This time, the words made sense.
The police report submitted with your claim confirms that you weren’t under the influence of alcohol or drugs at the time of the accident. As a result, we are pleased to offer full coverage of repair costs, and will deal directly with your approved Porsche repair specialist to settle all bills.
At least that was good news.
Clicking out of that email, I saw one from my medical insurance company. As with all emergencies, I’d been treated in the free public system, so I must’ve asked them for information just in case I needed to consult a specialist outside the system. There was the usual intro and legal stuff about preapproval, blah blah, and then: … comprehensive policy offers full cover for both you and your passenger.
Ice in my brain, freezing neurons into place.
I scrolled down the letter to see if I could find a name.
Shit, had I hurt Paige? Was that why she hadn’t called me even after such a bad accident?
My eyes hitched on a name: Daisy Pearse.
Who was Daisy Pearse?
I searched my emails for her name, found nothing. A hit of the Coke jolted those frozen neurons into life. Taking out my phone, I searched the contacts. There was one entry for “Daisy—Marco’s.” But it didn’t look like we’d exchanged any messages. Or I’d deleted them.
Marco’s was a high-end restaurant. And I had a habit of tagging the contact numbers of women with information about where I’d picked them up.
Marco’s had also been the site of the publishing party.
It was a good bet I’d picked her up in the hours before the accident, then forgotten all about her in the aftermath.
Dr. Binchy had made it clear that some memory loss wasn’t unusual when it came to the time immediately preceding or following a traumatic incident. That didn’t explain how I’d completely forgotten that I’d driven the Porsche to the party.
Or that it was undergoing major repairs.
These emails were in my inbox. I’d either made the insurance claims or given someone else the information to do so.
Staring at my phone, I touched the icon that would connect me to Daisy Pearse.
“Aarav! Hi!” A bouncy female voice. “I thought you’d blown me off!”
“Broken bones,” I managed to get out. “Still on crutches.”
“Oh, poor you. But I’m so glad you’re okay otherwise. They wouldn’t let me see you in the hospital. Said I wasn’t family.”
“Thanks for trying.”
“I’m super, super happy you’re okay!”
“Daisy, can you confirm what happened that night?” I asked, keeping my tone easy and laid-back. “All those drugs they gave me at the hospital—I want to make sure I’m not fuzzy on anything. Don’t want my car insurance company to screw me by coming up with some random reason to decline cover.”
“Oh, sure!” Daisy all but bubbled over. “Well, we met in Marco’s. I went with a friend of mine who works at your publishing house. I was wearing the cutest silver dress, and you came over and complimented me, and you’d asked the mixologist to make me a cocktail, and—”
I zoned out as she went on and on about the party, only zoning back in when she got to the part about getting in my car. “I was taking you for a ride?”
“Sure! Like, to see the ocean at night. Super romantic.” She giggled and it made me want to smile despite my shitty mood; no wonder I’d hit on her. I had a thing for happy, giggly girls. I was a bastard to them, but I was a generous bastard and always broke up with diamonds or rubies.
Except with Paige.
She was the one who’d made the choice to leave.
She was the one who couldn’t stand me anymore.
She was the one who’d lied.
18
“What about the accident?”
“It was a total freak thing. It was freezing that time of night—three in the morning—and rain had started coming down without warning, and there was this car ahead of us that suddenly stepped hard on its brakes.
“You reacted fast, but there was something slick on the road. Later the cops said a truck had flipped and spilled oil and it hadn’t been properly cleaned up. You skidded into a spin and hit the tree.”
I fisted, then flexed my hand. “You’re okay?”
“Just got punched in the face and in the side by the air bags. Two black eyes, some other bruising, but nothing broken.” No lack of cheer in her voice even now. “It totally wasn’t your fault. You weren’t even speeding since we were doing the romantic drive thing.”
“Thanks.” I meant it.
“You’ve been in an accident before though, right? I hope this didn’t bring up too many bad memories.”
The Coke residue was suddenly sickeningly sweet on my tongue. “Why do you say that?”
“Oh, after the accident, while I was trying to keep you conscious, you kept saying the taillights were round last time. Over and over. Then one time you mumbled that your leg had hurt worse that time and you hadn’t meant to—”
I held my breath.
“That’s it. That’s all you said before the ambulance came and, boy, was I happy to see them.”
Sweat coated my back. “I’m just glad you’re all right.”
The words worked to distract her. Giggling with delight, she told me about her return to work, and how everyone had been so nice, and how she was “super hoping” we could “finish our date” after I was “all better.”
“I’ll call you.” Hell, I might even do that.
It wasn’t as if Paige was breaking down the door in a rush to reconcile.
After hanging up, I wrote down Daisy’s account of my words. Round taillights. I underlined the two words over and over, until I made a hole in the page.
The ping of an incoming email broke my intent focus on the notebook, and had me glancing at my watch. “Shit.”
I got moving and made it to Dr. Binchy’s surgery five minutes before my appointment. My good leg bounced as I sat there waiting in a large glass-and-chrome cube lined with a plush carpet, while a neat middle-aged woman sat behind the reception desk.
I hadn’t looked at the lettering on the door when I walked in, but now got up and hobbled over to pick up one of the business cards on the reception desk. The middle-aged woman smiled at me. I smiled back, the reflex automatic.
I didn’t look at the card until I was sitting down.
Dr. Marcell Binchy, Neurosurgeon
A jumble of letters were listed below:
BHB (Hons), MBChB, FRACS, F—
“Mr. Rai?” The receptionist smiled. “Go on through.”
Shoving the card into my jeans pocket, I got up and began to make my way to the office. All the while, the monkeys in my brain were screaming. Dr. Binchy was as I’d remembered him—thank fucking God—a tall fifty-something man with a small potbelly in an otherwise trim frame, a thick head of silvered brown hair, and a clean-shaven face. His hazel eyes were bright behind black frames, his skin winter pale.
Then who was the grandmotherly woman with brown skin and no bedside manner?
“Aarav,” he said, rising to shake my hand. “Onto a cane now. That’s a good sign. Dr. Tawera will be pleased.”
Dr. Tawera. Of course that was her. My orthopedic surgeon with the unexpectedly strong hands. “I’m not sure when I’m seeing her next,” I said past the gibbering monkeys. “I probably have it on my phone calendar.” Though when the fuck I’d entered all these dates was lost in the black hole of my mind.
“I have it here, too,” Dr. Binchy said as he took his seat. “All part of your overall care. Let’s see … ah, you’re booked to see her in a week.”
He turned from the computer. “So, how are you?”
“Fine, I think.” The words just came out of my mouth.
“That’s what you say every week.”
I couldn’t remember being in this office every damn week. “Doc, what t
he hell happened to me?”
“This is the first time you’ve asked that question.” A faint smile. “So I think you really must be getting better.” Shifting to his right, he picked up a file, but the action seemed to be more out of habit than anything else, because he spoke without looking at it.
“Bare basics—you took a serious blow to the head in the accident. A heavy metal card case—it turned out to be a promotional item you were given that night. Anyway, it flew up from your dashboard during the accident and embedded itself partially in your brain.”
My hand lifted to the scar at my hairline.
“Yes, that’s where.” Dr. Binchy nodded. “A real freak accident that it flew up at exactly the right angle and speed to do so much damage. The young lady with you kept a calm head and stopped you from pulling out either that or the branch embedded in your chest. It was lucky you had a veterinary nurse in the car. You’re not her usual patient, but she did exactly the right thing.”
Of course bubbly giggly Daisy worked with animals. The information would have been catnip to my cold, bastard heart.
“Yeah,” was all I managed to say, my voice a croak. “How long was I in hospital?”
“Five weeks. Some of it in an induced coma. You’ve been home a month.”
That, at least, lined up with my memories. It also told me that my foot must’ve been seriously pulverized. “What are the long-term effects?”
“Hard to predict. I’m continuing to work together with Dr. Varma on your case, and at this stage, we’re seeing signs of minor ongoing cognitive deficiency—but before you panic, it’s early days yet. Your brain’s still repairing itself.”
I had no clue who Dr. Varma was, but that wasn’t my major concern right then. “And you’ve told me that it can affect memories,” I said, because I had to be sure he’d actually said that and I hadn’t just misremembered.
“Yes.” The doctor’s eyes were sharp. “Have you noticed any improvement or deterioration when it comes to your memories?”
Spine locked, I shook my head.
Minor cognitive deficiencies.
“I did have a migraine.”
“Just the one?” At my nod, he said, “That’s an improvement. Have you been writing?”
“Yes. Crap.”
“May I see a page or two?”
“Sure.” Bringing up the latest cloud file on my phone, I handed over the device. “Never going to see the light of day.”
As he read the words on the screen, I had the sudden fear that they were gibberish, that I’d just been typing with no rational thought. Then I wondered whether to confess that the blow to the head had screwed up my childhood memories.
But what would be the point? He couldn’t exactly go in and fix my neural wiring. And a confession might land me with more tests and medical appointments and I didn’t have time for that. I just had to be careful. Do a journal like I had as a teenager. Note down everything.
“This is incredible, Aarav. Your prose is as crisp and subtly sarcastic as in your first novel.”
My muscles trembled so hard I had to fight to stay upright. “You read Blood Sacrifice?”
“Yes. Dr. Varma and I both did. We have a writer for a patient. We needed a baseline.” He handed back the phone. “You might think that’s crap, but to my reader’s eye it’s up to your usual standards.”
My breath suddenly came easier. “Yeah well, pretty words are fine, but what I need is the meat.” I’d much rather talk plot holes than the holes in my memory. “How long will it take?” I pointed to my head.
“Unknown,” he said, “but given your progress to date, I’m cautiously optimistic.” He picked up one of those tiny light-tubes doctors liked to flash into your eyes. “Let’s go through a few basic tests.”
It turned out my reflexes and senses were just fine. It was only my brain that was rattled.
“That’s why I gave you the go-ahead to drive last week,” Dr. Binchy said. “Your cognitive issues have to do with memory—but not memory related to things like driving or how to walk or make a meal.”
“Nice horror story, Doc.” I hadn’t even considered how much worse it could’ve been.
A slight smile. “Rest. Try not to stress despite the circumstances and allow your brain to heal.”
It was only when I was back in the parking lot of the surgery that I really noticed the large sign out front. It said Neurological Associates in block letters, with four names listed beneath. One of those was Dr. Deepa Varma, Neurologist.
Nothing there. No memory at all.
19
I drove straight to a bookshop after the appointment and bought several notebooks thin and small enough to fit into any jacket and even into my back jeans pocket.
Then I sat in a café, drank Cokes, and wrote down the details of my appointment with Dr. Binchy. I also noted what I’d learned from Constable Neri, as well as my strange encounter with Alice yesterday.
I added another note in all caps: ASK GRANDMA ELEI WHAT SHE SAW THAT NIGHT. But I didn’t write anything about my father’s drunken ranting or what I’d read in my journal. I couldn’t risk that information falling into the wrong hands.
But what if I forgot it all?
No, Dr. Binchy had said I was improving. All the lost memories were in the past.
After spotting the time when I finally lifted my head, I called Shanti and told her I’d get Pari on my way home. It wasn’t until I was in the car that I realized I hadn’t actually eaten anything since breakfast. Probably not good for my physical healing; I’d make up for it at dinner tonight.
My sister was happy to see me and in a much better mood than she’d been this morning. When she stopped chatting away about her day to take a breath, I said, “Pari, can I ask you something?”
“Yup.”
“Was I … different when I first came home from the hospital?”
“Yup. Dopey.” She crossed her eyes, laughed. “Mum said it was the medicine. It made you sleepy and you didn’t even know who I was at first. But then you woke up and you did.”
“Did I say anything strange?”
A twist of her mouth. “Like what?”
My shrug seemed to give her the confidence to venture whatever thoughts she had on the matter. “You told me you had a black bike with blue stripes and it broke when you crashed it on the road in the rain, but Dad was in the room and he said you never had a bike like that. Your bike was red and you didn’t break it in the rain. It just got old so Dad got rid of it. Do you mean things like that?”
“Yeah.” It came out rough, a motorbike with blue accents vivid in my mind, a gleaming thing of chrome and power.
“One time, when Dad didn’t know I was coming to see you, I heard him use his mean voice with you.” A quiet tone, her shoulders hunching in.
“I won’t tell,” I whispered. “Pinky promise.” I hooked pinky fingers with her as my mother had done with me in childhood.
“He was saying, ‘Don’t be stupid, Aarav. You’re the one who messed up the rug. Cleaners just threw up their hands when they saw the state of it.’ ”
For a small child, my sister is a very good mimic with an excellent memory.
“I don’t think you’re stupid,” she added with fierce loyalty. “You wrote a whole book with no pictures.”
I forced out a grin.
I knew I hadn’t hurt my mother. I could never hurt her.
Once home, I gave in to Shanti’s offer of an afternoon snack, then—after a small detour to Pari’s room—decided to spend a couple of hours working on my book. Writing calmed me down, helped me think, and I needed to do both of those if I was going to get to the bottom of what had happened to my mother.
Dr. Binchy’s earlier comments helped when it came to the manuscript—I didn’t need external validation in the rest of my life, but I couldn’t get enough when it came to admiration or accolades for my work. As for bad reviews, I liked to print them out and burn them piece by p
iece on the brazier I had on my apartment balcony.
“I used to think that was cute,” Paige had said one night, about a week before she left me. She’d been seated in one of the loungers, a glass of red wine in hand and her cozy blue cardigan wrapped around her thin frame.
“What?” I’d fed another review into the fire.
“How you’d burn your bad reviews.” A sip of the wine, the short cap of her blonde hair shining in the late afternoon sunlight. “Don’t you think it’s weirdly obsessive that you hunt out these reviews? I mean, you’re burning reviews from bloggers with ten followers.”
“All writers are a little mad,” I’d said with a grin, bringing out a line I’d used more than once to good effect.
But Paige had lived with me for six months—the longest any woman had ever lasted—and she knew all my bullshit. “Seriously, Aarav, you need to get help or you’ll end up one of those unhinged authors who stalk reviewers.”
“No, I never will.” It hadn’t been a lie. “This is all I need.” A moment of feral pleasure, then ash, after which the bad review was erased from my mind. I wondered what Dr. Jitrnicka would say about that. Would he consider it disturbing behavior, another indication of my “slight antisocial” tendencies?
He was too nice to label me, and apparently the word “sociopath” was no longer in the diagnostic manual, but I liked it better than its long-winded replacement. I wondered what Paige would say if I confessed my liking for a disturbing label. I still couldn’t believe she’d dropped me cold. Women tended to cling to me. But Paige … she was a ghost.
Six months of a life together, then nothing. I’d probably been a bastard to her. Just as well I didn’t remember.
I got up after having written three thousand good words. Copious sweet wrappers littered the desk. Fudge. Toffees. Chocolate. I’d made my way through a smorgasbord of delights as I wrote. Kahu called me a “vomit and shit” writer.
“When you’re in the zone, you vomit out words. The rest of the time, you do shit-all.”
I’d laughed until I cried at the accuracy of it. I might take a year to write a book, but add up the hours I spent at the computer and you’d wonder when the hell I wrote over a hundred thousand words. Kahu, in comparison, was a self-described “navel-gazer” who took three hours to put together a hundred words.
Quiet in Her Bones Page 10