Dr. James had wanted to do something more, but she’d adamantly refused. She’d been exhausted and had requested the orderlies put her back to bed. She had tons of questions and no answers, but at the moment she just needed rest.
She felt as if she’d barely drifted off when the door opened.
Dr. James walked into the room, a large manila folder tucked under his arm.
“Did you have a nice nap?” He placed the folder on the bedside table.
She must have slept a bit after all since her breakfast tray was gone, but the angel hadn’t come. Somewhat depressed, she reached for the remote and raised the head of her bed, not completely upright since her back was sore.
“I guess I must have.” She sighed. “Did you have time to calculate my results?”
“As a matter of fact, I did.”
“What’s the verdict? How brain dead am I?”
He laughed. “You’re not brain dead at all, Mrs. Hart. As far as I can tell, your brain is working fine. You’re quite normal, not that any of us ever thought otherwise. You’re a remarkable young woman who has beaten all the odds. Time is on your side. You need to be patient and not get upset if memories don’t come back as quickly as you’d like. Do you feel like looking at some photographs?”
“Call me Nikki. What kind of photographs?”
She was afraid he might show her pictures of the accident where she’d been injured. Her concern must have shown on her face because he frowned.
Dr. James was in his late fifties and reminded her of a television character she couldn’t quite place. He had a head full of white hair, cut normally for a man his age, and wore wire-framed glasses. His complexion was clean-shaven and ruddy. His clear, blue eyes conveyed trust and sympathy.
“Pictures from your childhood and significant events in your life, what many people call milestones. If the pictures upset you, I’ll put them away, and we’ll talk about something else.”
She nodded, curiosity getting the better of her. She needed to know about herself—the good, the bad, and the ugly—the sooner the better. She wasn’t a patient woman. She smiled, realizing she’d just added to her pitiful pile of information concerning herself.
Dr. James opened the file and placed the photographs on her tray. She reached for the top half-dozen. They were pictures of herself at various ages. She set them down and picked up a photo of a younger Nadia and a man she assumed must be her father. Her mother had aged well. Her father was tall, heavyset, and bald. He had heavy eyebrows and deep set, dark eyes. He was a man who commanded obedience, and since he was obviously rich, judging from what she’d seen in the photographs, he probably got it. Dressed in a tuxedo, smiling for the camera, something about him made her uncomfortable, and she shuddered. His body shape and the baldness disconcerted her. Her hand trembled slightly, and she dropped the picture on the pile and reached for another.
“What is it, Nikki? You seem upset. Do you want to stop?”
“No, it’s nothing,” she lied, preferring to keep this reaction to her father to herself for now.
She stopped flipping through the photos when she came to the wedding picture. The couple looked happy. Sam—that’s what Dr. James called him—had been a handsome man, distinguished with olive skin, dark hair peppered with gray, and deep brown eyes, although there seemed to be something furtive about him. It was in the eyes—they seemed cold, full of mystery. What had Shakespeare said? The eyes are the window to your soul. His age surprised her. Somehow she’d thought she’d have married a man closer to her own age. Sam was old enough to be her father. The thought troubled her, and she returned to the pile of pictures.
These were of her immediate family—a baby boy and a baby girl. There was a picture of her and Sam, and she appeared to be in the early stages of pregnancy. The picture evoked a sadness she didn’t understand, the same feeling she got when she looked at Cassie. The last picture was on a Christmas card. Dr. James told her it had been taken last year.
Tears slowly trickled down her cheeks. The people in the picture looked like a happy family, but they were strangers. How could she not remember the man she must have loved and her own children? The doctor had assured her there’d been no brain damage, but surely losing all your memories couldn’t be normal? Who forgot her own flesh and blood?
“Sam and Danny were killed in the incident when you were injured.”
Incident? What a strange word to use for an accident. The doctor didn’t explain what that had been, but judging from her injuries, they’d been in a car accident and she must have been driving. They’d been killed, and she’d been injured. Thank goodness the little girl had been spared. Why didn’t he just call it an accident? Had it been her fault? She swallowed the lump in her throat and nodded.
She looked down at the photograph again, and guilt threatened to drown her. Her son, a baby she had probably nursed, yet all she felt was sadness that a young life had been wiped out so early. She looked at her husband, and numbness filled her. She should be upset, crying for the loss of two people she’d loved, but how did you mourn someone you didn’t know?
Nikki scrutinized the image, willing her memory to connect. Danny, she liked the name, resembled his father. He had the same proud, stubborn tilt to his head.
He must have been a hellion.
Her gaze was drawn to the little girl sitting on her father’s knee. The child, blond and dark-eyed, resembled her grandmother Nadia. Amanda, that was the name Dr. James called her, wore a frilly, pink dress. In her hand she held a baby-boy doll with beige wool hair. The toy wore an Angels’ baseball uniform. The doll and its uniform were the only familiar things in the picture. The smell of baby powder came to mind.
This morning, she’d learned a bit more about herself. She was an accomplished artist. When Dr. James had jokingly asked her if she’d care to prove it to herself, she’d grabbed his pad and pencil and had drawn a picture of her faceless angel, complete with wings and halo. The picture sat on the bedside table. Now, she knew she’d been afraid of her father, too.
The door opened and Dr. Marion entered.
“Good afternoon. I heard you ate your breakfast. Cassie tells me you’re not a fan of apple juice, but apparently cranberry is fine. We need to stay with fluids and a light diet for at least another twenty-four hours. How do you feel? Any pain?”
“Nothing I can’t deal with. Cassie said I might go down to physio again later this afternoon. She mentioned a whirlpool. It sounds heavenly. I think we agree I’ve been in this bed long enough.”
Her speech was still slow, but the words were clear, and if her voice continued to be unfamiliar, it was just one more thing to add to the list.
“Don’t worry. We won’t be kicking you out any time soon. If you’re very good, I might toss in a shampoo and massage.” She chuckled. “Hello, Eli. It’s nice to see you again,” she acknowledged the white-haired man sitting beside the bed. “How’s she doing?”
“Remarkably well, Irene. Both sides of the brain appear to be functioning normally. I’ve asked the physiotherapist to evaluate her skeleton-muscular system functions. I can tell you her right hand’s fine motor skills are excellent. Take a look at this. She produced it in a matter of minutes.”
He handed her the sketch Nikki had made. Dr. Marion stared at the drawing, obviously surprised by what she saw.
“Is something wrong?” Nikki asked.
“No, Nikki, nothing’s wrong. It’s an incredible portrait. I’m just awed by your talent. Who is it?”
She giggled nervously. “My mother was sitting over there yesterday with rosary beads. I must have a strong religious upbringing because that’s my guardian angel. He came to me when the pain was unbearable. There was a different one last night. I suppose most artists have wild imaginations.”
The speech was the longest she’d made, and while her words were halting, she hadn’t had trouble finding the right ones to say. It made her feel better about her condition.
Dr. Marion smiled. “I don
’t know much about angels, but there was a man in your room last night. There’s another outside in the hall right now. Your father hired them from Sentinel Security to make sure no one bothers you. News that you’re awake and on the mend made the paper this morning.”
Nikki frowned. Knowing that a man, a stranger, really had sat with her all night unnerved her.
“Why would anything about me make the news?”
“Your family’s wealthy, and you’re a well-respected artist. Anything concerning you or your family is news. You’ve had a regular visitor who sits and talks to you. It’s hard to tell without a face, but you’ve captured his shape quite nicely.”
“Who is he?” Nikki asked.
“His name is Jason Spark. He’s the lawman who found you, after the … ” The doctor paused, and Nikki could see she was choosing her words carefully.
He’s a lawman?
Jason was the name the security guard had mentioned last night. Her heart beat faster at the thought that she might see him again, but then happiness gave way to worry and fear.
“Why would the man who found me be so interested in my recovery? What did I do?”
“He’s concerned because of the incident,” Dr. Marion explained. “He’s been in to see you at least once a week. In fact, I called him yesterday, and he’ll probably be in again later today.”
Tears pooled in her eyes. “Why would I remember a stranger when I can’t recall my own children, my husband, my parents—the people I loved and who loved me? And why so much interest on his part?”
“Nikki, don’t get upset.” Dr. James laid a comforting hand on her shoulder. “We don’t know a lot about the way the brain works when a person is in hypovolemic shock—when a person has lost as much blood as you did.” He reached for the sketch. “If your eyes were open when this man found you, your brain could’ve stored his image in your subconscious, away from your regular memories. You’ve mentioned dreams and nightmares. It’s quite possible that’s where the memory of this man resides.”
“Jason found you,” Dr. Marion added, “at the worst possible moment of your life. In fact, like many of us, he thought you would die. You survived. He has questions about the incident. Is it any wonder he’s interested in following your progress?”
Nikki swallowed nervously. “But I don’t remember anything.”
“He knows that, now.” Dr. Marion turned to Dr. James. “Have you finished with her for now? They’re ready for her downstairs to do the muscle-skeleton response tests.”
“I’m done for today.” He turned to Nikki. “I know it’s a lot to ask, but let the memories come of their own accord. Don’t force them. You’re making new ones all the time, and something may trigger an old one when you least expect it. It’s happened already. You don’t like apple juice. It isn’t much, but it’s a memory, and it’s yours.”
He stood and left the room, leaving her alone with Dr. Marion. Cassie entered and began rearranging Nikki’s bed.
“What are you doing?” Nikki asked. “I thought I’d use the wheelchair again.” She looked to Dr. Marion for an explanation.
“You mentioned your back was sore, so this will be more comfortable. I don’t want you to overdo anything.”
“I’m sorry, but I’m not going anywhere until I get some answers. I want the truth—the whole truth. Why is my back sore? What haven’t you told me?”
Nikki realized she’d just spoken strongly and without hesitation.
“You’re angry and stubborn. Good. I guess you should know it all if you feel that strongly about it.” Dr. Marion put the clipboard she was carrying down on the bed. “I’ll go down with you and explain as I go. We can’t keep the physiotherapist waiting all day. Do you want the bed or the chair?”
“I’ll stay in the bed,” Nikki answered, knowing she’d have to wait for the orderlies if she opted for the chair. In her condition, Cassie couldn’t lift her out of the bed alone.
Cassie hung the IV bag on the pole attached to the bed and opened the door for the doctor and her patient.
“Where are we going?” The man put down his book and stood.
“X-ray. We’ll use the staff elevator. She won’t be seen.”
“So start by explaining why I need around the clock security as if I were the First Lady.” Nikki spoke up loud enough for the doctor to hear. “Who are you hiding me from? The police? Did I do something wrong? Did I kill my family? Is that why that lawman is here? Is he waiting to arrest me?”
Dr. Marion stopped, her mouth agape, her eyes wide. “Is that what you think?”
“I think I was involved in a very bad accident that claimed the lives of my husband and my son. All the damage is on my left side. Was I driving?”
“Nikki, you weren’t in a car accident. You had absolutely nothing to do with their deaths.”
“Then how did I get hurt? How did they die?”
“It’s best if I let Jason Spark explain the details to you. I wouldn’t want to say or do anything to compromise his investigation. Simply put, your home was invaded, your husband and son murdered, and you sustained serious injuries.”
Nikki gasped. Murdered! It was the last thing she’d expected to hear. Dr. Marion’s words filled her with dread. Images of horrific scenes from slasher movies flitted through her mind.
“As you know, your hand’s in a cast and we had to repair your face. You were stabbed twice in the back, one nicking your spine, which is why your back is sore, the other puncturing your lung. Unfortunately, you were five and a half months pregnant. The child was too small to survive more than a few minutes.”
Tears continued to crawl down Nikki’s cheeks. That’s why seeing Cassie depressed her. Subconsciously she must know she’d lost her child.
“Can I have more children?”
“As far as I know, you can, but you have a long recovery period ahead of you.”
* * *
Nikki sat in the chair by the window looking out over the city. In the distance she saw the lights of the Golden Gate Bridge. The supper tray sat on the table nearby. She’d tried her best to eat, but she had no appetite. The sky was leaden with heavy gray clouds that matched her mood. She felt miserable. While she didn’t know the details of the incident, she felt as if she’d somehow failed her family. They were all dead—even an innocent infant—why had she survived? The little girl—it seemed odd to think of her as her daughter—must have been elsewhere, or she’d probably have been killed too. The lawman only visited because he needed answers, answers she couldn’t supply. Without her memory, she was useless.
She’d spoken with Irene, as Dr. Marion had asked her to call her, after she’d gotten back from physio. She’d asked her once again for details about the case, but the doctor had been adamant that Nikki wait for Agent Spark. Irene insisted the depression and survivor’s guilt she felt were normal under the circumstances. Knowing there was a name for her feelings didn’t make them any less painful.
Irene had also mentioned people who’d had near-death experiences like hers often underwent personality changes. She shouldn’t feel badly because she didn’t remember her feelings for her husband and son. In her new reality, she’d never known them. Meanwhile she had a daughter who was alive and needed her. She should focus on her and dismiss the rest. If memories of Sam and Danny were going to return, even partially, they’d do so on their own.
Nikki scrutinized the family picture she held in her right hand. The little girl with the doll, Amanda, was all she had left. The doctor had called her Mandy, and the nickname suited the bright-eyed child far more than the formal one did. Like her own name. She liked Nikki—Nicole, not so much.
She looked down at the pad of paper on the table beside her. She’d tried to draw her son doing something kids did, but she’d been unable to finish the picture. The child wasn’t real for her. He was a two-dimensional image in the photograph—not a boy who played ball, ran, swam, or rode a bike. Instead, she’d drawn her angel and a horrific demon, possibly one of t
hose who haunted her nightmares. She tore the page from the pad and crumpled it into a ball before tossing the offending image in the garbage. The devil was bald—bald like her father, and just thinking of the man brought back the unease she’d felt earlier.
The door opened. She turned to see who’d come in this time. She wanted to be alone, and she was bone-tired. If she had to endure another test, another needle, or any more exercise, she’d scream. She turned to face her visitor. The words she’d planned to speak froze in her throat.
The man hesitated and stopped in the open doorway. He wore a navy nylon jacket, a tan shirt and dark jeans. His feet were stuffed into brown leather loafers that matched the belt with the brass buckle around his waist. He was clean-shaven, but his hair was a bit too long and curled at the collar. He looked at her with eyes filled with compassion and another emotion she couldn’t quite place. The edge of the shoulder holster was visible where the jacket had fallen open. She didn’t recognize him, but there was an unsettling familiarity about him.
“Mrs. Hart, I’m Special Agent Jason Spark. Dr. Marion says you’ve had a rough day. I’m probably the last person you want to see right now, but can I come in?”
He looked at her as if he expected her to deny his request, and for a moment the thought did cross her mind. This was the man who’d found her—the man who could tell her what had happened. Unable to speak, she nodded slowly.
He closed the door behind him and walked over to her. He took the chair beside her, flipped it around, and straddled it. He was a large man, attractive in a rugged sort of way, not Hollywood handsome by any means, but the dimple in his cheek gave him an innocence the rest of his face belied. She could swear the emotion in his startling gray-blue eyes was guilt. Why would he feel guilty? He ran his hand through his sandy, blond hair, a gesture she assumed he used to cover his discomfort.
On His Watch (Vengeance Is Mine Book 1) Page 9