by Emery Cross
THERE WERE TWO BUSES waiting in the parking lot. It reminded me of taking a school field trip.
I'd played out this leave-taking in my mind. I was going to give him a quick peck on the cheek and get out of the truck before he had a chance to come around and open my door. I'd grab the small case from the backseat and walk toward the bus, turning once and giving him a friendly wave.
As soon as he parked, I moved into action. "See you in a week," I said, sunnily. I unbuckled my seatbelt then stretched across the seat.
The muscle in his jaw was flexing as I planted a kiss on his face.
"This will be good for us. You do realize that you have the same ritual every time you come home from work? You check to see if I'm still wearing your ring, whether I've cleared out any of my clothes."
His right hand was curled in a loose fist atop his thigh. I put my hand over it and gave it a squeeze. "I want to prove to you that I can be trusted. That this time I meant those vows."
"Call me when you get there." His harsh tone said I wasn't convincing him of anything.
I gave his hard face one more swift kiss. “I love you.”
His hazel eyes flashed with obvious disbelief. "Save those words for when we've been married for two years. Then I'll believe them."
I exited the truck. I did not turn around and give him the happy wave I'd anticipated. Our goodbye had been too heavy for that.
I checked in with one of the instructors and handed my bag to the driver who was loading the suitcases in the compartment underneath the bus. Some of the attendees had brought some fairly sizable luggage. I'd packed particularly light, probably too light. But I'd wanted to emphasize that this was just a casual trip that I would be back before he knew it.
As I boarded, a girl with beautiful bouncy ringlets gestured for me to take the seat next to her.
Wrong decision. She was as lively as she looked and I felt as if I was going through an existential crisis. She was looking forward to the tour and I was thinking of it as a means to strengthen my marriage.
Her name was Joy and it suited her.
She had a pastry cookbook on her lap with numerous colored papers marking the pages.
"I was in the liberal arts program and then made an abrupt change to business classes. I couldn't concentrate. They were so dull," she said. "I'm taking a break from college. I love baking so I thought, why not?"
She reminded me of myself. No real direction. I wondered if she'd had a similar upbringing with no real roots. Or maybe she had caring parents and this was just her temperament—footloose and fancy free.
We were probably nearly the same age, but I felt much older and more than a little jaded.
I gave myself a pep talk. I had goals now. I wanted that job in the French bistro. But mostly I wanted to make a success of my marriage. I realized suddenly that Joy was still speaking.
"I think a pastry chef is what I'm meant to be," she said.
"Those positions aren't easy to get. Even apprentice jobs are—" I stopped talking as I watched her smile fade. What was I doing discouraging her? Maybe her bright-eyed optimism would make her a shoo-in.
"At least, for me," I quickly added, "but then I was just working in a glorified donut shop. I'm sure completing this program will make a big difference."
I called Rowley the moment I arrived at the motel. I wasn’t sure whether he’d had a chance to replace the smartphone he’d demolished, so I phoned our home landline. He did not hide the fact that he was still unhappy. It was a short and not so sweet conversation. Before hanging up, he confirmed all the information I'd already given him; the name of the motel, and the address and phone number for the front desk.
After we delivered our suitcases to our motel rooms we climbed back into the bus. We were given a quick tour of the institute’s Las Vegas campus, and then we set off again. They'd chosen a chocolatier to visit for our first day.
I knew the moment we walked into the mid-sized confectioner's shop that this was going to be the highlight of the trip. The scent alone made me all warm inside.
I'd never made candy before. We were all given aprons and then our choice of chocolate molds. The chocolate coating for the candy was already made, so it was really just a matter of choosing fillings. A child could do it, but it was so satisfying to pop those perfect sweet treats out of the mold. I wondered if all the experiences they'd lined up would be like this one. Simple, without any real skills needed.
Four days in and Rowley still hadn't accustomed himself to my absence. I put on false cheer and gabbed enthusiastically about the classes I'd taken.
On the fifth day, I'd gotten to the assigned meeting place and realized I'd forgotten to charge my phone. Rowley's call went through to voicemail. His message was thick with frustration.
On the sixth day, I was in the middle of making a whipped cream frosting, but thinking about Rowley.
"Harper, you are whipping that cream into butter." The guest instructor's sharp tone shook me out of my daydreams.
"You'll rip up the cake frosting it with that. Start from scratch."
I switched off the mixer and stared at the chunks of cream. I couldn't concentrate. Hadn't I pushed my point far enough? Go home early, I told myself. Surprise him.
I dumped the failed frosting into the trash and washed the bowl. I cleaned up my station and removed and folded my apron before leaving the kitchen. I wasn't going to think too hard about the fact that I was quitting the tour early to be back with him.
I let the guide know I was leaving and taking a bus home.
I picked up my small suitcase at the motel, and used a phone app to buy a ticket. There were only seats available on the last bus leaving that evening. I wouldn't be home until well after midnight. I ordered the ticket anyway.
It didn't take long to decide how to kill time before I needed to be at the station. Rowley preferred me with my natural red color. I searched online for a hair salon that would take walk-ins, and then arranged for an Uber.
I'd calculated the time to and from the stylist and allotted a generous amount of time for the actual dyeing process.
What I hadn't counted on finding in an unimpressive strip mall was an expert colorist who insisted that varying shades of red instead of a single-process color would look far more natural.
I was getting antsy by the time she rinsed and conditioned my hair. When we returned to her station, I didn't take a seat. I left the fee along with a generous tip on her table.
"Don't you want me to blow it out?"
"I can't stay. I have to catch a bus."
As soon as she unfastened the protective cape, I grabbed my purse and carry-on and left.
It was already getting dark out. I stood in front of the salon, my hair wetting my t-shirt, waiting for my ride. I gathered my hair to the side and twisted it to get out some of the moisture.
The driver seemed to be new at this. He made wrong turns and the digital voice kept telling him to ‘proceed to the route’.
We hit a traffic jam as we neared the bus station. I checked the pedestrian route on my phone. If I ran part of the way, I could make it faster on foot.
"Drop me here," I said to the driver.
I jumped out of the car and jay-walked across the street. I took a shortcut through an alley and then turned down a side-street.
I was panting, and my arm ached from carrying my luggage, but I was making decent progress. I switched the bag to the other hand and checked the time and my position on the map in relation to the station. I was going to make it. I shoved the phone into my pocket.
Hearing the rumble of an engine, I glanced over my shoulder to find a motorcycle turning a corner. I returned my attention to where I was putting my feet. I could feel the reverberation of the engine through the soles of my sneakers as the motorcycle passed me.
I watched the motorcycle slow and make a u-turn. The driver was clad in black from his helmet to his boots. The passenger on the back was wearing black as well, except for the neon pink
helmet. My senses were on alert, but it drove past me again without incident.
See, there was nothing to worry about, I told myself. Just a couple out for the evening. They'd simply realized they were going the wrong direction.
A man glanced up at me from watering his lawn. He gave me a quick wave which I returned.
I heard the sound of the engine approaching from behind again. Ominously, the headlights went off. What the hell? I ran up onto someone's grass prepared to knock on a door and ask for help if I had to. There was a sudden, powerful yank on my purse that spun me around. The strap tore and I found myself grasping at the air, knowing it was useless, knowing I was falling. And then there was blinding pain followed by an inky darkness.
CHAPTER 22
HARPER
I WOKE UP IN AN UNFAMILIAR room. No, not just any room. My eyes were unfocused, but I could see the rails on the bed. I heard the monitors beeping before my vision cleared enough to make them out. I put my hand to my face suddenly aware of the oxygen mask. My heart began racing. What had happened? Was this just another bad dream? It seemed like a stream of overlapping nightmares had played out in my mind all night.
I could remember one clearly. I looked a lot like the Ophelia in paintings I’d seen. But my red hair wasn’t flowing, it was twined around me like a suffocating vine, and I was unable to move my limbs. I was floating down a mossy green river. Rowley Ford stood on the river bank. "Dammit, let her sleep," he kept repeating over and over.
I touched the tape on my arm which held a needle. This was definitely real.
A nurse came in. She glanced at me and then at the monitors, and then back at me.
She removed the mask. "Good, you're awake."
Clearly anticipating that I'd be thirsty she poured some water into a plastic cup, added a straw, and held it to my mouth to drink.
She only allowed me a sip before taking it away.
"I'm going to miss my bus. What time is it?"
"How are you feeling?" she asked instead of answering my question.
"Not great. Did the motorcycle hit me?"
"Actually, it was a mugging. There was a witness."
I remembered running down a residential street to get to the salon, no, not the salon... the bus station. I remembered the bright lights of the motorcycle and then nothing past that.
I tried to sit up, but my head felt like it was too heavy.
"Take it easy. You suffered trauma to your head."
That explained why it was aching. I was suddenly aware of a tender spot and lifted my hand to touch the side of my head, but my arm was aching, too.
"You should leave the wound alone. The staples will come out in about five more days."
With my other hand, I pushed up the sleeve of my hospital gown. There was bruising from my forearm to my shoulder.
The same disjointed images that had appeared in my nightmares, flashed through my mind. "I think I missed my bus."
"Can you tell me your name?"
I frowned at her in confusion. How did they not know who I was?
"We had no way of identifying you. There was no missing person’s report matching your description."
"Missing person’s report?" Who would file that on my behalf?
"Wait, does that mean I've been here for forty eight hours?"
"There isn't actually a waiting period to file. That's just the movies." She checked the computer tablet she held. "But you have been here for nearly two full days."
"Have I been unconscious all that time?"
"In a coma," she stated flatly.
Two lost days. That was too long. Too long for what though?
"Do you know your name?"
"Of course, it's Harper McCray. No, wait, Harper Newton." That wasn't right either. I glanced at my left hand and stared at the diamond ring. That was certainly not the ring Finn had given me, besides we were divorced. "Definitely, Harper McCray."
"And where do you live?" the nurse asked.
I rattled off Finn's address. "That's wrong,” I said almost immediately. "I don't live there anymore. I'm sorry, I can't seem to remember where I moved after the divorce."
She glanced at one of the monitors. "Your heart rate is rising. No need to get anxious. Holes in memory are not unusual with this type of injury. They often resolve themselves with time."
She set down the tablet. "Do you know where you are now?" she asked as she replaced the IV bag.
"Somewhere in California?"
"Las Vegas, Nevada," she said.
Why was I in Vegas?
"Has he been here?"
The nurse furrowed her brow. "Who is he?"
I shrugged and then wished I hadn't, every part of me seemed to be sore. I didn't know myself who I was referring to.
"Nobody has been here. We didn't know who to call." She picked up the computer tablet and typed something into it.
"Oh, right."
Suddenly, I felt unbelievably tired.
"Has my husband been here?"
"I thought you said you were divorced."
"I can't seem to put two and two together."
"Nothing to worry about," she said in a reassuring tone. "It will all come back to you."
"I have my license in my wallet." I was too weary to enunciate properly.
"What?" the nurse asked.
"My ID. It was in my purse."
"Stolen. You were mugged," she said. This time she sounded a little frustrated.
I knew I was repeating myself, but was I still dreaming?
"There was a small luggage bag recovered, but it only contains clothes and grooming items."
"Could I have my phone?"
"It broke when you hit the street," she said. "Would you like us to call someone?"
I waved her question away. "No, no. I'm fine."
My eyes drifted shut. I felt her presence behind my eyelids. Was she still standing there waiting to ask me another question? I couldn't manage to lift my lids to check.
I felt myself sliding into a delirious state. A gale force wind had blown through my house and all the doors had flown off their hinges. I raced through the house past upended furniture, desperate to find someone. I was shaking with fear. I was all alone.
When I finally opened my eyes again, I found a different nurse leaning over me and asking me whether I was hungry. How many hours had elapsed? Was this even the same day?
Without waiting for an answer, she adjusted the bed so I was propped up, then wheeled a table into place and set a tray on top. A cup of broth, some kind of protein drink, and gelatin in a bowl. I ate a few scoops of gelatin, sipped half the drink through a straw, and then lay back down.
"Would you like to use the phone to call someone?"
After a moment's hesitation I said, "There's only my brother and he's probably on top of a mountain or in a jungle somewhere." Calling Finn to come sit by my bedside would he asking a lot of an ex-husband, besides it might give him false hope. Though my thoughts were jumbled, I knew I didn’t want to get back together with him.
Another nurse, another tray. This time the white plate held scrambled eggs and a slice of bread. There was a bowl of oatmeal and another with the ever-present gelatin. I made myself finish every bite. I wanted my strength so I could leave.
The days were still blurring together, but I knew I was improving. They'd moved me out of ICU. They'd taken the catheter out. And my waking hours were longer. But I was still living in a twilight space. For instance, had there been a detective asking me about the mugging?
I still felt weak, like I'd been bedridden for months. I willed my legs to make it the short distance to the bathroom. I checked myself in the mirror. My hair startled me again. I'd been trying to figure out what was wrong with it, why it looked so different. It was my natural shade and yet it wasn't. The red seemed darker somehow.
Someone had taken the time while I was in the coma to plait it into a single braid, probably so it wouldn't become a matted mess. I hadn't done anything wit
h it since I'd woken up.
Time to check out the damage. I undid the braid then parted the hair on the side of my head to get a look at the shaved part and the ugly gash held together with staples. Not a pretty sight.
Unbidden, a scene pushed its way into my mind. It was of Rowley Ford digging his fingers into my hair and kissing me passionately. Knocked senseless for nearly forty-eight hours, and still trying to figure out my address or why I was even in Vegas, yet, clearly, nothing was ever going to knock that man out of my brain.
At some point in the day, a doctor came in to see me.
Was it the same doctor who'd checked my eyes with a penlight the day I'd come out of the coma? Or was this the doctor who’d rattled off questions to test my memory?
He didn't seem familiar. He was short and balding with a cherubic face. The kind of face you expected to beam kindness, but he was all business.
"How are you feeling today?" he asked without a smile. He checked my eyes and then asked me a series of questions. Another test of my cognition.
I answered carefully. And gave Finn's address again as my own, but this time without mentioning my doubts. I wanted out of here.
"I'd like to go home," I said.
"Before we release you, we'll need to do another MRI."
The doctor left and I turned my face to the window. The blinds were closed, but the Nevada sun was still filtering through. I heard footsteps and then someone inserted themselves into my line of vision.
It was a middle-aged man dressed in an ill-fitting suit with a tie speckled with grease stains. He had a cup of Starbucks in his hand. God, I missed coffee.
He showed me his badge and introduced himself as Detective Gillespie.
I adjusted the bed so I was sitting up straighter. "Could you please open the blinds? This hospital lighting is depressing."
He pulled the strings on the blinds to reveal a stucco wall.
"Not much of a view," he quipped as he pulled up a chair.
He caught me eyeing his coffee cup. "There's a shop just down the block. Would you like me to get you a cup?"
I was sorely tempted. "No, but thank you for the offer."