by Sosie Frost
Déjà Vu
Sosie Frost
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Epilogue
Can’t shake your Déjà Vu?
Also by Sosie Frost
About the Author
Déjà Vu
Copyright © 2016 by Sosie Frost
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof
may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever
without the express written permission of the publisher
except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you’d like to share it with. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.
Cover Design: Mayhem Cover Creations
Model: Travis DesLaurier
Photographer: Lisa-Marie Photography
Created with Vellum
To L.G.
Bet you didn’t think I could write a “Secret Mommy” romance
1
What was the most annoying thing about not knowing who I was, where I’d come from, or how I got there?
Trying to make a breakfast order without having any idea what I liked to eat.
Eggs? Bacon? Smoothie?
Some problems were bigger than others. Breakfast fell somewhere in the spectrum between I have no memories of anyone or anything and I hope I’m not allergic to soy.
This information—or lack thereof—was also perplexing to the pretty doctor who sat on the end of my hospital bed.
“Can you tell me your name?” the doctor asked.
I didn’t like what my answer would be. She didn’t like the hesitation. At least we were of one mind about this sticky situation…even if mine half appeared to be broken.
“You go first,” I said. “I’ll keep thinking.”
“Fair enough. I’m Doctor Rory Owens. Do you know where you are?”
Swing and a miss.
“Well…” My smile wouldn’t fool anyone, least of all me. “I’m not seeing any complimentary shampoos or minibars…so I’m guessing this isn’t the Ritz Carlton.”
“The food isn’t nearly that good.”
I shifted against the bed. The sheets tucked up tight, and I attempted to adjust them. The bed won. A sharp, unexpected, and thoroughly unwelcomed ache shot through me. That answered some questions.
Not all, but it was a good start.
I frowned. “So I’m probably not in Vegas either?”
“Care to make another wager?”
“Not sure I have anything left to bet.”
Doctor Owens tapped her fingernails on the clipboard, manicured and bright pink. I might have admired them more if I wasn’t also stained by flecks of pink. Splatters of pastel colors freckled my dark arms. Splotchy, like I bludgeoned a sugar plum fairy. The pixie must have won though. It was my butt in the hospital, and the fairy gang played rough. If Sugar took my memory, then Tooth probably stole my kidneys.
Doctor Owens continued her interrogation. “Do you know why you’re here?”
I concentrated. Nothing came to mind, but there wasn’t much in there anyway. Names, numbers, locations, goals, secrets, fantasies, scores of the last Rivets’ game…gone. My chest squeezed tight. I didn’t like that panic.
I gave her a shrug. “Breast implants?”
Doctor Owens shared my smirk. “You’ll reap the benefits without a surgery, I promise.”
I glanced down. The heaving surprises were impressive, but I didn’t feel like I could take credit for the particularly feminine fiesta under the hospital gown. I didn’t recognize my own body.
I was black. Good to know.
Young. That was a plus.
I hurt, but at least my butt was parked in a hospital.
But how long had I been here? My teeth were fuzzy and my hair went frizzy. It wasn’t an accurate measure of time, but coupled with the various aches and pains, I concluded that whatever had beaten my memory out of me had happened at least a day ago.
Maybe longer.
Yuck. Toothbrush first, memory later.
“You’re at Ironfield Regional Hospital.” Doctor Owens spoke slowly. “I’m taking care of you. I want you to do me a favor. Remember these five words. Bottle. Rattle. Milk. Crib. Diaper.”
“I’m sensing a theme.”
“There’s been an accident.”
“Isn’t that what the diaper is for?”
“It’s more serious than that.”
I took a breath. Okay. Hospital. Aches and pains. No memory. The accident must have been bad. A car crash? Had I been attacked? Was I in danger? I wiggled my toes. They still worked, but a dozen other terrible things might have happened. Spleen lacerations. Brain prions.
Maybe I really was allergic to soy!
Oh God. I stared at the doctor.
“Give it to me straight,” I said. “Am I going to live?”
“You were struck by an ice cream truck.”
The fear fizzled away. Shame took its place, chasing away my dignity and pride as it settled in nice and cozy beside my disgust.
“An ice cream truck?” I repeated.
“Yes.”
“But…how?” Granted my head wasn’t working now, but surely I once possessed some common sense. “Don’t those…make noise? Am I deaf too?”
“Well…it was playing music. Loud music. In fact, most of the ER nurses had run to the parking lot thinking it was a chance for ice cream rather than a truck delivering a patient. Fortunately, that meant you were triaged very quickly.”
“Right after the Klondike bars.”
“Happy nurses make for faster healing. But, unfortunately, you did sustain a concussion from the impact. However, the driver did help. He applied ice to the bump on your head…a cherry and lemon flavored slush, actually.”
Well, at least I hadn’t been killed. Death by chocolate seemed a decent enough fantasy, but in practice it was quite unwieldy and sticky. Also tainted with motor oil.
I examined my body. No tire tracks. No track marks of any kind. Always an encouraging sign. Except that meant I smacked head-first into a patrolling ice cream truck stone-cold sober. But it wasn’t worth dying to an ice cream truck unless it was diabetes related.
At least I’d invented the best crash diet.
Doctor Owens didn’t push me. I respected her for that, even if she looked entirely too young to be a doctor. She was beautiful—nice smile and skin a shade darker than mine. I wished I recognized her though. I had a feeling this wasn’t the first time we’d had this conversation.
“How long have I been here?” I asked.
Honesty was the best hospital policy, just not always a comforting one. Doctor Owens rapped her fingers on the clipboard.
“Three days,” she said.
“Ris
en from the dead, huh?”
“You weren’t that bad. Besides, you got your very own miracle. Do you remember?”
I wished she’d stop asking me that. “Can’t say that I do.”
“Do you know your name?”
My stomach knotted. “Pass.”
“That’s okay. I don’t want you to panic.”
“Who’s panicking?” I studied the hospital room. No cards. No flowers. No nothing. Strange. “I mean, I can’t remember what I’m missing, so that’s keeping me calm. And you didn’t have to scoop me off the Rocky Road, so I’d say things are going pretty well.”
She didn’t believe me.
I didn’t believe me.
“Concentrate,” she said. “Can you think of any names? Anyone we could call for you?”
“Call? Isn’t my family here?”
She cleared her throat, bracing me with a smile. “Not right now, no. We haven’t been able to contact your family.”
“No one?”
“Unfortunately, you arrived with no identification, and you’ve only become lucid now. But we’ve spoken with the local authorities, and the police will alert us as soon as any missing person’s report is filed. And, just in case, we’ve put out information to local colleges, churches, and community organizations in case someone recognizes you. We should hear something soon.”
“Let me get this straight.” I rubbed my temples. “I was hit by an ice cream truck. Raced to the hospital. I’ve been here for days. And no one knows? There’s not anyone in the waiting room who might be relieved to know I’m not a splatter of fudge on the side of the road?”
“Technically, there is someone who might help us with the investigation. Someone I’d like you to meet.”
I brushed a hand through my hair—curly, natural, and in desperate need of a headband. “I’m not sure I’m hit-by-a-truck presentable right now.”
“Believe me. You’ll look perfect to them.”
“Please tell me it’s a Chubby Hubby?”
“More like a…little shortcake.”
That was it. The concussion won. I collapsed onto my pillow as Doctor Owens paged a nurse to fetch my visitor. Not that I was in a visiting mood. Everything hurt. Belly. Chest. Head. Legs.
And suddenly, I wasn’t entirely convinced the aches and pains originated from a runaway ice cream truck.
Doctor Owens held the door open as the nurse wheeled in the bassinet. They parked it on the side of my bed and stepped back.
It wasn’t polite to stare.
But the baby stared right back.
The doctor plucked the bundle of blankets from the bassinet, soothed one very irritated cry, and looked at me.
Oh no.
“Well?” Her voice gentled. “What do you think?”
“I…think it’s a baby.”
“Yes.” She nodded. “What else?”
I think the windows had been bolted shut so I couldn’t leap from the room. “I’m not sure…it looks too little to be the truck driver.”
“Here…” she said. “…Is your baby.”
That was to be expected from her grand presentation of the child to me, but that didn’t make my heart thump any less frantically. Every muscle in my body cramped with tension.
“That’s good information. Can you please wheel in my husband next?”
Doctor Owens approached, cradling the child so I could peek into the blankets. “This is probably a shock, but I was hoping you’d remember—that something would trigger—if you saw the baby.”
“You’re striking out today, Doc.”
“When you arrived in the hospital, you were in labor. Full term. The baby is healthy, and the delivery was textbook…if not celebrated with a sundae bar.”
“I…had a baby?”
“Yes.”
I nodded. “That explains why it feels like the truck hit me in the choco-taco.”
“We can help with that. But first…here.” She edged close. “Go on. Hold your baby.”
Hold.
A.
Baby?
Was she out of her goddamned mind?
That little memory bomb was six pounds, twenty inches of concentrated chaos. I couldn’t remember my own name. I couldn’t picture the accident that put me in the hospital. I didn’t even have a clue that I had given birth.
These were all monumental life moments that deserved a cursory Facebook post at the very least. Yet I had nothing in my head that prepared me for this. It wasn’t like they made a What To Expect When You’re Not Expecting To Be Expecting book.
I couldn’t remember a single thing about babies. Not how to hold them. Not how to talk to them. Nothing about feeding or sleeping or dressing or anything.
Holy hell, usually the newborn was making their first memory. I was still piecing together if I was right or left handed, if I could roll my Rs, if I had a husband sitting at home waiting for his dinner or for his child to be born.
No way. This had to be one monumental mix-up. One for the history books…or a very cheesy Lifetime movie.
Women didn’t just forget baby stuff. Instincts didn’t fall out of people’s heads when their skulls collided with a truck.
“There has to be a mistake,” I said. “I’m sorry, but I don’t think—”
“Arms out.” Doctor Owens wielded the baby with a skill that came from either two hundred thousand dollars in medical training or her own experience. “You’ll be fine.”
I froze. That didn’t help—it only confused a T-Rex, not an infant.
Not…my infant.
I cupped my hands. No. That wasn’t right. My arms were pinned against my sides. Maybe if I crossed them? I angled my shoulders and made way for a fussing, generally displeased infant who shared my distress.
“Relax,” Doctor Owens said. “This is your baby.”
“Most women remember giving birth to their child.”
“And most women would rather forget that experience and skip to this part. Just do what comes naturally.”
Screaming, flailing, and bargaining with the devil was probably the wrong thing to do.
Instead, I stopped breathing and clutched the child to my chest. No sense testing that bouncing baby theory now.
Especially not with this one.
With those big eyes.
Curling fists.
Trembling lips.
The baby quieted in my arms. A positive step. Too bad I didn’t know what I did that was so soothing…or how to replicate it. The only advice my ice cream addled brain could give was to support the head. But that wasn’t much of a maternal instinct. The kiddo was a the definition of the word floppy.
Still…the head of hair was amusing.
And the kid smacked a pair of adorably full lips.
The baby was beautiful.
And mine?
“Since when do storks do hit and runs?” I asked. “I thought they dropped a bomb on you and flew south.”
“At least you have a cute little bomb.”
“Not ticking at least.”
“Then you’re doing good.” She patted my leg. “You take it easy. Bond with the baby. I’m going to page your doctor.”
“Aren’t…you my doctor?”
She tapped her temple. “I’m your neurologist. I’ll fetch your OBGYN. I’m sure you have…questions.”
Only about a million and a half…and all pertaining to a part of me that had seemed fairly innocuous until it popped out a kid.
“Should I be worried?” I asked. “You know…aside from not having a clue where this little one came from?”
“I can give you a basic anatomy lesson if you’re being literal.” Doctor Owens smiled. “But you suffered a concussion. You can’t force recovery on a brain injury, especially when coupled with memory loss.”
I spoke a word uttered only in soap operas, and usually only combined with evil twin and back from the dead. “Amnesia?”
“Yes.”
“Fantastic.” I didn’t move, though the baby d
id. I went quiet.
“It’s most likely temporary,” she said. “Retrograde amnesia cases are very rare, and you’ve already recovered from the initial concussion symptoms.” She arched an eyebrow. “Do you remember my name?”
“Rory Owens.”
“And the five words I asked you to remember?”
“Bottle. Rattle. Crib. Milk. Diaper.” I winked. “You’re not subtle, Doc.”
“Excellent. You’re doing fine.”
“But I don’t know my name. My insurance information.” I cradled the baby as best I could, but I couldn’t cover his or her little ears. “I don’t even know where the f-a-t-h-e-r is.”
Doctor Owens cleared her throat. The hope deflated from me.
“Stay positive,” she said. “Rest. Enjoy your baby. Okay?”
My baby.
I looked down. The baby looked up.
Now was the time for us to both collectively shit our pants. At least the baby had a diaper. Doctor Owens pulled the door closed behind her, and I took a breath.
Panic wouldn’t solve anything. It also didn’t help while holding a fragile newborn.
I could handle this. I could figure it out. I’d been through tougher scrapes than this. At least…I assumed I had.
If nothing else I could pretend I’d endured worse than a little memory loss and the sudden arrival of a tiny, helpless, desperate baby. Hell, one bad case of poison ivy or a white dress and forgotten time-of-the-month would top this. Easy.
Right? Sure.
The baby squirmed. Was that a clue to squeeze tighter? That seemed like a bad idea. The kid had been cramped inside me for nine months. Probably just needed a good stretch.
I thunked my head against the pillow. This was a disaster. Forgetting a name was bad. Forgetting my family even worse. But I had absolutely nothing in my head that prepared me for a baby.
These sorts of surprises were sprung on people all the time—but at least they had seven or eight months to skim the Wikipedia articles before the big day.
“Okay…” I was in no condition to bend, shimmy, or yoga-stretch myself into a proper position to hold the baby. Slowly, I deposited the child onto the bed, between my legs. “There. Now you’re stable.”