by Marni MacRae
Laurel smiles warmly and turns back, walking to the chair on the other side of my bed to sit down. “Any excuse to get off my feet.” She sighs and stretches her legs out in front of her, crossing her feet at the ankles. “Let’s chat for a bit. Ask me anything you like, and I will do my best to help.”
Finally, answers! I’m so relieved I know it shows on my face, but Laurel is kind enough to pretend my desperation is normal curiosity.
“Um, OK, thanks.” Suddenly I don’t know what to ask. My need for human contact, company, or any kind of distraction from the ticking clock and the deafening roar of emptiness clouds my mind, and I search quickly for a question that won’t sound too feeble.
“Why did you take so much blood?” At least I found a query pertaining to my health. Perhaps Laurel won’t think me too pathetic.
“I know it looks like a lot, but each vial only holds around a tablespoon or so. Dr. Eston has sent the samples to the lab for tests. They’re testing your nutrition levels, looking for infection, and checking for any abnormalities such as toxins or drugs.” Laurel is kind in her explanation, giving me a professional answer but softening it with a gentle tone. “If the tests come back normal, he may look for genetic markers or run further tests. You don’t know your medical history so he wants to be thorough.”
“Oh.” I don’t know how to follow up her answer. I hadn’t realized you could use blood to find so many things wrong with a person. “How long will it take?”
“It depends on the lab. Some of the tests won’t be run till morning, But Dr. Eston will be in shortly. He’s conferring with a colleague about you.”
“You mean he is asking another doctor what to do?” I find this strange. Why doesn’t he know what to do? He is a doctor after all.
“Yes. Don’t worry, sweetie.”
Laurel insists on calling me “sweetie,” even though she knows Nick named me Eve. I don’t mind. I find it comforting, as if we are friends and just chatting about the weather and not my messed-up mind.
“Dr. Eston is a fantastic doctor. He’s treated just about everyone in Brighton Valley and delivered a good percentage of our population. Including me.”
At this, she chuckles and sits forward.
“Sweetie, you’re a rare bird. No one here has dealt with amnesia. We’re a small hospital in a small town, and although we see some interesting things, amnesia is a rare condition. Dr. Eston is conferring with a specialist in the field so he can treat you properly and help you the best he can.”
“Oh,” I say again. Laurel is reassuring. Her explanations are clear and she seems genuine. I wonder about her life. How old she is, if she is married, has children. She has a maternal energy about her, but I could be confusing that with her nursing. Nurses tend and care for their patients, much as a mother does her child.
“How old are you, Laurel?” I indulge my curiosity, veering off the questions surrounding my situation.
“Twenty-seven. Just turned last month.” She doesn’t blink at the change of topic.
I want to ask her how old she thinks I am but decide to further indulge my curiosity. “Are you married?”
“No. I’m dating a great guy, though. Tuck. He usually picks me up at the end of my shift. Maybe I’ll introduce you one day. He’s the perfect guy.” Laurel grins widely and sighs. “And easy on the eyes. I scored the catch of the county with him. We’ve been dating for over a year now and I’m crazy about him.”
She sounds dreamy as if she is picturing a special moment or memory with Tuck, and I can’t help but smile. “He sounds wonderful. I’m sure he’s crazy about you, too. You’re so nice, he probably thinks he has the catch of the county as well.”
Laurel laughs. The sound rolls off her easily and fills the room, making it seem a little bit brighter. Less scary. “Well, sweetie, flattery will get you everywhere. Why don’t you dig into some of your food while we talk? I have a few more minutes I can give you before I head back to my rounds.”
I don’t know what rounds are, but the reminder of food makes my stomach growl. The easy atmosphere Laurel has created has released the tension in my body, and I realize I don’t know when I ate last. A meal may go a long way toward building some strength and clearing the fog in my head. I take the plastic lid off the small plate closest to me and stare at the square of red sitting innocently in the bowl.
Laurel notices my hesitation and peeks over the edge of the dish. “Oh, Jell-O! They had cherry today, my favorite.” She smiles at me and then her expression slowly turns to astonishment. “You don’t remember Jell-O?”
I shake my head and place the plastic lid on the bed. “No, I don’t think I had it before. Or I could have had it every day.”
I feel defeated by this red square that smells sweet, like jam or juice. Acknowledging that I just referenced jam and juice in my mind confirms that I do know food. I can think of steak, or fried chicken, or pancakes. A dozen other dishes run through my memory, each attached to their own scents, each categorized instinctually by favorite. I happen to love hamburgers and chocolate cake. I just don’t recognize Jell-O. My response to a flood of memories of food is a battle between confusion and delight. I am eager to spend hours perusing my food memory bank, just to have specifics I can refer to. But Laurel’s surprised expression gives me the impression I am missing something. Jell-O is common enough to assume I know it. Like colors, or milk, or pine trees. I decide to not let the Jell-O defeat me. I already know there are holes in every level of what I can and can’t remember, the things I do and do not know. When the doctor comes back we can start fixing that. Right now, I am eating Jell-O.
Laurel has moved past the moment and is removing the lids from the other dishes. “I’m sorry, sweetie, I’m as much in the dark concerning amnesia as you are. But I want to help. I know it must be frustrating to be reminded you can’t remember certain things.”
I dig my spoon into the red square, surprised to find it is like a hard gel. I lift the spoon full of jiggling, red, cherry Jell-O to my mouth and take a bite. It’s awesome. It’s like solidified juice as if squeezed right from a cherry. It melts in my mouth, requiring very little chewing, and as I swallow, I am certain I have never had this treat before.
“It’s OK, Laurel, I know you didn’t mean anything by it. I am as surprised as you at most all the things I don’t know. But I think I don’t remember this,” I point to the Jell-O with my spoon, “because I have never eaten it. I can remember lots of food.” I point to the dishes on the tray in front of me. “That’s mashed potatoes and gravy, that one is spinach, and that is meatloaf. I think.”
“Everyone wonders if that is actually meatloaf.” Laurel leans back in her chair. “Huh. So, maybe some of the things you don’t remember are things you never knew to begin with. Like, I wouldn’t remember how to swim, because I don’t know how, or what ham tastes like because I don’t eat pork.”
“You don’t eat pork? Wait, you don’t know how to swim?” Both things surprise me, not only because Laurel can’t swim or hasn’t had bacon, but because I can and I have. I have a feeling in me, a muscle memory of swimming, floating on top of a body of water. I can’t quite picture it, but I can sense it. And bacon is near the top of my favorite list.
“Nope, I never learned to swim. Lakes creep me out with all that seaweed and big fishes. Ugh, no, thanks. As for the pork issue, well, my mom and dad never ate it, but I think it was just a personal preference thing, and I don’t eat red meat. Some argue pork isn’t red meat, but I have my own issues with it so I say it is.”
“Wow, well good for you for sticking to it. I disagree about the lake opinion, though. Swimming is wonderful. Plus, it wouldn’t be seaweed, it’s just lake grass, and I’m pretty sure the fish are more afraid of you.” I smile and dig into the mashed potatoes and gravy. They’ve gone cold, but now that I have started eating I feel ravenous and the cold potatoes taste like heaven.
“Do you remember swimming?” Laurel sits forward, eager to hear any memory that might u
nlock the mystery of me.
“No, not specifically.” I put down my spoon and sit back, trying to think of the feeling the word “swimming” gives me. “I can’t remember a place or an experience, I can just feel the weightlessness that water gives you. How it feels to float on the top of the water.” I close my eyes and reach further, relaxing into the sensation, the buoyancy. I can recall warm sun on my face, a peacefulness that surrounds the idea. “I think I must have. It is really clear, the feeling.” I grin and open my eyes. “Maybe if I go swimming, it will bring back the memory.”
“Maybe. You should mention it to Dr. Eston.”
I want to tell Nick about swimming. I again regret his absence and hope he doesn’t stay away. He said he would come back, but I worry that once I am out of sight, I will be out of mind. Who would want the burden of me as a friend? I have nothing to offer. Any relationship I start with others will be one-sided. Me needing them, with nothing to balance the other side.
Don’t think like that. I catch the self-pity and tamp it down. Whatever happened to me, I am responsible for who I am going forward. Yes, it’s scary, but there is Jell-O and kind nurses. And Nick.
I finish the remainder of the food, leaving the mystery meat on its plate, but drain the glass of milk. “What’s this?” I point to the can that says “Pepsi.”
Laurel picks up the can and gives me a thoughtful look. “It’s soda. A carbonated drink. There are a lot of different kinds and flavors, but Pepsi is one of the more popular ones.”
She pulls a metal tab on the top of the can, and I hear a pop and a sizzling sound. I don’t want to admit I don’t know what carbonated means so I reach for the can. The metal is cold and smooth, and the scent that wafts from the liquid inside is sugary with a hint of something like acid.
“Well, here’s to Jell-O and memories of swimming.”
I lift the can to my lips and let the liquid pour into my mouth. Instantly my mouth explodes with fire or a kind of tickling-scratching. I gasp, and the Pepsi burns down my throat, coating my airway, and I begin coughing.
“Oh, no, I’m so sorry!” Laurel grabs the can and drops it into the trash, patting me on the back as I cough and splutter the burning sugar-acid out of my throat.
“Pepsi bad.” I wheeze. “Bad like pork.”
Laurel laughs and keeps patting my back. “Ok, sweetie, Pepsi bad.”
After a few minutes of back patting, coughing and sips of water, my throat stops burning and I sit back wiping tears from my eyes.
“People really like that stuff?”
“Well, yeah, almost everybody. If you don’t inhale it or gulp it, it tastes pretty good.”
“I will disagree. Jell-O is nice. Pepsi is mean.” I laugh and shake my head. “Thanks though for the food and for talking with me. I really enjoyed the company.”
“Anytime, sweetie. I’ll be back to check on you in about an hour unless Dr. Eston gets here sooner. Laurel swings the table back to the side of the bed and picks up the tray with its empty plates and lone meatloaf. “Buzz if you need me.”
As the door closes behind her I hear voices in the hall and sit up straight. Dr. Eston must have finished consulting the specialist. Maybe I will get some answers before midnight. The clock on the wall reads ten thirty-two. My first day of being “awake,” and it feels like forever has passed.
A tap on the door has me turning toward it as Laurel pokes her head back in.
“Hey, sweetie, you have a visitor. He brings gifts.” With a wide grin and a knowing wink, Laurel opens the door farther to allow Nick into the room.
Chapter 6
I had parted ways with Lee at Jenson’s field, driving home through the rain that was now accompanied by a layer of fog. Retracing my drive from earlier tonight along Highway 83 kept my thoughts returning to Eve. There is no way to put yourself in someone else’s shoes when those shoes are missing. Like her bare feet, Eve is naked for the world to gawk at. Injured and alone. I can’t begin to know what she must be feeling. But I can’t shake the compelling urge to protect her. Shelter her from the worst of it if I can.
I was born in this town. Doc Eston pulled me into the world, and I grew up running through the neighborhoods with my brother and friends. The community here is close knit, like a family. A gossipy, nosy family with a kind center. They will flock to Eve like a hometown mob of paparazzi by morning. I love them, one and all, but at times they test my patience and personal space. I can only imagine how Eve will handle being the novelty of Brighton Valley.
Enough to send her back into Jenson’s field. The memory of her screaming in the middle of the road had me hitting my brakes a bit too hard as I stopped in front of my house and shut off the truck. The sound still rung in my ears. It had kept me silent through the drive to the hospital, unsure what I should say and scared I might incite another scream.
It hadn’t been fear that had rung out in her cry. I ran my hands over my face and recalled the piercing wail as I sat in the dark cab of the truck. It had been misery. Like a mourning or denial. The brief, shrill scream had been a split-second window into a shattered girl before that window closed, and her pretty face resumed its prior expression. She had still been scared, that was obvious, but…different.
Ah, hell, you’re reading way too much into this, man. I opened the truck door and went in search of that coffee and a hot shower. Eve was under my skin. No denying it, but what man could come upon a lovely, lost, hurt girl and not let it affect him? I knew I was making excuses but didn’t fault myself for the attempt. It had been a strange night, and it wasn’t over yet.
I climbed the porch steps of the house I had built with my own hands. On any other evening I would linger. I love coming home.
I had only left Brighton Valley for the four years it took to get through college in Atlanta. I had never intended to settle anywhere but here. Home is home, no need to look for somewhere better when you were born in the right place. After college, I had scraped together loans and saved as much as possible working two jobs to start my own company. After four years, it still surprises me when one of my guys calls me boss.
This house had been my indulgence. I had dreamed it up. Got help from a college buddy who had gone into architecture to draw up the plans. And then I had built every bit of it with my own hands, my own sweat, pouring myself into the details. Not a lot of people know every nail in their home. After two years I finally finished the home I would grow old in, and still, even now, when I return home, I marvel at the intimacy I have with a structure of wood and glass.
Tonight, though, I turn the key in the lock I had installed in the door I had built. Pushing it open on hinges I had set in a frame I custom tailored in my shop to hold the door that had taken weeks to get just right. And I hadn’t paused as usual. I hadn’t taken a moment to soak in the feeling of coming home. I had gone straight to the kitchen, set a pot of coffee to percolate and then beelined for that hot shower, stripping off soaking clothes as I went.
It took more than fifteen minutes under the steaming jets just to get the heat of the water to thaw my bones. I took an extra five minutes to collect my thoughts, as the water pulsed on my skin, filling the bathroom in a cloud of mist thicker than the fog outside.
I had to admit I was in this. I couldn’t pretend I wasn’t going to go back to the hospital, back to the field. There is no way I could go to work the next day and act as if it were a normal Wednesday. As if Eve had never wandered down that highway for me to come upon. Admitting I was in it for the penny meant I was in for the pound. I’m not a halfway kind of guy.
As I toweled off and dug through my drawers for clean clothes I began to form a plan. A loose one that would require help. I knew was overstepping boundaries with Eve, especially since she already drew that line in the sand for me, asking for space. But I couldn’t just let her go it alone. When we find her family, I will step back, butt out, give her that space she asked for. For now, though, Eve’s request is unrealistic.
If Lee and the po
lice force don’t come up with answers or a direction, the hunt for her origins will be a personal task. Her task, yes, but what tools does she have? No phone. No Internet access. No friends to help. Not even knowledge of where to start.
“Hell,” I muttered to the coffee pot, “The girl is too scared to realize she’s homeless.”
Once Doc deems her fit to go, that young woman might as well walk back into the field and pray the mothership picks her up. Brighton Valley has no shelter. Churches, yes. And they would gather up the troops to help a lost soul, but that would bring the Brighton Valley masses to overwhelm Eve.
I knew there was a better way, but making the call would be taking the chance that Eve would rebel against it and truly run back to Jenson’s field.
No way around it, make the damn call. I knew I was procrastinating. I am not a meddler by nature. A fixer, yeah. I’ll admit my tendency to fix and repair goes along with how I’m made. I’m in construction after all. But I was raised to keep my nose in my own business.
Mom is gonna have something to say about this, I know it. I shook my head and grabbed my cell off the counter. After a long sip of steaming thick coffee, I braced myself and scrolled through my contact list. In for the pound, man.
I hit dial.
After four rings, the line was picked up, and I steeled myself for the inevitable guilt I knew would follow me for throwing a lamb into the den of the lion.
“Ms. T. This is Nick Donovan. Sorry to call so late, but I have a favor to ask.”
Chapter 7
He’s gorgeous. It’s only been four hours or so since he left me, but my response as he slips inside the room is visceral. My entire body reacts to him like it recognizes a friend and warms at once to his presence. The stress from earlier—my disorientation, confusion, and fear—had clouded my senses. Filled my head with the struggle to clear away the mess. I hadn’t truly seen him or taken a moment to find out how I felt about this stranger who affects me so drastically.