by Sosie Frost
“I’m sensing a theme.”
“There’s been an accident.”
“Isn’t that what the diaper is for?”
“It’s more serious than that.”
I took a breath. Okay. Hospital. Aches and pains. No memory. The accident must have been bad. A car crash? Had I been attacked? Was I in danger? I wiggled my toes. They still worked, but a dozen other terrible things might have happened. Spleen lacerations. Brain prions.
Maybe I really was allergic to soy!
Oh God. I stared at the doctor.
“Give it to me straight,” I said. “Am I going to live?”
“You were struck by an ice cream truck.”
The fear fizzled away. Shame took its place, chasing away my dignity and pride as it settled in nice and cozy beside my disgust.
“An ice cream truck?” I repeated.
“Yes.”
“But…how?” Granted my head wasn’t working now, but surely I once possessed some common sense. “Don’t those…make noise? Am I deaf too?”
“Well…it was playing music. Loud music. In fact, most of the ER nurses had run to the parking lot thinking it was a chance for ice cream rather than a truck delivering a patient. Fortunately, that meant you were triaged very quickly.”
“Right after the Klondike bars.”
“Happy nurses make for faster healing. But, unfortunately, you did sustain a concussion from the impact. However, the driver did help. He applied ice to the bump on your head…a cherry and lemon flavored slush, actually.”
Well, at least I hadn’t been killed. Death by chocolate seemed a decent enough fantasy, but in practice it was quite unwieldy and sticky. Also tainted with motor oil.
I examined my body. No tire tracks. No track marks of any kind. Always an encouraging sign. Except that meant I smacked head-first into a patrolling ice cream truck stone-cold sober. But it wasn’t worth dying to an ice cream truck unless it was diabetes related.
At least I’d invented the best crash diet.
Doctor Owens didn’t push me. I respected her for that, even if she looked entirely too young to be a doctor. She was beautiful—nice smile and skin a shade darker than mine. I wished I recognized her though. I had a feeling this wasn’t the first time we’d had this conversation.
“How long have I been here?” I asked.
Honesty was the best hospital policy, just not always a comforting one. Doctor Owens rapped her fingers on the clipboard.
“Three days,” she said.
“Risen from the dead, huh?”
“You weren’t that bad. Besides, you got your very own miracle. Do you remember?”
I wished she’d stop asking me that. “Can’t say that I do.”
“Do you know your name?”
My stomach knotted. “Pass.”
“That’s okay. I don’t want you to panic.”
“Who’s panicking?” I studied the hospital room. No cards. No flowers. No nothing. Strange. “I mean, I can’t remember what I’m missing, so that’s keeping me calm. And you didn’t have to scoop me off the Rocky Road, so I’d say things are going pretty well.”
She didn’t believe me.
I didn’t believe me.
“Concentrate,” she said. “Can you think of any names? Anyone we could call for you?”
“Call? Isn’t my family here?”
She cleared her throat, bracing me with a smile. “Not right now, no. We haven’t been able to contact your family.”
“No one?”
“Unfortunately, you arrived with no identification, and you’ve only become lucid now. But we’ve spoken with the local authorities, and the police will alert us as soon as any missing person’s report is filed. And, just in case, we’ve put out information to local colleges, churches, and community organizations in case someone recognizes you. We should hear something soon.”
“Let me get this straight.” I rubbed my temples. “I was hit by an ice cream truck. Raced to the hospital. I’ve been here for days. And no one knows? There’s not anyone in the waiting room who might be relieved to know I’m not a splatter of fudge on the side of the road?”
“Technically, there is someone who might help us with the investigation. Someone I’d like you to meet.”
I brushed a hand through my hair—curly, natural, and in desperate need of a headband. “I’m not sure I’m hit-by-a-truck presentable right now.”
“Believe me. You’ll look perfect to them.”
“Please tell me it’s a Chubby Hubby?”
“More like a…little shortcake.”
That was it. The concussion won. I collapsed onto my pillow as Doctor Owens paged a nurse to fetch my visitor. Not that I was in a visiting mood. Everything hurt. Belly. Chest. Head. Legs.
And suddenly, I wasn’t entirely convinced the aches and pains originated from a runaway ice cream truck.
Doctor Owens held the door open as the nurse wheeled in the bassinet. They parked it on the side of my bed and stepped back.
It wasn’t polite to stare.
But the baby stared right back.
The doctor plucked the bundle of blankets from the bassinet, soothed one very irritated cry, and looked at me.
Oh no.
“Well?” Her voice gentled. “What do you think?”
“I…think it’s a baby.”
“Yes.” She nodded. “What else?”
I think the windows had been bolted shut so I couldn’t leap from the room. “I’m not sure…it looks too little to be the truck driver.”
“Here…” she said. “…Is your baby.”
That was to be expected from her grand presentation of the child to me, but that didn’t make my heart thump any less frantically. Every muscle in my body cramped with tension.
“That’s good information. Can you please wheel in my husband next?”
Doctor Owens approached, cradling the child so I could peek into the blankets. “This is probably a shock, but I was hoping you’d remember—that something would trigger—if you saw the baby.”
“You’re striking out today, Doc.”
“When you arrived in the hospital, you were in labor. Full term. The baby is healthy, and the delivery was textbook…if not celebrated with a sundae bar.”
“I…had a baby?”
“Yes.”
I nodded. “That explains why it feels like the truck hit me in the choco-taco.”
“We can help with that. But first…here.” She edged close. “Go on. Hold your baby.”
Hold.
A.
Baby?
Was she out of her goddamned mind?
That little memory bomb was six pounds, twenty inches of concentrated chaos. I couldn’t remember my own name. I couldn’t picture the accident that put me in the hospital. I didn’t even have a clue that I had given birth.
These were all monumental life moments that deserved a cursory Facebook post at the very least. Yet I had nothing in my head that prepared me for this. It wasn’t like they made a What To Expect When You’re Not Expecting To Be Expecting book.
I couldn’t remember a single thing about babies. Not how to hold them. Not how to talk to them. Nothing about feeding or sleeping or dressing or anything.
Holy hell, usually the newborn was making their first memory. I was still piecing together if I was right or left handed, if I could roll my Rs, if I had a husband sitting at home waiting for his dinner or for his child to be born.
No way. This had to be one monumental mix-up. One for the history books…or a very cheesy Lifetime movie.
Women didn’t just forget baby stuff. Instincts didn’t fall out of people’s heads when their skulls collided with a truck.
“There has to be a mistake,” I said. “I’m sorry, but I don’t think—”
“Arms out.” Doctor Owens wielded the baby with a skill that came from either two hundred thousand dollars in medical training or her own experience. “You’ll be fine.”
I froze. That d
idn’t help—it only confused a T-Rex, not an infant.
Not…my infant.
I cupped my hands. No. That wasn’t right. My arms were pinned against my sides. Maybe if I crossed them? I angled my shoulders and made way for a fussing, generally displeased infant who shared my distress.
“Relax,” Doctor Owens said. “This is your baby.”
“Most women remember giving birth to their child.”
“And most women would rather forget that experience and skip to this part. Just do what comes naturally.”
Screaming, flailing, and bargaining with the devil was probably the wrong thing to do.
Instead, I stopped breathing and clutched the child to my chest. No sense testing that bouncing baby theory now.
Especially not with this one.
With those big eyes.
Curling fists.
Trembling lips.
The baby quieted in my arms. A positive step. Too bad I didn’t know what I did that was so soothing…or how to replicate it. The only advice my ice cream addled brain could give was to support the head. But that wasn’t much of a maternal instinct. The kiddo was a the definition of the word floppy.
Still…the head of hair was amusing.
And the kid smacked a pair of adorably full lips.
The baby was beautiful.
And mine?
“Since when do storks do hit and runs?” I asked. “I thought they dropped a bomb on you and flew south.”
“At least you have a cute little bomb.”
“Not ticking at least.”
“Then you’re doing good.” She patted my leg. “You take it easy. Bond with the baby. I’m going to page your doctor.”
“Aren’t…you my doctor?”
She tapped her temple. “I’m your neurologist. I’ll fetch your OBGYN. I’m sure you have…questions.”
Only about a million and a half…and all pertaining to a part of me that had seemed fairly innocuous until it popped out a kid.
“Should I be worried?” I asked. “You know…aside from not having a clue where this little one came from?”
“I can give you a basic anatomy lesson if you’re being literal.” Doctor Owens smiled. “But you suffered a concussion. You can’t force recovery on a brain injury, especially when coupled with memory loss.”
I spoke a word uttered only in soap operas, and usually only combined with evil twin and back from the dead. “Amnesia?”
“Yes.”
“Fantastic.” I didn’t move, though the baby did. I went quiet.
“It’s most likely temporary,” she said. “Retrograde amnesia cases are very rare, and you’ve already recovered from the initial concussion symptoms.” She arched an eyebrow. “Do you remember my name?”
“Rory Owens.”
“And the five words I asked you to remember?”
“Bottle. Rattle. Crib. Milk. Diaper.” I winked. “You’re not subtle, Doc.”
“Excellent. You’re doing fine.”
“But I don’t know my name. My insurance information.” I cradled the baby as best I could, but I couldn’t cover his or her little ears. “I don’t even know where the f-a-t-h-e-r is.”
Doctor Owens cleared her throat. The hope deflated from me.
“Stay positive,” she said. “Rest. Enjoy your baby. Okay?”
My baby.
I looked down. The baby looked up.
Now was the time for us to both collectively shit our pants. At least the baby had a diaper. Doctor Owens pulled the door closed behind her, and I took a breath.
Panic wouldn’t solve anything. It also didn’t help while holding a fragile newborn.
I could handle this. I could figure it out. I’d been through tougher scrapes than this. At least…I assumed I had.
If nothing else I could pretend I’d endured worse than a little memory loss and the sudden arrival of a tiny, helpless, desperate baby. Hell, one bad case of poison ivy or a white dress and forgotten time-of-the-month would top this. Easy.
Right? Sure.
The baby squirmed. Was that a clue to squeeze tighter? That seemed like a bad idea. The kid had been cramped inside me for nine months. Probably just needed a good stretch.
I thunked my head against the pillow. This was a disaster. Forgetting a name was bad. Forgetting my family even worse. But I had absolutely nothing in my head that prepared me for a baby.
These sorts of surprises were sprung on people all the time—but at least they had seven or eight months to skim the Wikipedia articles before the big day.
“Okay…” I was in no condition to bend, shimmy, or yoga-stretch myself into a proper position to hold the baby. Slowly, I deposited the child onto the bed, between my legs. “There. Now you’re stable.”
The baby didn’t agree, giving an unimpressed hmph.
“So…” I buzzed my lips. “What sort of baby are you?”
I shifted the bundled blankets and revealed his—her?—curled fist.
“Well…you have a pretty pink hat,” I said. “I suppose that’s code. Except…” I tugged on the powder blue onesie, emblazoned with Ironfield Regional Hospital over the front. “You’re throwing some mixed signals.”
I supposed it was okay to find out for myself. Plus, it was prudent to reverse engineer the diaper situation before it was up to me to strap one on. After all…it was my baby. I’d be diapering a lot. And feeding. Clothing. Comforting. Raising.
That was a lot of responsibilities to heap on someone who still wore a hospital gown and someone else’s underwear.
I continued my fact-finding mission. Was this surprise kid of mine a boy or a girl? I unsnapped the onesie and tugged the diaper down.
“Oh.” Break out the cigars. “A little girl. I guess that makes sense.” I pointed to the speckled pink paint on my arms. “I must have been decorating your nursery.”
The kid made a face and grunted, truly impressed with my detective work.
But the kick was unnecessary. And the punch. And the little pinched face heralding a distraught cry at my presumption to disrobe her. I wrapped her back in the blanket, but I think I did it wrong.
Her mouth opened. Fists curled. Tongue flexed.
And the scream wailed over the room.
Great.
“Please…don’t.” I patted her tummy. I thought babies liked that? Or was that puppies? “There…there. No crying. We’re in this together. You cry, and then I’ll start crying, and one of us has more head trauma and hormones raging than the other. You’ve gotta keep a level head.”
Most children gave it eighteen years before they split. This one was done after eighteen seconds.
“It’s okay. I promise.” I cringed as her cry sharpened into a judgmental wail before hic-uping its way into a round of sobs that ached everywhere in me. “I’m sorry. I’m normally better equipped for these things. I think.”
I folded the blanket over her legs. Nothing. I tucked it. She cried harder.
What was I doing wrong? Did she want to be picked up? Fed?
Or did she just now realize that the highlight of her life was popping into the world via the bumper of an ice cream truck?
The door opened, and a middle-aged nurse fluttered into the room. She whip-cracked her stethoscope over her shoulder and tutted at me, a smile on her face.
“Would you listen to the commotion in here!”
I raised my voice over the screaming baby. “Introductions didn’t go so well.”
“Don’t you worry. She’s just exercising those lungs.”
The baby’s face wrinkled with rage and absolute misery.
I sighed.
“She’s got a healthy pair in her.”
The nurse smirked. “Yes, indeedy. Must come from good stock, right Momma?”
How would I know? “We’ve been issued a five-star test crash rating.”
She laughed. “Well, you’re looking much better. And I’m glad you’re finally getting to bond with baby. Looks like she got out of her swadd
le. You might want to bundle her up while we do this paperwork.”
“Windsor or square knot?”
“Can knock the sense out of you, but not the humor. Here. Let me show you.”
I flinched as the nurse hauled the baby into her arms at catapult speed. At least if she had lost her grip, the kid would have launched straight to the ER. I resisted the urge to leap up and play catcher. The nurse didn’t notice—like she trebucheted kids all day. She balanced her on one arm and folded the blanket into a diamond shape.
“So what is this little cutie’s name?” she asked.
Good question. “I’m not sure. Ask her if she knows mine.”
She gestured to the baby and blanket. “You square her shoulders with the blanket here, then tuck this edge across with her little arm, and you pull this bottom bit up—” The nurse made a shushing sound that effectively silenced both me and the infant. “And you wrap the other bit around her like this. And…here you go.”
She handed her to me, straight-jacketed in the white blanket. But the baby-bondage worked. The newborn gave me a yawn instead of a scream.
Progress.
The nurse checked a chart. “So you haven’t picked a name for her yet?”
I ignored the itch on my nose to ensure I kept both hands firmly on the baby. “Well, we haven’t had time to discuss it yet. She’s thinking something unisex, but I was leaning toward a classic.”
“I understand. We’ll come back to her.” The nurse tapped her paperwork. “We have other documentation to go through…as best we can. This is a special case…so let’s put Evie down for a name.”
I perked up. “Oh. Evie. That’s a cute name.”
“The ice cream truck found you on Evie Street.”
“That’s perfect. She looks like an Evie.”
“No, Momma. We’ve been calling you Evie. Jane ‘Evie’ Doe. It felt more personal.”
“Oh.”
“So we have your name listed for the birth certificate, but we’ll need to name the baby before you leave the hospital.”
“Shouldn’t I get my memory back before I leave the hospital?”
“Well, we certainly hope so.”
That didn’t sound good.
“But this paperwork is very important,” she said. “We’ll fill out as much as we can now, in case you don’t recover your memory in time.”