by Teagan Kade
I shut the water off silently shaking my head.
You’re in trouble, friend. You’re in real fucking trouble.
*
It takes me a while to hunt down Dr. Grant at the hospital. I eventually find him coming out of the nurses’ mess.
Surprise, surprise.
I cut in front of him, looking over his shoulder at the doorway to the mess. “Who needs Tinder when you’ve got a room of nurses, right?”
He slides his hands into the pocket of his coat, smiling. “They say you shouldn’t mix business and pleasure, you know.”
I smile back. “‘They’ say a lot of things, don’t they?”
He relaxes. “What can I do for you, Ethan?”
“Sofia.”
“Ah,” he nods, “Sofia.”
“She had two visitors yesterday from the hospital, a woman named Tara from social services, a Nora from billing. You know them?”
Doctor Grant looks upwards, reaching to sit his glasses back on the bridge of his nose. “Vaguely, but there’s a lot of staff here, as you know.”
“We’ve both been here a while, seen a few things, and I know you’ve got some pull with the powers that be.”
He crosses his arms defensively. “Why do I feel like an ask is coming?”
I raise my hands up. “No ask, but you should know, given she’s your patient, that these women were going full-on NYPD Blue on her, brought her to tears with their fucking inquisition, actually.”
“You were there?” he asks.
“I was. Told them to get the hell out and let her rest, come back and hassle her about billing when she was ready to be discharged, which won’t be for a few days, right?”
“Actually,” begins the good doctor, looking to the floor and them smiling back to me in that well-practiced ‘everything is A-Okay’ doctor grin that means it’s totally not, “she might be discharged sooner than you think.”
“How soon?” I ask, careful to shape the tone of my voice so it doesn’t sound so defensive. “She’s recovering from major surgery.”
“Not as major as you’d think, and tomorrow, most likely.”
I have to protest. “She was shot in the fucking head, and she’s getting out tomorrow? These women didn’t even think she had amnesia, thought she was putting it on.”
“Oh, she’s definitely amnesic,” Doctor Grant says. “There is no question of that, but I’m confident once the swelling subsides her memories will return. Until then, her tests are clear, an after-care plan in place… You know as well as I do how fucked things are around here, the politics of it all. We need the beds. It’s as simple as that.”
“Where will she go?” I ask. “You know, given she can’t supply any personal details.”
A gaggle of nurses passes, a young, strawberry blonde winking at me. I ignore her and focus on Grant.
He takes a moment to consider it. “Well, typically she’d be sent to a shelter. There’s a Catholic church that runs a shelter two, three blocks down. I imagine that would be the most likely option.”
I’ve been to the shelter in question a few times—an overdose, a stabbing… I know the nuns do a great job there, but it’s a seedy place full of seedy characters either looking to score or so fried out of their minds they don’t know which day of the week it is. Sofia can’t go there. No fucking way. She doesn’t belong.
Doctor Grant sees me shaking my head. “No, that absolutely cannot happen.”
He seems to find that amusing. “You’ve got a better suggestion, I suppose?”
I can’t help but smile as the plan forms. “You’re damn right I do.”
*
Sofia’s smiling when I enter. She’s sitting upright, her hair drawn back into a side ponytail and her face full of color and life.
I notice her IV is gone.
She sees me looking. “Yes, they took it away this morning,” holding up her wrist to show me the bruise, “makes me look a drug addict, though.”
I swallow at the thought of her at the homeless shelter. She’d be eaten alive. “Did you know you’re being discharged tomorrow?”
She nods, the carefree smile gone and replaced with a look of apprehension. “Doctor Grant told me earlier. I understand, but I don’t know what’s going to happen to me, where I’m going to go…”
Clearly, Doctor Grant did not her tell everything, or maybe he was leaving that to Tara and her cohort to deliver.
I come up beside her bed and reach for her hand, as always. “You don’t have to worry.”
“Why’s that?” she asks, completely innocent, wholesome in a way I thought was impossible in a full-grown adult until now.
“You’re coming home with me,” I smile.
She goes to protest, but I cut her off. “No, it’s done. It’s settled. I’ve already spoken to the registrar.”
Her smile starts to return, her eyes growing glassy. “Are you sure?”
I have to laugh. “I don’t think I’ve ever been so sure of anything, strange as it sounds.”
“I won’t be a burden?”
She’s being genuine, I know, but the idea is so completely abstract I have to take a moment before I answer. “Of course not. They’ve already given me your after-care plan, your medication will be sorted by morning… You’re good to go, and you’ll be in safe hands, I promise.”
She squeezes my hand. “Okay,” she half-laughs, half-cries, wiping at her face with the back of her hand. “I’m such a mess. I wonder if I’m always this emotional.”
I reach across to hold the side of her face. It’s so incredibly soft. My thumb shifts to the bottom of her ear. I feel her pulse in that small shadow below. It’s strong, a hundred times stronger than when we found her under the bridge.
“What if people come for me, looking for me?” she asks.
I won’t let fear get the better of her. I look her dead in those gorgeous hazel eyes, the color of autumn and chocolate, of everything good and warm in the world. “I’m a trained soldier, remember?” Just before I remind myself she was unconscious when I told her about my former life. “Someone wants to get to you, they’re going to have to get through me.”
She looks at my chest. “You do seem awfully… hard.”
My eyes bulge. “Hard?”
“Is that the right thing to say? Is that what people say?”
“I’ve heard it once or twice,” I smile, usually when my clothes are off, mind.
She returns to questions about my apartment. She wants to know every detail. I don’t blame her. I’d want certainty in her situation, a path forward. There’s safety in certainty, security. It’s one of the most essential needs in life—a roof over your head and a place to call home, however transient it may be.
I’m determined to make her feel like she’s someone, that she has a place in this world. If that means painting the entire apartment pink, I’ll damn well do it.
*
I find Doctor Grant in the park across the road diving into a footlong overflowing with cheese and salami. I’ve crossed the appropriate t’s and dotted the appropriate i’s, but I’d still like his approval on this. After all, he was the treating physician. He knows her case better than anyone. He has, literally, been inside her head.
He swallows down a mouthful of sandwich when he sees me approaching, staying seated. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re stalking me, but to get things straight up front, I don’t swing that way, sorry.”
I take a seat beside him, admire the skeletal trees above stripped by winter. “Say, I’ve always wanted to know something about you doctors?”
He gives a tug of his head, returning to his sandwich. “By all means, enlighten me.”
“Why do you call everything you do ‘practice’?”
He doesn’t even smile. “I don’t imagine you hiked out here in the cold for friendly banter.”
I get straight to it. “Sofia’s going to stay at my place.”
Now he stops eating, looking at me. “She’s in
no condition for sexual activity.”
I act offended. “Is that all you think of me?”
He looks down between his legs. “Hey, I’ve got a dick too, you know. Tell me I’m wrong.”
“Would I like to? Sure, but she’s different. I’m going to take care of her.”
“It’s not going to be easy,” he says. “I know she looks better, but these things can turn. You do realize that?”
I’ve prepared myself for the possibility. “You’d rather she was at the shelter, or in the care of a fellow medical professional?”
That turns the tide. “Fine,” he says, finishing off his sandwich and scrunching up the wrapper. He stands. “But it’s not like you need my permission.” He takes a pen and card from his top pocket, scrawling something onto the back. “My personal number.”
I take the card. “Thank you.”
*
“Go,” Sofia tells me.
I’m pleased to see she’s eating, half her meal gone beside her bed. I’m impressed she could stomach that much of today’s ‘ragu a la mystery.’
I’m reluctant to leave. “I can stay. It’s fine.” I look to my chair. “I’m kind of getting used to sleeping in that thing.”
“You need to go home and get some sleep,” she says. “You’re starting to look like a raccoon, and yes, I do know what a raccoon is.”
I bring my hand up to the area under my ears. “That bad, huh?”
“Go,” she repeats. “I’ll be here and waiting in the morning, bag packed and ready to go. Well, I don’t actually have anything, so there won’t be a bag, but I’ll be ready. I’m making no sense, am I?”
“You’re making perfect sense.”
I push myself off her bed. I am actually tired. My back would kill for a normal bed. She’s right. She’ll be here in the morning. Until then, this is the best place for her.
The urge to rest wins out. “Okay,” I capitulate, justifying it to myself. “I should really clean up the place anyhow, make it look less like the set of The Hangover.”
“The movie with the tiger in the bathroom?”
“I’m impressed. You really are starting to get your memories back.”
“Just not the important ones,” she says, a look of sudden solemnness down-casting her features.
I sit beside her, taking both her hands. “Hey, hey, hey. You’re good. You’re great. Give it time. I’ll see you in the morning, yes?”
She nods, looks close to tears again, but I manage to peel myself away. I give her one last smile from the doorway before turning.
“Ethan?” she calls.
I turn back. “Yes?”
“Can you get some blueberry ice cream?”
“Blueberry ice cream?” I laugh.
She nods over to the empty ice cream bowl at the back of her dinner tray. “I think I’ve got a sweet tooth.”
CHAPTER SIX
SOFIA
I do a little spin on the spot. I’m far from a ballerina, but at least I’m on my feet. “It’s strange being able to stand up again,” I tell Ethan. He’s leaning up against the wall in a dark denim jacket and slacks—a rebel without a cause.
“You’ll be so much better away from this place, trust me. There’s a whole word waiting for you out there.”
I stop and sit on the edge of the bed, my hands neatly folded in my lap. I notice I do that a lot, play and fidget with my hands. “That’s what I’m worried about. That and the bill.”
I spot myself in the mirror and still don’t recognize the face. My hair looks odd where they shaved a patch for the surgery, but I don’t think Ethan notices.
There’s a soft tap on the door. “I hope I’m not disturbing.”
It’s Nora.
I see Ethan push himself off the wall, ready to place himself between me and her, but she lifts her hands up. “I’m not here with more questions, don’t worry.” She hands Ethan a series of papers. “I simply came by to hand over these forms.”
And she’s actually smiling as she says it, smiling at me. “It’s great to see you up and about, Sofia.”
“Thank… you,” I stutter, not sure why she’s being so nice this time around. Perhaps Ethan followed up with her superiors?
She nods and leaves—no mention of billing or another barrage of questions. I assume everything I need to know is in the forms she handed Ethan. I shudder to think what kind of astronomical number is on the bill. I recall those horror stories.
Ethan places the forms down on the table beside the bag of clothes I was brought in with. He was kind enough to supply me with causal clothes for discharge today, even if this blouse is a size too small and the pants loose around the hips. I can hardly complain in my situation. He’s gone above and beyond.
“What now?” I ask.
Ethan takes a set of keys out of his pocket. “Now we go home.”
*
Ethan’s apartment is located in a leafy street on the outskirts of town, the kind of red-brick cocoon where kids play jump rope in the courtyard and birds congregate in the elms outside. The apartment itself is a simple one-bedroom layout, smaller than I expected. I can see he’s made an effort to clean it up before my arrival, though there’s the odd tell this place hasn’t seen a feminine touch in quite a while.
I notice a framed photograph on the mantle, the only photograph, in fact. There are five men there in battle fatigues. The wording at the bottom reads ‘Fort Sam Houston – AIT 2012’. “Are these friends of yours?” I ask, unsure if I should probe.
He places my things down on the table and walks over. “Advanced Individual Training, yeah, for sixty-eight whiskeys.”
“Sorry?”
“Uh, 68W, the Military Occupational Specialty for a United States Army Combat Medic. After this I was assigned to the 75th Ranger Regiment, light infantry airborne spec ops.”
“Sounds impressive,” I tell him.
He gives a start, breathing through his nose. “Not really. You just do the job you’re assigned. To be honest, most of it’s sitting around bored out of your mind.”
“But you have been in battles before, seen action?”
He takes a moment before answering, something crossing his face I can’t pinpoint. “A bit.” He claps his hands together, turning from the photo. “Let’s go through this bag quickly, yeah? Maybe there’s a clue or two we missed in here, something to help piece you back together.”
“Okay,” I smile, “but I’m not humpty dumpy.”
“Good to know.”
I open the bag and slowly spread everything out on the table, pausing when I take a lacy pair of panties from the bag, the lacework itself incredibly intricate, the back cut high. “Oh,” I say simply, slipping them back into the bag. “I don’t think there’s a clue in those.”
There’s fresh heat in my cheeks as I spread my things out on the table, swallowing when I see the dried blood on the shirt. Against the silky white it looks like a Jackson Pollock piece. “Jackson Pollock,” I say.
“The artist?” asks Ethan. “Were you two friends?”
“I think he’s dead,” I reply, pointing to the pattern of blood, “but this reminds me of his artwork.”
“So you know about art,” nods Ethan. “That’s good.” He shows me the label of the shirt. “This is designer, as are the pants there. I looked them up. The pants alone are close to eight-hundred dollars. I couldn’t even find a price for the shirt.” He points to the shoes. “And these are Louboutins. I didn’t have to look those up. The red soles gave it away.”
“Why do you know about ladies shoes? Am I going to find a secret stash of high heels in your closet, a boa or two?”
“That was a joke,” he smiles, “but as good as I think I would look in a set of Louies or Choos, it’s not for me.” He looks behind himself. “My ass doesn’t need to be any perkier.”
“Pity,” I smile. “I think it’s sexy when a guy gets in touch with his feminine side.” I bring my hands to my mouth, trying to stuff the words back inside. �
��I’m sorry. I don’t know where that came from.”
The heat in my cheeks has become an all-out inferno.
He’s laughing, reaching to the table for support. “Not at all. I think you’re starting to sound more like yourself, whoever that may be.”
“Whoever I was sounds like they were rich, yes?”
Ethan dips his head, looking at the spread of clothes. “Well, yes, it seems like you come from money, sure.”
“Nora will be happy to hear that,” I offer. “I’ll be able to pay my bill if—when I remember who I am.”
I close my eyes and try to concentrate, to force my memory back into my head, but all it does it make it ache.
I bring a hand to my right temple, Ethan stepping closer and reaching to pull it aside. “Remember what Doctor Grant said. You have to relax and let it come. You can’t force it.”
“It sounds like you’re giving birthing tips.”
He eyes me cautiously, looking me up and down. “Have you given birth before?”
I look down myself, but I don’t have any stretch marks, scars, nothing obvious that would suggest so, not that I can be one-hundred-percent certain. “I don’t think so.”
It’s a while before Ethan reacts, lost in some sort of daydream. He reaches down and scoops the clothes back into the bag, removing it from the table and turning to face me. “There’s no need to worry about the bill, okay? We’ve got some time up our sleeve for that. Let’s concentrate on getting you settled in and comfortable.”
I look around. “Where am I going to sleep?”
Ethan nods to the couch in the corner. “It’s a foldout. I’ll be fine out here. You take my room.”
“No, no,” I protest. “This is your place. I won’t have it.”
I can see he’s taken back by this sudden show of assertiveness. I’m a bit surprised myself. “I insist,” he says.
“No, I insist,” I tell him firmly. “I will be fine on the foldout.”
“Anyhow,” he laughs, “I was thinking about going down to the mall, getting you some new clothes and toiletries, maybe? I don’t think Old Spice is going to be your thing. Is that something you’d like to do?”