by Melissa Hill
She’d had a couple of humdingers though. Just before lunch, a stern-faced businessman in his mid-forties brought a special edition copy of Great Expectations to the counter.
Darcy smiled as she rang up the purchase. ‘Wonderful book. Did you know that Dickens actually changed the ending after a critic told him that Pip spending the rest of his life single was much too sad, and that the masses wouldn’t be happy with it?’ she offered conversationally. ‘So Dickens decided that Pip should meet Estella again after her husband dies, providing a gentle suggestion that they would end up together.’
The man looked at her. ‘No point in my buying it then, is there? Now that you’ve given away the ending.’
Darcy was horrified. It had completely slipped her mind that not everyone had read the classics, and given that the man was buying an illustrated gift edition of the book, she’d just assumed it was an old favourite, or indeed a gift.
She was still trying to get over her embarrassment and indeed the loss of a sale when from inside her apron, she heard her mobile ring.
It was a Manhattan number, one she didn’t recognise, and she looked towards Joshua, who was restocking the bestseller table at the front. He duly gave her a thumbs-up, indicating that she should go ahead and answer it.
‘Hello, Darcy Archer speaking,’ she said, heading out back towards Chaucer’s broom-closet-sized stockroom.
‘Ms Archer, my name is Doctor Ingrid Mandeville, I’m calling from Roosevelt General.’ Darcy felt a sensation of dread rush through her. Had Aidan Harris’s condition deteriorated, or had there been some kind of unforeseen complications maybe? Then she calmed a little, guessing that if this was the case, it was more likely to be the police, than the hospital calling her about it. Not that that should make her feel any better.
She listened as the woman continued to speak. ‘Your number was passed to me this morning; I believe you were a witness to a collision involving one of my patients yesterday? A Mr Harris?’
‘Well, yes.’ Darcy wasn’t sure if she should point out that she was actually the one who’d caused the collision, not just a witness to it, but she decided to wait and see what else the doctor had to say.
‘This is unusual to say the least, but according to the note, you are currently in possession of Mr Harris’s dog?’
‘That’s right, yes. I’m not sure if the paramedics noticed the dog when they were tending to Mr Harris, but he was left behind so I thought it best to—’
‘Well, my patient would very much like to talk to you, Ms Archer. You see, and let it be known from the outset that I am speaking to you with Mr Harris’s full consent, it seems he’s having some issues remembering events leading up to yesterday morning, and was hoping you might be able to enlighten him.’
Enlighten him? How could Darcy possibly enlighten the guy as to what had happened, unless he really was trying to dispute who was at fault, in order to pin some of the medical bills on her? Yet, he couldn’t possibly know that she was the one who’d run into him, could he?
‘I’m not really sure how I can help,’ she said hesitantly. ‘I’m at work at the moment in any case, and if Mr Harris’s family could arrange to pick up his dog as soon as possible, I’d be very grateful.’
‘Well, that’s part of the issue, Ms Archer,’ the doctor said simply. ‘We haven’t been able to contact the patient’s family, because he is unable to tell us anything about them. It’s a rather serious situation.’
Darcy’s eyes widened and her stomach knotted once again. ‘A serious situation?’ she repeated, terrified. Oh no, despite the receptionist’s assurances yesterday, had Aidan Harris since taken a turn for the worse? In which case . . . Darcy didn’t even want to think about the implications and how much trouble she was likely to be in.
‘Yes,’ the doctor confirmed, sending her heart plummeting to her stomach. ‘To put it succinctly, the only memory Mr Harris seems to possess at the moment is of his dog.’
Chapter 8
Every man’s memory is his private literature. Aldous Huxley
That evening after work, her mind filled with questions and her insides twisting with fear, Darcy made her way back to Roosevelt Hospital.
Dr Mandeville was expecting her, and she only had to wait a few moments at Reception before the doctor came to find her.
‘I realise this is unorthodox, but I really appreciate you coming in and I know Mr Harris will too.’ The woman went on to explain how temporary amnesia was often a side-effect of such a collision, but she believed that Aidan Harris’s current condition was actually more down to shock following the accident than a fugue state.
‘Fugue?’ Darcy queried, familiar with the term but not entirely sure what it meant in terms of what was happening to Aidan Harris. It sounded scarily technical for one thing. Just how serious was the damage she’d caused? She recalled reading once about how Agatha Christie had apparently disappeared one day, only to reappear eleven days later in a hotel in Harrogate, with no memory of the events occurring during that time-span. When she asked if this was something similar the doctor shook her head.
‘No. The condition you mention is usually identifiable after the fact, such as when a person comes to after such an episode, and while he or she is in possession of normal day-to-day memories, they have no memory whatsoever of that specific blackout period, be it hours or days. Mr Harris’s condition is more along the lines of simple reversible amnesia, typically characterised by loss of personal identity, individual memories, personality, address, loved ones and other identifying characteristics.’
‘So did . . . did something happen to damage his brain that way – a hit on the head or something?’ Darcy was still afraid to admit to the doctor that she’d been the one to run Aidan Harris over, because that would mean she was directly responsible for his injuries, and the implications. She couldn’t know whether or not the guy had hit his head following the fall because she hadn’t seen it when she’d come off the bike herself.
‘No, actually there’s minimal physical trauma to the brain itself. This is more of a psychological condition: a dissociative response following a major stress event, not uncommon after shock or psychological trauma, but not as a result of physical trauma to the brain,’ the doctor continued and Darcy breathed a sigh of relief.
OK, so at least she knew she hadn’t caused any serious damage to his brain then. By the sounds of it, he was just having trouble recalling a couple of things as a result of the accident. Darcy could understand that; she too had been rattled by what had happened yesterday – she still was – and she wasn’t the one who’d been knocked out or ended up flat on her back. So it was perfectly reasonable, Darcy reassured herself, particularly following his blackout, that Aidan Harris would be still somewhat in shock following the whole episode.
‘Things are foggy for him at the moment but he may well come out of it in a few days, typically once something identifiable – often with an emotional association – triggers his memory,’ Dr Mandeville told Darcy as she led her towards an elevator and they both stepped inside. ‘But as you can imagine, he’s confused and upset that he can’t remember who he is, and of course we can’t contact his next-of-kin to help illuminate the situation for him either. There were no ICE details in his wallet or amongst his personal effects. In Case of Emergency,’ she added when Darcy looked blank.
As the elevator rose to the third floor, Darcy’s thoughts went back to the package he’d been carrying, now safely tucked away in a drawer in her apartment.
Was this something that could trigger his memory?
‘For now, all he remembers is a dog, and regardless of the circumstances we simply cannot allow pets in the hospital,’ the doctor continued before Darcy had a chance to enquire. She led Darcy down a long, quiet corridor before stopping briefly outside a door. ‘When Mr Harris was informed that you were taking care of his pet, he insisted on speaking with you.’
Darcy nervously followed the woman into the room, not sure what to do or
say. The automatic door at the end of the hall hissed open and snatches of ‘Jingle Bells’ filled the air for a few moments before the door hissed shut again. The sound, usually so cheery, this time made her heart yammer even faster. Was there a worse place to spend the holidays? Did Aidan have a worried wife and children at home waiting for him?
The room was bare and unadorned, with not a single floral arrangement or greeting card. When Joshua had had his gallbladder taken out last year and she’d come to visit, she could hardly move, the room had been so jampacked with bouquets, cards and stuffed animals.
Now she wished she’d thought to bring something. But the request had taken her completely by surprise earlier, and anyway, she reminded herself, she didn’t even know this guy.
Aidan Harris lay silently on the bed in front of her. He was hooked up to tubes of every shape, size, colour and length, and Darcy gulped at the sight of them. She thought he looked cleaner now, shinier somehow, than when she’d last seen him out cold on the busy street yesterday morning. His luxurious black hair had been washed and combed back, his face was cleanshaven, though his skin looked worryingly pale. But it also gave her the chance to learn that his eyes, which she’d never seen open, were a soft hazel.
‘Aidan, this is Darcy Archer, the lady who is looking after your dog.’
He turned to look at Darcy and she had to remind herself not to stare. Aidan Harris had arresting, almost piercing eyes, heavy eyebrows and a well-defined jawline; the kind of masculine good looks that might give Rhett Butler or Heathcliff a run for their money.
When he offered Darcy a smile, the skin around his eyes crinkled ever so slightly, and the light tan of his weathered-looking skin suggested time spent in the sun, or outside. He ran a quick hand through the thick mop of hair and Darcy felt overcome by a desire to do the same.
To his hair, not her own.
She willed her hands to stay at their sides. How anyone could look so handsome and regal lying flat in a hospital gown and covered in white sheets was a mystery, and feeling unsettled by his attractiveness, she snapped to in case it was obvious that she was ogling him. Not that she was an ogler. But rarely was she struck in a way that she would feel lost for words.
Darcy, who lived her life through words, suddenly had nothing to say. Aidan Harris looked a bit worried and she guessed he was probably wondering if she wasn’t just a little slow or dim-witted. She felt a blush creeping up her neck and looked quickly at the ground; almost as bashful as she had been yesterday morning when Mr Darcy had populated her dreams, reminding herself that this wasn’t Regency England and that Elizabeth Bennet would be frustrated by her tied tongue. Shrinking violet types in the twenty-first century were so not cool.
Clearing her throat, she said in her best Chaucer’s customer service voice, ‘Hello, Mr Harris. ‘I hope you’re feeling better after your accident.’
‘Not really,’ he replied simply, and there was a world of frustration behind those two words. Darcy once again felt desperately guilty for running him over and figured that if he wasn’t aware of this before now, it possibly wasn’t the best time to reveal it. His voice was deep and gruff – surprising; she had expected someone a little more . . . refined. And yet, she yearned to hear him speak again. ‘You told Reception you have my dog?’
This time she noticed the slight hint of an accent behind his words – an Irish accent perhaps? His name certainly suggested as much. Yet it was just that: a trace of a lilt beneath a decidedly more recognisable New York twang. Darcy suspected that while Aidan Harris might well have been Irish by birth, he was an immigrant and had likely spent many years here in the city.
‘Bailey?’ she smiled. ‘Yes, he’s fine. My neighbour’s taking care of him at the moment. He’s a great dog. Really well behaved, and so intelligent.’
‘Bailey . . .’ Harris nodded absently, as if hearing the name for the first time.
‘Does the name mean something to you, Aidan?’ Dr Mandeville enquired. ‘Can you picture the dog in your mind, what he looks like, how long you’ve had him, where you were walking him yesterday morning? Is there anything at all you can remember about him?’
As the doctor fired questions at him, the man gripped the edge of the bed, his knuckles white with frustration.
Darcy’s heart went out to him, horrified that she had been the cause of all this.
‘No, the name doesn’t mean anything to me,’ he replied, his tone fraught with exasperation. ‘Like I said before, all I can remember is something about a dog – a sort of grey dog that looks a bit like a wolf.’
‘That’s right; he’s a Husky,’ Darcy confirmed, somewhat relieved that he was remembering something at least. No doubt he’d piece together the rest once he and Bailey were reunited, but of course as she already knew, dogs weren’t allowed in the hospital. She didn’t know how long Bailey’s owner would be here, but she supposed she could always take a snapshot of him on her cell phone and show it to him.
Aidan Harris closed his eyes. ‘I can picture a dog in my mind, but that’s all; why the bloody hell can’t I remember anything else?’ He slammed an angry fist into the mattress.
‘OK, Aidan, let’s not force things too much just yet. Why don’t you chat to Ms Archer about your dog for a little while, see if anything else rings a bell,’ Dr Mandeville suggested smoothly, looking at Darcy who nodded, even though she was still terrified.
It was obvious that Aidan Harris was hugely frustrated about his condition, and given the level of his exasperation over the after-effects of the accident, she wasn’t looking forward to admitting that it was she who’d run him over with her bike.
It must be awful, waking up like that and not being able to remember who you were or where you lived. The closest she’d ever come to something like that was drunkenly struggling to figure out which apartment was actually hers after a ‘lively’ night out with Joshua a while back. She’d escaped a potentially close call by trying her keys in Mrs Henley’s door in the early hours of the morning, but luckily for her, her neighbour seemed to sleep very soundly.
Then Darcy thought of something. ‘Doctor,’ she called out just as the woman was about to leave. ‘You probably know this already from Mr Harris’s ID, but if it’s any help, I think he might live in a brownstone off Central Park West. I can give you the address if you’d like.’
The doctor nodded. ‘Thanks. I believe we did get that information from Aidan’s ID, however we’ve been unable to contact any family members there.’
Maybe he lives alone? Darcy wanted to reply, and took a surreptitious glance at Aidan’s left hand. No wedding ring.
‘How do you know that?’ Aidan asked suspiciously, when the doctor took her leave. ‘About where my house is?’
Darcy coloured a little as she told him the story of how Bailey had refused to let her take him home until they’d tried his place first. She smiled as she recounted the Husky’s exploits from the day before, although she left out the bits where she’d fed him pizza for dinner and pepperoni for breakfast. But then she thought of something.
‘So how long do you think you’ll be here – at the hospital, I mean?’ she asked him, wondering now just how long her house-guest would be staying.
His expression darkened. ‘A few days at least because of the damned concussion and the fact that I have no idea who the hell I am. They say they can’t let me out in case I go wandering off somewhere – for insurance reasons or some other bloody nonsense like that.’
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you.’
‘No, it’s fine. I’m the one who should be apologising, not to mention thanking you for taking care of my dog,’ he said, raising a smile which lit up his entire face and made his eyes crinkle at the corners.
Darcy gulped, looking away. ‘It’s been a pleasure. He’s a great dog. I’m sure he misses you though. You should have seen how anxious he was to get into the house yesterday and couldn’t seem to understand why I didn’t have the keys.’
Aidan Harris frow
ned once again, and Darcy was worried that she’d said something wrong when he reached over to his bedside locker. Opening it, he took out a transparent Ziploc bag, and from this withdrew a heavy set of keys.
‘They gave me these earlier and I immediately started wondering if I worked for Fort Knox or something. Look.’ He pointed out a heavy key-ring which to Darcy’s untrained eye looked to be made of real gold; a selection of keys were attached to it. Next to this was a miniature baseball key chain bearing what Darcy recognised as a Mets logo.
‘So at least you know you’re a baseball fan,’ she said with a smile, although she would have betted on someone from his part of town favouring the Yankees.
‘So it seems.’ Harris sighed heavily. ‘Inconceivable . . .’
There was a brief silence and unsure what to say next, Darcy asked what sort of food she should be giving Bailey. ‘Does he have any particular favourites? Seeing as it looks like we might be roomies for a little while longer.’
She noticed that Aidan seemed to be struggling internally with something. ‘I wonder – would you mind keeping an eye on him just until I’m back on my feet?’ he asked then. He added apologetically, ‘Look, I know it’s a lot to ask, especially as you don’t even know me, but—’
‘It was me,’ Darcy blurted out then, and Harris stared at her. ‘On the bike. I was the cyclist who hit you. The lights were green and you and Bailey just stepped out in front of me at the intersection . . .’
‘Ah, I see.’ He was silent for a while, and Darcy cursed herself for saying anything.
‘I couldn’t avoid you and there were witnesses, if you don’t believe me,’ she babbled eventually, wishing he’d say something, or show some kind of reaction.