Joe asked, “Do you have any idea why he’d have been wearing a ski mask?”
“What?” I tried to keep the suspicious shriek out of my voice. I failed.
His eyes narrowed. “He was found in a full ski mask. Is that normal for him to wear in the cold?”
“Yes.” I smiled and nodded. Then I did it again, because that’s normal, right? A fucking ski mask? “Yes, yes. His face is…delicate.”
Nicolette seemed unconvinced of my husband’s chap-prone skin.
The detectives wrote stuff down—not that I had much to tell them. If Sam had gotten into new trouble, I possessed no knowledge of what it might be. He couldn’t have, though. He’d promised to leave his life of crime behind him. For me.
But why the hell had he been wearing a ski mask? There was one possibility…
Nicolette interrupted my jumbled thoughts to say they were off to retrace Sam’s steps. She gave me a bolstering shoulder squeeze and left. Joe stopped at the door and said, “Don’t worry, my aunt was in a coma once. After six and a half months, she woke up with half the use of her face!”
Did nobody understand what the words ‘Don’t worry’ meant?
Because of the zip code and the equally-fancy price tag of this hospital, I was able to stay with him. I slept fitfully from sheer exhaustion in the other bed, awaking every time a nurse came to check on him. I made Ellen go home for a while—there was no point in witnessing my cold sweats and hot tears.
Sometime later—afternoon, I think from the mild light seeping through the windows—the neurologist came back. Dr Brains checked Sam’s intracranial pressure monitor—a series of words I wished I’d never heard—but that basically boiled down to a brain tube. The doc made pleased noises, so I shuffled to my feet and dragged my depression-hungover ass to stand beside Sam. “Is he better?”
“He seems to be.”
“Is that a yes?”
“These appear to be signs that are not bad.”
“Which appear?”
He nodded sagely. “Yes.”
“What?”
“The swelling has come down.”
The stale air in my lungs whooshed out. “Great! How much?”
“A…an amount.”
My intracranial pressure was rising by an amount, too. Sam had experienced a moderate traumatic brain injury, which is like saying he was a little pregnant. “I’ll bring him out of the coma later this evening,” the doc told me. “Probably.”
I sagged under the weight of my probable relief. Dr Brains began rattling off a laundry list of all the horrid things that could have happened to Sam’s noggin, but I hummed Xanadu in my head instead of listening. What’s the freaking point of speculating? Did this jackass want me to leak more on the pricey rugs? Any tissue he handed me would likely have added twenty-five bucks to my bill, because this was America.
Ellen returned and brought me a change of clothes. She reported that the press were clogging the entrance of the hospital like hair in a shower drain. Right now the theory online was that one of the several criminals I’d defeated had returned to haunt my family. But Scott Coulter—asshole number one who threatened to kill my family over a Picasso—was still in prison, and Valerie—asshole number two who shot me because I’m awesomer than her, and also over an ancient gold cape—was currently rotting in women’s maximum security, so they were out. But facts or no, the press corps adored my real-life derring-do. Better they speculate about that than the size of my ass.
“Oh, they’re still doing that,” Ellen assured me.
Of course, for women are communal property that everyone is free to simultaneously lust after/hate.
We sat. We waited. Not one, single cell of my body didn’t hurt. I ached from some deep place I barely knew existed. To avoid the pain, I talked to Sam nearly nonstop. I told him I missed him—that he was really falling down on his job to bang me. I begged him to be okay, I begged God for him to be okay, I begged Captain Kirk for him to be okay. Somehow, I knew Sam would put the bulk of his faith in the latter. When Ellen would begin to see me deflate while considering the what ifs, she’d bonk me on the head with a stuffed unicorn that she’d ostensibly bought for me, but wouldn’t let me cuddle. After a while, she went and purchased a second one from the gift shop so that we could both revert to third grade. Frankly, not screaming on the floor and tearing out my hair was as adult as I was willing to be.
They came, at some point in the endless yawn of time, to wheel him away in order to take him out of the coma. I nearly did collapse then, but Ellen wouldn’t let me clutch the wheels of the gurney and drag behind, the traitor. Nicolette returned, off duty, to tell me that Sam had left the art opening just fine, traveling in the direction of our apartment, which is the opposite way from where he was found. They were trying to hunt down surveillance footage from banks and the like in the area to pick up the trail. I checked my phone again to search for a message from Sam’s personal Fed.
Nothing.
I lay down and stared at the empty Sam bed while my friends chatted with each other. I smiled a little to see Ellen talking to someone who wasn’t me. Somebody ought to be happy. The wedding dress Ellen had picked out was beauty itself—a subtle column of cream silk that turned her into Jessica Rabbit. It made me think of my own wedding dress, worn not two weeks ago. Most people recount their wedding day among the best in their lives, and mine was, but that’s not exactly it. Every day waking up with Sam was the best day of my life, even when he behaved like an annoying ass. His jokey texts or curmudgeonly frowns were the highlights of my day—he gave me so much joy.
Upon my renewed waterworks, Ellen climbed into the bunk with me and spooned me like the awesome best friend she was. I spooned my unicorn. We lay like that until well after I stopped shaking, the warm cocoon of her making it better, a little. I started, my eyes popping open when I heard them wheel Sam back in.
“How is he?” I nearly shrieked as I sat up, crushing a disgruntled Ellen’s arm in the process.
The nurse, a lady even shorter than me named LaTonya, said, “Still asleep, but we expect him to wake up just fine at some point. We need to keep him here for a couple of days for observation, and we’ll know more once we can talk to him.”
“To see if he can talk, right?”
“There’s no reason to think that he won’t be able to. But I am obligated to tell you, anything I say is not a guarantee.”
“Of course not. Do I have to sign a form to that effect?”
LaTonya tapped the bed frame and considered this. “No—the stuff they have you sign at admittance binds you forever.”
“Wait—forever, as long as he’s here? Or for—”
LaTonya blurted, “We’re always careful with head wounds! The swelling has subsided, we drained the blood, and now we wait for him to wake up and give a big smile to see you here. We hope. Not for certain.”
Her non-binding optimism gave me hope. I began sniffling and patted LaTonya’s arm. I moved in to give her a hug, but Nicolette pulled me away, saying, “Okay, don’t smother the messenger. Thank you very much, Nurse.”
LaTonya smiled and squeezed my hand. “I thought your ovary movie was hilarious. And it was nice to see a sister play the sidekick. We don’t get too many superhero gigs.”
I couldn’t take any credit for that, although when the studio had inevitably wanted to turn the character white, I’d pitched a fit and threatened to complain publicly. “She’s getting her own spin-off franchise. Don’t tell anyone.”
“Wow! Wait’ll I tell my mom!”
“Um, no, please—”
LaTonya finished with a, “Call me when he wakes up,” and bounced away.
After pulling up a chair, I willed Sam to awaken for I don’t know how long. Wake up. Talk to me. I don’t care if you have problems, baby, I will take care of you. I’ll quit my job, I’ll do anything. Wake up. Wake up. Call me an idiot. Mock me for clutching this unicorn. Just. Please. Wake. Up.
His eyelashes fluttered.
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I jumped to my feet and screamed. Ellen lunged at me, her palm landing on my mouth, her foot tripping on the mechanism of the bed. She fell across Sam. A strangled groan escaped his mouth.
“Nurse!” I hollered, diving for the remote control thingie used to call her.
LaTonya came sprinting in, alarm pulling her features as Ellen slid off the side of the bed to land on my legs. Ellen grabbed at my knees, which yelled timberrrrr, and I crashed, hard, onto the floor.
“What? What!” LaTonya danced around us.
Nicolette sighed. “He’s groaning.”
“Jesus.” LaTonya put a hand over her heart. Three more nurses burst into the room, and our buddy waved them away. “He’s waking up. She’s an actress.”
The other nurses shook their heads and filtered out of the room.
LaTonya checked Sam’s vitals and leaned over him. “Mr Ball… Um, Mr Lytton?”
“It’s pronounced Ball-itch,” supplied Ellen from the floor.
“No, it’s not!” I got to my feet, stepped on Ellen, then returned to my rightful place by Sam’s side. “Bale-ick. It’s German. Or something.”
That earned me a funny look. No matter, for Sam’s eyeballs swam laps underneath his eyelids. Yes! Yes! He opened them, his amazing green and brown hazel peepers. They were dark brown right now, confused and tired.
LaTonya said, “Sam, you’re in the hospital. You got hit on the head. Can you hear me?”
He groaned, but nodded, ever so slightly. Yes! Speech comprehension! We were on our way. I smiled and grabbed Ellen’s hand. She grinned and held mine tight. Even Nicolette appeared relieved.
“Where am I?” Blessed words from his beautiful mouth!
Thank you, Jesus. Thank you, stuffed unicorn!
“The hospital,” LaTonya repeated.
His eyelashes fluttered, and he turned his head away from me, toward the window. A snowfall had begun. “No.” He swallowed, his voice dry and cracked-sounding. “Wha—? What place?”
“We’re in New York, baby,” I said.
He swiveled slow eyes in my direction. I laughed and grabbed his tube-strewn fingers. “You were out for a while. You got hit on the head, and they called me here.”
Sam blinked once. Twice. He looked at Ellen, Nicolette and LaTonya, who said, “Mr Ballitch, what month is it?”
“Wh—? Who?” Then he got quiet, his forehead creasing the longer he glanced from one to the other of us.
Nobody knew what to say to that. “I’m going to get the doctor.” LaTonya bustled out of the room.
I got closer to him, and he glanced back at me. “You have a tube in your head, it’s super gross, try not to move too much.”
He didn’t reply.
“It’s January. Just turned January. We’re in New York City. We moved here about a month ago.” I squashed the panic that came with these words. No wonder he was dazed! Didn’t mean anything.
“Okay.” His eyes shadowed, and he peered at my hand clutching his. He raised his fingers—his platinum wedding ring glinted in the harsh fluorescent lights of the room. His eyebrows narrowed together. “Did Jane send you?”
My lips parted, and a cold shiver swept down my gullet to pool in my gut. “What? No, Jane’s not here. We haven’t seen Jane in, like…two years.”
“Who the hell are you?”
Chapter Two
Misty, Sewage-Covered Memories
After my beloved husband asked me who the hell I was, things went downhill. As in, my brain leaped from my head, threw itself out of the window, and rolled in the direction of the sewer, crying, “Nope, nope, nope, nope…” all the way.
While my mouth hung open, Sam’s too, the neurologist came in the room to help. “Sam, I’m Dr Washington, I’m your neurologist. Can you tell me your full name?”
Sam’s eyes got very, very wide. “Sam B— Um, Ballitch.”
Dr Brains’ rimless glasses clouded with disapproval. “What’s your first name?”
“Sam.”
“No, that’s your middle name.”
Faster and faster, Sam’s chest rose and fell. His heart monitor leaped with unease.
“What year is it?” asked Dr Brains.
Sam’s bottom lip shook. His eyes narrowed. He shot a panicked glance at me, and the wheels began to turn in that confused, yet still devious brain of his. “May I have some water?”
I jumped to get it for him—the dimple, his damn, beautiful dimple, winked at me for the first time in far too long. He didn’t know who the hell I was, but I was still on the receiving end of a dimply buttering up.
“May I speak with my…wife?”
My chest constricted. ‘Wife’ had been said with a definitive question mark after it, and not because it fell at the end of the sentence.
“Please get out,” I said, not meeting anyone’s eye. My hands clutched for his—our collective grip was clammy. “Just give me a few minutes.”
“One moment,” Dr Brains snapped. “What is your wife’s name, Sam?”
His mouth flapped wordlessly in my direction.
“Get out!” I screamed and everyone obeyed. I’m not sure if it’s appropriate for a brain doctor to leave his clearly sick patient, but he did.
When we were alone—they wouldn’t let me close the door—Sam crooked weak fingers, and I got close to him, the smell of his skin only making my heart bounce more.
“What the fuck is going on? What’s our back story?” he asked me.
“What date do you think it is?”
“Where is Jane?”
“You don’t work for Jane! Not anymore.”
I told him the year. He fell back onto the pillows, his face the color of dead fish, and refused to talk to me further.
“Do you recognize my face at all?” I asked in a tiny, breathless voice.
He registered only blankness, and fright. Fright!
“Holy crap,” I said. “You have Samnesia!”
He laughed, short and tiptoeing on the edge of hysteria. At least brain-damaged Sam liked my jokes.
This was a nightmare. A nightmare. He remembered Jane. Damn, stupid Jane and her damn, putrid criminality. He didn’t know what to say because he thought I was his fellow criminal, but he didn’t remember what job we were on.
Holy. Fuck. My eyes brimmed with fresh tears, and his mouth went slack in familiar helplessness. My tears were his personal poison.
Shit. If he didn’t remember me, then he didn’t remember the fake name he’d been given by the witness protection people. I swallowed around the anvil between my ribs and squished my terror feelings into a ball, to be dealt with later. “Listen close. It’s years later than you think. You’ve been hit on the head, we don’t know by whom, but it doesn’t appear to be an accident. You really are married to me, in real life.” I held up my wedding ring. “You’ve quit your thieving to be with me.” My voice broke then, and his eyes nearly popped from his incredulous head. “Your name is Zachary Samuel Ballitch, given to you by witness protection.”
“What?”
“Listen. You’re not on a criminal job. You’re just my husband, and I—” Deep breaths, Samantha. “I love you. So very much. Look, you have to tell them you don’t remember me. It’s fine, we’ll work it out. But you’re Zachary Samuel Ballitch, and you always have been. You were an accountant before you met me, living in LA. Okay?”
He gaped at me, horror stiffening his features.
“Okay? I know you can lie your way through a fake background! I know everything about you, Sam the ex-thief from Troy, North Carolina. I’m Samantha Lytton, and we met when you tried to steal a painting from my boss. Nice to meet you—I like your butt a lot.”
He pursed his lips, took in my face with a sweeping glance, and said, “Sam and Samantha?”
“Zack and Samantha. But yeah, we’re the worst.”
I swiped at my face and called Dr Brains back in. I knew how to bullshit, too.
Sam had taught me.
The next hours were a blu
r of the doctors testing Sam, and him repeating back the same info I’d given to him, but nothing else. Ellen had given me a Xanax, which enabled me to not lose my mind, but instead surf on a drug-induced wave of denial.
At least he’s alive, my brain told me.
I nodded. Thank you, brain.
Thank you for the drugs, Unicorn Lady.
The few lucid thoughts that escaped the Xanax prison went as follows— Oh God, oh God, oh God what is happening? Was I evil in a past life, and this is karma? Why do these things happen to us? Am I not allowed to have a career and a happy relationship, too? Am I secretly the reincarnation of Elizabeth Taylor, except not the most beautiful woman on Earth? (WTF is that about, right?) Sam doesn’t remember me, and he’ll probably file for divorce tomorrow, but at least he’s alive. The bright side beckoned me, and I tried to stare into its piercing light without wincing.
Finally, the squadron of health care professionals trickled to a mere lookout party, and Sam and I were left alone. Ellen had promised to return tomorrow after pushing both unicorns into my arms and hugging me to her perky bosoms. The diagnosis was that Sam suffered—hopefully—short-term retrograde amnesia owing to the damage to his medial temporal lobe. It would wear off. Maybe. Probably. Sometime. In the future. Not guaranteed.
I tried to tell myself that between the two of us, Sam was the most freaked out. But I was a close, sad silver medalist. I sat in the chair beside his bed and stared at my hands.
He interrupted my depression-palooza with a, “Married, huh? Holy shit.”
I swept my eyelashes up to catch him looking down at me. “Yes. Two weeks tomorrow. We’re supposed to be on the way to Bora Bora right now.”
The Wrath of Dimple Page 2