role of the perfect liar. I hate him. He's nothing to me anymore, I have to keep saying that to myself. It seems to be my mantra. I'll be pulled in at the thick of it all, because of my kids. I'll end up spending every other waking moment by his side, and I'll be miserable. I don't want it. I know the kids mean well, but this isn't the way its going to work. I set the rules, I've lived my life enough to know what I want and don't want. And maybe him not recognizing anyone is a good thing, because I think the air would be more awkward than ever before. In the pale glow of the screen above him, I see he's starting to stir. I walk closer and drop the chart Michael had given me into his tray. He opens his eyes and sees me standing there, a mixed look of surprise and suspicion in his eyes.

"I'm sorry I woke you."

He shakes his head, and starts to sit up. He keeps his eyes glued to me, but fumbles around with the switches overhead and turns on the light. It sets a glow onto the room, and I can better see his face. He's starring at me, and it's starting to get uncomfortable. I know I look bad after a thirty-six hour shift, but I didn't know I looked that bad. Well at least he's alive and breathing, so my kids can stop moping around the hospital, and can start putting their lives together. I'm the selfish one, I know they were thinking that. I forgot about him, I wanted him to die. I never wanted him to die, I just wanted what's best for him. I didn't want him to suffer for years on a breathing machine. They believed in miracles. I am a doctor. I believe in medicine and reality.

"I'm Dr. Abby Lockhart."

He stopped examining me and started playing with the edge of the sheet. He looks like a little child, who's just been scolded for doing something they shouldn't have. He looks back at me, and I can see the look of pain on his face. He remembers me? I highly doubt that.

"I'm sorry. I can't remember anyone."

I feel like the weight that began to accumulate on my chest just vanished. Okay, so he has no clue who I am. And I'm starting to think this is the longest we've both been in each other's presence, and conscious, and haven't screamed or had to lie about something.

"It's alright. It'll just take a little bit of time."

As far as I know, he's a patient. He remembers nothing about who he is, or what he's done. He doesn't know the past, and can't plan for the future. He's a different person. He's open to anything anyone will tell him. He's susceptible to the lies people can conjure. I'm afraid to ask about what he knows, but I think the kids didn't tell him much, and I highly doubt the doctors letting them hang around for longer than five minutes anyway. He needed his rest to recover.

"Are you my doctor?"

I shake my head no. I'm not his doctor. I used to be his wife, his lover, his confident, his best friend. Now I'm simply the mother of his children. End of story. But I'm definitely not his doctor. I see the frustration growing inside of him. He wants to remember so badly, but he can't. He's left drowning in an alien world, where everything makes sense, but then again, it doesn't. I don't' know what I would do in his situation. I think I'd probably go insane. Not that insanity doesn't run in the family.

"Then who are you?"

I bite down on my bottom lip. Should I tell him? Would that make everything better or worse? I don't know, I've never actually dealt with someone close to me. I've dealt with Bipolar cycles. I've dealt with depressive and suicidal patients. But I have never dealt with my ex-husband. Richard seemed so much easier. There were no children, there wasn't a lot of property. He was supposed to pay my medical school bills. That was it. And that didn't happen either. We hated each other when we saw each other, and we made it pretty obvious. Why couldn't I have the same thing again?

"I'm your... I used to be your wife."

His gaze slowly shifts away from me, onto the other side of the room, onto the door, anything but me. Yes. Good idea. Keep your eyes away from me, I'm uncomfortable as is. I don't need to be more uncomfortable. I swear the air in the room became ten times heavier in that split second.

"We're divorced?"

I echo a quiet yes from my corner of the room. I'm shaded by some of the shadows, and I need to get out of there. I never imagined to have to deal with this all today. I had so many patients, so little sleep, and my daughter angry at me. I've dealt with spouting blood and drug addicts. I've dealt with Kerry Weaver. I've done it all, but I was not prepared for this, and I never will be. I start to stand. I need to go home, hop into the shower, change my clothes, get sleep. Most importantly get sleep. I start to walk toward the door, and I give him one last sympathetic glance as I turn on my heels to get out of there.

"Wait."

I pause in the doorway, my back still to him. I'm not being pulled back in there. I'm not giving in to whatever emotions of pity I might have.

"How long were we married for?"

"Twenty three years."