by Erin Watt
“No.” The truth is the truth. None of this makes sense. How can I remember my name but not how the accident happened? How can I remember what a hospital is or that the tube running up my arm is an IV or that a harmonic series diverges to infinity but not my first kiss?
The doctor taps the bed rail to get my attention.
“Am I a doctor?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re wearing a doctor’s coat. You have the hearing thingy,”—stethoscope, my mind helpfully supplies—“around your neck, and you talk like one.”
“If Susan here was wearing my coat and the ’scope, wouldn’t you think she was a doctor?”
I tilt my head up to look at the nurse. Susan smiles and frames her face with her hands. I dress her up in the coat and the metal stethoscope and see her exactly as he’d described—a doctor.
“You see, truth is a variable concept based on each individual’s bias. If you saw Susan walking down the hall, you might have said that you saw a doctor, when it’s really one of our very capable nurses. What your mother may remember about you borrowing a dress your sister promised you could wear is going to be different than your sister’s memory. If you had a fight with your boyfriend, his memory of who is at fault might be different than yours.
“I’ve advised your family members and friends that they should avoid talking about your past to the best of their ability until it’s confirmed that you’ve lost those memories entirely. I’ll write you a note for school and you should warn your classmates about this. If they tell you things about the past, it can color your memories or even replace them.”
My body chills as I attempt to absorb the doctor’s warning. The whole “two sides to every story” thing is taking on scary implications.
“I don’t like this,” I tell him.
“I know. I wouldn’t like it, either.”
I’ll just have to remember things on my own, I decide. That’s the solution. “How long will it take for me to recover my memories on my own?”
Could I hide out until that time?
“It could be days or weeks or months or maybe even years. The brain is a big mystery for even doctors and scientists. I’m sorry. I wish I had a better answer. The good thing, like I said before, is that other than a few bruised ribs, you’re physically in excellent condition.”
The nurse pulls out a small vial and sticks a needle in it. I eye it and her with slight unease.
“Can you give me a drug to help me remember?”
“We are.” She taps her needle.
“Can you at least give me a bare account of what happened?” I beg. “Did I hurt anyone else?” That’s really the important thing here. “Was anyone in the car with me? My family?” I struggle to envision my family but can’t come up with any clear images. There are shadows there. One, two…three? The doctor referenced a mom and an older sister, which would make me the youngest if my family is made up of four people. Or maybe my mom’s divorced and I have three siblings? How can I not know this? Blood churns violently in my head. A sharp pain spikes behind my eyes. This not knowing may kill me.
“You were driving alone. There were three young people in another vehicle,” Doc Joshi says. “Two were uninjured and the other, a male, is in critical condition.”
“Oh God,” I moan. This is the worst. “Who is it? And what’s wrong with him? Was it my fault? Why don’t I remember what happened?”
“It’s your mind’s way of protecting you. This often happens to trauma patients.” He pats me on the hand before leaving. “I’m not concerned, so you don’t need to be, either.”
Not be concerned? Dude, I’ve lost my mind, literally.
“Are you ready for a few visitors?” asks the nurse after the doctor is gone. She injects the drugs into the plastic bag hanging on a hook next to my bed.
“I don’t think—”
“Is she awake?” chirps a voice from the door.
“Your friend’s been waiting for hours to see you. Should I let her in?” Nurse Susan asks.
My first impulse is to say no. I feel like death. My entire body aches, like even my toes feel bruised. The thought of smiling and pretending I’m okay, because that’s what you do with people, isn’t appealing.
Worse, every interaction with my friends and family might mean that the things I remember will be someone else’s recollection, not my own. I’ve lost a part of myself and unless I remain completely isolated, I may never fully recover.
But I don’t want to be completely isolated. Not knowing is worse than having incomplete information.
“Yes.” I can piece things together. Compare and contrast statements. When facts are confirmed by more than one source, that’s the truth. I can deal with the physical pain; it’s the uncertainty that’s gnawing away inside. I nod and repeat, “Yes.”
“She’s awake, but be gentle with her,” calls the nurse.
I watch as a girl with long, shiny blonde hair nears my bed. I don’t recognize her. Disappointment pushes my shoulders down. If she’s been waiting for hours, she must be a close friend. So why can’t I remember her? Think, Hartley, think! I order.
Doc said I might not get some memories back, but he didn’t mean I’d forget the people I cared about, did he? Is that even possible? Wouldn’t the ones I love be etched into my heart, carved so deeply that I would always remember them?
I search the black void in my brain to see if I can pull up a name. Who am I close friends with? An image pops into my head of a pretty strawberry blonde with a face full of freckles. Kayleen. Kayleen O’Grady. After her name, a collage of images tumble into my brain—waiting in the park after school; spying on a boy; spending the night in her soccer-themed bedroom; going to music lessons together. I flex my hand in surprise. Music lessons? A picture of me bent over a violin appears. I played the violin? I’ll have to ask Kayleen about that.
“Yeah, get over here, girl,” I say, ignoring the pain the movement brings. Who cares if it hurts to move. I’m getting my memories back. Doc Joshi knows nothing. I smile broadly and reach for Kayleen’s hand.
She ignores it, stopping about five feet from the bed as if I’m contagious. She’s close enough for me to see she looks nothing like the snapshot in my memory. This girl’s face is more oval. Her eyebrows are sharply defined. Her hair is a light blonde and her face is freckle-free. Kayleen could have dyed her hair, but there’s no way her face goes from cute with freckles to the chilly, unfriendly blonde with a vanilla complexion.
And her clothes...Kayleen’s a jeans-and-oversized-flannel kind of girl. The person in front of me is wearing a knee-length cream plaid skirt with black-and-red striping. She’s paired it with a cream long-sleeve blouse with lace at the sleeves and the collar. On her feet, she has a pair of quilted ballet slippers with shiny black caps and interlocking gold CCs finishing them off. Her hair is pulled back to one side and fastened with a barrette with the same interlocking letters, only these are studded with rhinestones—or hell, maybe they’re diamonds.
She looks like an expensive magazine advertisement.
I frown, dropping my rejected hand to my lap. “Wait, you’re not Kayleen.” I squint. The girl looks vaguely familiar. “Is that you…Felicity?”
Chapter 5
Hartley
“In the flesh.” The blonde tiptoes gingerly over to peer at the IV bag. “Hmm. Morphine. You’re at least getting decent drugs.”
Felicity Worthington is a girl I know more by reputation—like a celebrity of sorts—which explains why I remember her but not any specific interactions with her. The Worthingtons are big names in Bayview. They live in a huge house along the shore, drive expensive cars, and the kids throw massive parties that show up on everyone’s Instagram feed and inspire the worst FOMO ever.
I can’t envision a circumstance in which Felicity and I became friends, let alone close enough that she would sit in the hospital waiting to see me.
“I can’t believe I’m the
first one to see you,” she says as she flips a curtain of blonde hair over one shoulder.
“Same.” There’s something vaguely unsettling about her.
She arches a perfectly plucked eyebrow. “I heard you lost some of your memories. Is that true?”
I’d like to deny it, but I have a feeling I’d be found out right away. “Yes.”
She stretches out her arm and flicks a fingernail adorned with crystals against my IV line. “And your doctor told us that we shouldn’t fill in your memory gaps because that would be too confusing for you.”
“Also true.”
“But you’re dying to know, aren’t you? Why I’m here? How we became friends? What’s happened in your life? Those blank spaces need filling up, don’t they?” She circles to the base of the bed and I watch her as carefully as I’d watch a snake.
“Why are you here?” Because I have this sense that we aren’t friends at all. I think it’s because of the way Felicity looks at me—as if I’m more science experiment or lab specimen than person.
“My grandmother is having hip surgery. She’s in recovery two doors down.” She gestures toward the door.
That makes sense. “I’m sorry. I hope she feels better soon.”
“I’ll pass on your well wishes,” Felicity responds. She eyes me as if waiting for more questions.
I nearly bite my tongue through to keep them from coming out. I have a flood of them I want to ask, but I don’t feel like Felicity’s the right one to be giving me the answers.
She cracks first. “Don’t you have anything you want to know?”
Yes. Lots. I sort through my questions to find a safe one.
“Where’s Kayleen?” I crane my neck around gingerly, ignoring the shard of pain that spikes at each movement.
“Kayleen who?” Genuine confusion creases her brow.
“Kayleen O’Grady. Small redhead. Plays the cello.” At Felicity’s continued blank look, I add, “She’s my best friend. We take lessons with Mr. Hayes over at the Bayview Performing Arts Center.” It seems like I’m not the only one with memory loss.
“O’Grady? Mr. Hayes? What century are you in? That pedo got run out of town two years ago, around the same time the O’Gradys moved to Georgia.”
“What?” I blink in shock. “Kayleen lives next door to me.”
A strange look passes over Felicity’s face, and something I can’t decipher sends a spider of apprehension skittering down my spine.
“How old are you, Hartley?” she asks, leaning over the footboard with something akin to glee sparkling in her golden-brown eyes.
“I—I…” The number fourteen pops into my head, but I feel older than that. How do I not know how old I am? “I’m fifte—seventeen,” I hurriedly change my answer as Felicity’s eyes widen.
She claps a hand over her mouth and then drops it. “You don’t know how old you are? This is amazing.” She whips out her phone and starts tapping. The screen looks new, but then Felicity always had the latest gadgets, designer clothes, expensive purses.
“Who are you texting?” I demand. It’s rude but so is she.
“Everyone,” she says, giving me a look that implies that my brain sustained more damage than the doctor has diagnosed.
I pick up the nurse alert button. “You can leave,” I inform the girl. “I’m tired and I don’t need to be treated like this.” I can’t believe the nerve of this girl to come into my room and then make fun of me because I injured my head. Tears of anger prick at the backs of my eyes and I blink rapidly to keep any from falling. I’m not showing an ounce of weakness in front of Felicity Worthington. She might have more money than me, but that doesn’t mean I’m not entitled to some damned decency.
The coldness in my tone must have caught her attention. She lowers her phone, and pouts. “I’m trying to be helpful. I’m telling our friends that we’re going to have to be extra careful with you.”
I highly doubt that. I point to the door. “You can be helpful outside.”
“Sure. I’ll send your boyfriend in then.”
“My what?” I half shout.
A malicious smile spreads across her face. In the distance, a warning bell rings, but I pay it little attention.
“My what?” I repeat, quieter this time.
“Your boyfriend. Kyle Hudson. You remember him, don’t you? From the moment you laid eyes on each other, it was like a Disney romance.” She clasps her hands to her chest. “You were all over each other. The PDA was disgusting, but then that happened.”
She dangles the bait, and against my better judgment, I ask, “What happened?”
“You cheated on him with Easton Royal.”
“Easton Royal? Cheated?” There’s so many things wrong with Felicity’s statement that I start laughing. “Okay. That’s hilarious. You can go now.”
If she’s going to make up stories, she should craft believable ones. The Royals make the Worthingtons look like poor white trash. The Royal mansion on Bayview Shore is so big you can see it from a satellite image. I remember exclaiming over it when I was in…what grade was I in? Sixth? Seventh? Kayleen and I talked about how even though there are five Royal brothers, the house is so big that they probably don’t see each other for days. There’s no way I’ve ever run into Easton Royal, let alone been in a situation where the two of us would hook up.
I don’t know why Felicity is telling these ridiculous tales. I guess she’s bored from waiting for her grandma to get better. I settle on that reason. It makes sense to me.
“It’s true,” she insists.
“Uh huh.” My instincts regarding Felicity were spot-on and I take comfort in that. Soon, all the details of my past will come into sharp clarity.
“Then what’s this?” She shoves her phone in front of my face.
I blink. And then blink again. And then do it a third time because I can’t quite believe what I’m seeing. Against the backdrop of a neon-lit pier, a gorgeous dark-haired boy is standing in front of me. His hands are twisted in my hair. My arms are around his waist. Our lips are fused together in a way that almost makes me blush. Under the picture, there’s a number of hashtags and what I assume is Easton’s online handle: #couplegoals #EastonRoyal #justRoyalthings @F14_flyboy.
“No.” I shake my head.
“Yes. Pictures don’t lie.” She takes her phone away and sniffs as if I mortally wounded her feelings. “Poor Kyle. You don’t deserve him but he forgave you for cheating on him. He’s here waiting for you but was afraid to come in. I told him I’d come in first. I know it’s hard, but try to be a decent person when he visits.” She gives me a scathing look before spinning on her ballet slipper shoes and heading toward the door.
I let her go because I’m reeling from the information she just spit out. Boyfriend Kyle? Cheated? Easton Royal? My brain stops at his name and my heart flips over. I take a shaky breath. Am I feeling like this because I have feelings for Easton Royal or because the picture Felicity showed me was so damned hot? It doesn’t seem possible that I would’ve been in a position to kiss any Royal, let alone one that looked as fine as the boy in the picture.
The Royals own this town. Their wealth puts Felicity’s to shame. Atlantic Aviation is one of the biggest employers in the state. The likelihood that I’d ever hook up with Easton Royal is as low as me winning the lottery. What did the doctor say? That truth varies based on the person who tells it? But like Felicity says, a picture can’t lie, can it?
The door squeaks as it opens. I turn toward the sound and see a stocky guy with wheat brown hair, small eyes, and thin lips. This must be Kyle Hudson. He looks like he’d rather be anywhere other than my hospital room. He drags his feet past the sitting area, stopping a few feet away from the end of my bed. I finger the nursing station call button.
Stop being such a baby, I chide myself. “Hey, Kyle.”
His name tastes unfamiliar. I wrack my brain for a memory or feeling, but nothing comes up. How can he be my boyfriend? If I’m with him, wouldn’t I at
least have some kind of response toward him instead of this dark, blank void? Why did I cheat? Were we fighting? On a break? Was I drunk? Am I just a bad person? I don’t feel like a bad person, but then, really, how does a bad person feel?
“Hey,” he answers, busily inspecting the tile floor.
“You doing okay?” I ask. Maybe he’s afraid of hospitals and being in one makes him supremely awkward. Still, it’s weird that I’m asking him if he’s all right, while I’m the one growing bedsores from lying on my back in this bed for so long.
“Yeah. Great.” He sticks his hands under his armpits and throws a glance toward the door as if waiting for someone to save him. When no one does, he returns his eyes to the floor and mutters, “I’m, uh, excited to see you.”
If this is his enthusiastic mode, I’d hate to see the bored one. I dated this guy? It was love at first sight? We were all over each other? There’s less chemistry between us than I’d have with a rock. Maybe we didn’t even date, but we were just hanging out and realized we liked other people.
But Easton Royal? There’s no way we dated. No way. How would we even meet each other? He’s a rich kid, which means he attends Astor Park Prep, and I’m sure I go to North.
I wait for Kyle to say something else, but when he remains silent, I just blurt out, “I’m sorry, but I don’t remember you.”
“Yeah, I know.” He finally swings his gaze up to meet mine. His eyes are a muddy blue-brown, I note, and they don’t hold any warmth for me. “It’s okay. Felicity filled me in.”
“What’d she fill you in on, exactly?”
“That you lost your memory because you fell. You got some stitches under that bandage?” Talk of my injury animates him. That’s not freaky.
I lift my hand to the gauze taped to my forehead. “A few.”
“Anything else wrong with you? Like, can you count and shit?” He crosses his arms and inspects me with narrowed eyes.
I prefer when he’s staring at the floor. “Yes, I can count and talk and everything else. I just can’t remember some things.” Like that you and I hooked up and went out. Did we kiss? Did he see me naked? That’s a disturbing thought. I pull my thin hospital blanket up higher.