Mind Lies

by Harlow Stone

  She squeezes my hand and I try to squeeze back, but it remains limp. “We’ll fast forward to one of the biggest mistakes of your life: Tom Black. You never saw him coming, but we’ll agree to disagree when it comes to men with good looks and hair. ’Cause seriously, when it comes to something that’s all shiny and pretty on the outside, it’s probably rotten leftovers on the inside. Either way, you learned your lesson, I may or may not have broken a finger, and you look so much better without him. If I saw you in another pantsuit, I was seriously going to kick your ass, strip you down to your knickers, and burn that stuffy sucker.”

  It’s quiet for a few moments, and I take the time to try and place the memories. Running through all the images she gave me, I try to picture things as she says them. But I come up blank. Other than my own interpretation of how she described them to me, nothing sounds familiar.

  “That’s the bulk of our most embarrassing times and life lessons. The big ones anyway. Visiting hours are almost over, and if you’ve heard me when I speak to you, you’ll know that I like to say what’s important before I go. So, I love you, Jerri Sloane. I’ve loved you since we met in night school. I’ve loved you for the past ten years.”

  Ten years.

  “I need you to wake up so we can meet for coffee on Thursday. Arabica isn’t the same without you. Actually, that’s an understatement; it’s just too fucking quiet,” she laughs, stifling a sob. “Most of all, I need you to pick up the phone because it really sucks you haven’t been picking up lately. I burnt the damn beef when I tried to make Cooper dinner last week, and I knew you’d help or tell me how to fix it, or you’d just show up with a bottle of wine and takeout because you know I can’t cook for shit when Cooper’s around. Anyway, come back to me babe. I miss you so much. Please wake up.”

  I try. Lord do I try.

  I can hear, I can smell, but I can’t move. I didn’t think about it before, but the not moving bothers me more than not waking up. I try to stretch my neck but it won’t budge either.

  Why can’t I move?

  What if I’m paralyzed?

  I will my legs to move. In my mind, I’m kicking them.

  I’m pulling with my hands, but they don’t catch anything.

  I feel like I’m suffocating. The loss of pressure on my hand, and its sudden drop in temperature, is the only indication I might have feeling in that particular body part. Portia has let go.

  Don’t leave, Portia!

  “What’s happening, Jerri?” Portia’s shrill voice echo’s in the room, overpowering the incessant beeping. Like an alarm clock on steroids, the beeping won’t stop, just gets faster.

  Louder.

  Beep, beep, beep, beep.

  I feel sweat coating my forehead. I think my eyes are moving, but I can’t see anything.

  Jesus Christ, I’m blind.

  Fuck, somebody help.

  “Somebody help me!” I scream.

  But it’s useless because there’s no sound.

  I struggle but there’s no movement.

  Chapter Three

  “What’s happening?” Portia asks, breaking through the fog.

  “Ma’am, just stand back for a few minutes,” a woman says. I think she’s a nurse; I’ve felt her cold hands poking at me before.

  Felt, Jerri.

  You’re not paralyzed. You can feel.

  The Doctor announces himself as he comes in. I feel a sharp pain in my foot, followed by blinding lights that send jolts of pain through my head. I hear the machine again, beeping quick and loud, begging for attention.

  “Ms. Sloane is waking up. It might not happen immediately, but she’s trying. O’Brian, let’s get another MRI scheduled, and make sure she’s not in any pain.”

  Too late Doc.

  My eyes are throbbing, my head too. I feel awful, my body a painful deadweight.

  Portia’s hand closes over mine. I recognize the feel of her rings and the jingle of bracelets that follows her movement. “Wake up, Jer. I’m right here, honey. And if you wake up, I promise I’ll clean the shop for like a week.”

  She’s been promising to clean this shop every time she’s in here. I don’t know what the shop is, but I assume cleaning it is not on her list of favorite things to do.

  I roll my eyes around in my head. They feel cold and sticky.

  Unused.

  The nurse pokes something in my arm again, which doesn’t bother me as much as the pain radiating through the rest of my body. None the less, I flinch.

  “Did you see that?” Portia exclaims.

  “Keep talking to her,” the nurse says.

  “Wait! Where are you going? What do I do?”

  “There’s nothing any of us can do until she wakes up. So when she does, you just press the button on the bed and I’ll come back.” Her footsteps echo as they leave the room.

  “And how long does that take?” Portia shouts.

  “Could be five minutes. Could still be five days,” she shouts back.

  “Dammit! Shit!” Portia huffs in frustration. She’s clearly not getting the answer she was hoping for. I keep rolling my eyes, putting energy into opening them. Portia’s hand stays in mine, but I hear her sit down. Her voice now level with my head. “C’mon, Jer, and prove that stick-up-her-ass nurse wrong. If you can hear me, I know you’re trying. Five days my ass. Wake up, woman. We have a shop to run and shit to do.”

  I don’t know where it comes from, but a small laugh bubbles from my throat. It hurts. It’s a dry laugh that could be confused with coughing. But all the same, it’s there.

  “Holy shit,” Portia whispers.

  I squeeze my eyelids, dryness keeping them stuck together. I feel a hand on my face, wetness on my arm. “Wake up, Jerri. C’mon, babe, you can do it.”

  I squeeze again, rolling my eyes at the same time until the first sliver of light comes through.

  It’s too bright.

  It hurts.

  I open my mouth. It too is drier than the Mohave, but I push my lips together, trying to whisper the word.

  “Bah” whispers past my lips.

  “I’m listening, Jer.”

  “Bhri,” I try again, hoping for moisture. Taking pity on my plight, Portia lets go of my hand. I panic for a minute before a cool wet cloth is pushed against my lips. I try to get as much water from it as I can. I don’t get enough to swallow because my tongue and mouth absorb it all.

  “Brighd” barely leaves my lips.

  She stutters it all back to me. “Bah, Bri, Brighd. Bride!” she shouts before giving a watery laugh. “You better not have eloped on me.”

  I do my best to shake my head. It’s small and it, too, hurts but she manages to catch the negative. Squeezing my hand, she says it all again to herself: “bright.”

  Lightly, I squeeze her hand back.

  I give her a small tip from my lips, and I’m quickly rewarded with more darkness. I don’t know if a light was on or if the blinds were open, letting through the daylight. Either way, my eyes are grateful.

  “Okay, babe. Open those eyes for me,” she coaches. I lift them lightly, afraid to feel the pain from before, but determined to wake up.

  The first sliver of pale light comes through. It’s nowhere near as bright as before. It’s blurry, but I’m thankful that whatever happened to me didn’t take my sight. “That’s it, Jer. You got this.”

  My eyes roll, trying to clear through the fog, to make sense of the shapes in front of me. One of them is round, and I blink a few times, bringing it into focus. Pale skin and pink-rimmed eyes framed by messy blonde hair. She’s pretty, Portia, with an edge that matches the fierceness of her tone over the last few days.

  Or weeks.

  I don’t know the time.

  Her lips part, and tears run down her cheeks before a smile breaks out on her face. “Hey, pretty lady. I’ve been waiting a long damn time for you to wake up.”

  I blink a few times, wishing I could place this woman who I’ve only just laid my eyes on. She seems so
happy. I don’t want to say something to hurt her feelings, but I have no idea who she is aside from the woman who speaks at my bedside. My best friend named Portia who I do not recognize.

  Not one bit.

  Thinking it over for a moment, I whisper my first important question. “How long?”

  I heard her ask the same thing, and I know she’ll answer me truthfully. She sobs with her smile still stuck in place. “Twenty-two of the longest days of my life.”

  I close my eyes, trying to piece it together but finding nothing.

  Instead, I ask for water.

  “I just paged the nurse. If she’s half as fast as she was before, she should be here by tomorrow at two.” Portia chuckles but is proven wrong when a nurse comes into the room.

  “I take that back; maybe she wants to meet the woman who is the talk of the hospital,” she says with an obvious eye roll.

  “Welcome to the land of the living, Ms. Sloane.”

  I nod slightly in her direction. But, checking the machines at my bedside, she pays no attention. “If you’re in a lot of pain, you let me know. Doc should be here any minute. He’ll give you a once over and see what kind of shape you’re in.”

  “Water?” I ask her.

  Of course she shakes her head. “Nothing to drink yet, Ms. Sloane. You’ll need to have everything checked out before Doctor Havan can permit food or drink.”

  I feel as if I’m dying or have died and come back to life. I just want some water. Of course I don’t say any of that because my mouth is too dry to speak. My throat too sore. My neck on fire.

  I don’t dare ask for the pain meds yet because I know they will put me to sleep, and I need to know what is wrong with me, what my injuries are.

  How old I am.

  Where I’m from.

  Where he is.

  “Ms. Sloane!” a man exclaims brightly before coming to my bedside. He’s tall, stiff, and his smile doesn’t quite reach his tired eyes.

  “Hi,” I murmur lightly.

  Leaning forward, he flashes a god-awful light in my eyes a few times. “Speaking will be difficult, Ms. Sloane. But I’m happy all the same that you can speak. There was a fair bit of damage done to your neck in the accident. You’ve also suffered trauma to your brain. Now, this may seem soon, but it’s important to get a few tests out of the way so we can determine the extent of your injuries and the remainder of your recovery.”

  I simply nod and wait for him to continue. He pokes in places and moves limbs. He looks down my throat and checks under sutures. Aside from making me walk, he does just about everything, leaving the most painful for last. “What can you remember about the accident, Ms. Sloane?”

  I shake my head lightly and whisper, “Nothing.” It causes me to cough, and I look to the nurse and Portia and mouth, “water.”

  “Small sip for now. Let’s see how you handle it,” the Doc says. The first sip is like heaven, rain after a long drought. I cough. All too soon, the straw is pulled away. “That’s enough for now.”

  Doctor Havan adjusts himself on the chair beside my bed before continuing. “You remember nothing about what happened in the accident. What about what happened before the accident?”

  I squint and shake my head again.

  “Okay, let’s try something different. What is the last thing you remember?” Concerned eyes meet mine across the room. I think back, remembering only one thing.

  One man.

  * * *

  “If you could travel anywhere in the world, right now, where would you go?” I ask him. We’re laying on the bed, facing each other. His elbow is bent and his head is propped on his hand. The black Celtic tattoos on his arm are a stark contrast to the white linen sheets. The moonlight cutting through the blinds dances over the shadows of his skin.

  He’s beautiful.

  My own version of pretty and reckless.

  A smile takes over his handsome face. I have no doubt his answer will be truthful, as all of them have been. I absorb his features, noticing he looks older than in my last dream.

  My last memory of us: we were getting to know each other.

  “If you’re still in my bed, I don’t want to go anywhere,” he confidently says, making me smile. “But, if I had to choose and you wanted to come with me, we’d go to Ireland.”

  Smile still on my face, I tell him, “Good choice. Do I get to ask why?”

  He leans closer, pressing his lips to my bare shoulder. “Because, it’s still home. We may have some bad memories, and I may not travel there often anymore. But when I do, it still feels like home.”

  I take a moment to absorb his words, how he speaks of a place that’s clearly important to him. Perhaps important to both of us if his reference to bad memories is anything to go by.

  But it matters.

  Matters and means something to him.

  I press my lips to his jaw and then his chest where another tattoo meets his collarbone. Wrapping his hand around the back of my neck, he places another kiss on the top of my head. I curl into his warm body, our naked flesh coming together to ward off the chill in the room.

  “Stay,” I whisper.

  He replies the same way he always does: “You know I can’t.”

  Chapter Four

  “Ms. Sloane?” the Doctor asks again, shaking me out of my memories as I look at Portia. I have no doubt she knows me, but I’d hate to tell her that I can’t say the same.

  Why can’t I remember her? Why do I only know her name?

  “Do you know who this is?” Dr. Havan asks while motioning toward where she stands. I feel a light sheen of tears coat my eyes. I close them before whispering, “No.” My voice is so faint I’m surprised anyone heard me, but the loud, choking sob confirms Portia did.

  The whimper that follows is painful and gutting. It pierces my heart in a way that shouldn’t for someone I don’t know. Like a coward, I keep my eyes closed. Perhaps if I can’t see it, it’s not really there.

  Out of sight, out of mind.

  Hear no evil, see no evil.

  Only this isn’t evil. This sounds as if someone’s heart has been ripped from their chest. As much as my body hurts, my heart hurts more to know that I have been the one to inflict that kind of pain.

  To be the one who caused it.

  The Doctor starts speaking again, but I can’t hear him over Portia’s cries. I’ve upset her. Talking at my bedside, she’s been wonderful to me, and I feel as though I had just told her someone died. But perhaps that’s true?

  Someone has died—to her, anyway.

  That someone is me, and I’m saddened by the fact she may very well be dead to me too.

  I’ve listened to Portia talk about the woman she believes me to be, the me who I don’t remember. She’s told me stories, so many stories and memories and things that we’ve shared together. A lifetime of happiness and regret, sadness and fulfillment.

  But that’s all it is right now.

  A story.

  A blank canvas.

  My mind is that blank canvas.

  A huge, empty white canvas that allows anyone and everyone to paint on it. And for the days that Portia has been here, she’s added color to it, color with vibrant tales of our life together and shadows of our past mistakes.

  There’s a large, empty spot in the middle of my canvas—a portion that cannot be painted over or erased—where he is. I feel as if it’s an outline, like the beginnings of a tattoo before you have it colored in. But no matter how deep I dig, I can’t access more than the outline. And I ask myself why he’s not here, filling in the gaps for me.

  Where did he go?

  Why isn’t he with me, not to tell stories, but to re-live the memories?

  Some of the best I’ve ever had.

  Or so I can remember.

  I know I can feel it, feel him.

  I know that he’s out there. And if he knew where I was and what happened to me, I know that he would be here. He would never leave me alone with these people who I don’t rem
ember.

  Giving my eyes one last squeeze for good measure, I accept the inevitable, the fate that will surely leave people disappointed. I open my eyes and look across the room to Portia, the woman who has shared so much and has been with me at my bedside—the beautiful woman who has done nothing but care for me.

  Her eyes are somber, the tears running down her face falling off her cheeks, the weight of them too heavy for her face to hold onto. A man holds her close to his chest. He’s handsome, with dark hair and brown eyes, and clearly thinks the world of her. I may not remember anything, but from the way he embraces her, I’m no fool to think otherwise.

  Gaining eye contact, I softly tell her, “I am so, so very sorry.”

  The poor woman’s knees buckle, sending her toward the floor, but the strong man’s arms catch her.

  Never letting her fall.

  Holding her close, he brushes the hair from her tear-streaked cheeks before placing a kiss on her forehead. He whispers something against her skin, something I cannot hear but am immediately jealous of. I’m not jealous because of what they have together; I’m jealous because my own man is not doing the same for me.

  Feeling the coolness of my own tears trickle down my temple, I move my hand toward my face. I cry out half-way, pain jolting through my arm like a stab wound to the bone.

  “Don’t, Jer!” Portia exclaims as she rushes to my bedside. Grabbing a tissue off the side table, ignoring her own as they continuously fall, she wipes my tears. “It’s okay,” she sobs. “We’ll figure it out, babe. Don’t worry about it.”

  I can tell from the agony on her face that it’s not something to let go. She’s worrying about it, but she’s more concerned with putting on a brave face for me.

  “It’s not okay,” I tell her. “You’re hurt.”