by Edie Claire
Teagan smiled knowingly, then stepped closer.
Jamie tensed. The idea that a stranger could know more about her than she herself did was maddening.
“I’ve been here several times,” the woman explained, pulling up a stool. She sat down near Jamie’s head, making their eyes level. “But you shouldn’t worry about not remembering that. You’ve had a head injury, and it’s affecting your ability to keep things straight. The neurologist says that most of the confusion you’re experiencing now should be gone in a matter of hours. Until it is, you have nothing to worry about. You’re perfectly safe here. I promise.”
Jamie bit at her lower lip. The explanation made a weird sort of sense. Her lip was already sore. “I have a head injury,” she repeated.
The stranger nodded. What had she said her name was? Jamie couldn’t remember, but the woman's desire to help seemed sincere. Despite her desperately out-of-style sweater and ill-fitting khaki slacks, she had a strength about her—as in whatever she promised, she intended to make happen.
It was a trait Jamie could appreciate.
“You’re in Northside General Hospital, in Pittsburgh. You were brought into the emergency department last night, and you’re still here. But we’ll be moving you to a nicer room up on the floor soon.”
A horrific thought dawned. “This isn’t… like… a mental hospital, is it?”
To Jamie’s surprise, the woman chuckled. It was a melodious chuckle; one that lit up her whole face.
“No, Jamie, it’s not a mental hospital. You’re as sane as I am. Not that that’s such great reassurance!”
Jamie eyed her curiously. The woman was acting, surely, as if they knew one another. But before she could puzzle over the thought, a new one replaced it.
“What did you call me?”
“I called you Jamie. That’s your name. Does it seem familiar to you?”
Jamie considered. The name didn’t sound wrong, but she wasn’t certain it was right, either. “I don’t know.”
“Don’t worry about it,” the woman repeated. “As the neurologist explained to me, right now you’re dealing with two separate handicaps. You can’t pull up memories you’ve laid down in the past—which is why you can’t remember your name or how you got injured. But you’re also having trouble making new memories, which is why every time I come in here, you ask me who I am again.”
Jamie’s eyes narrowed with concentration. She should know the name; she had heard it only seconds ago. But it wasn’t there. “What is your name?”
“It’s Teagan. Teagan Hansen. I work for the hospital as a social worker.”
Jamie felt a sudden wave of disappointment—a disappointment she didn’t understand. She looked quickly down at her hands.
She’s just doing what she’s paid to do.
“What’s wrong?” Teagan asked immediately. Her skills of perception were impressive. But Jamie did not respond.
Teagan made a joking guess. “What, you don’t like social workers?”
Hell, no, I don’t!
The voice rang out so loud and clear in Jamie’s otherwise worthless brain that she fought an urge to laugh at the absurdity of it. She did not know her own name, but she knew beyond a shadow of doubt that she hated social workers?
How helpful. Thank you, brain.
Still, she was fairly sure it wasn’t Teagan’s occupation, per se, that had disappointed her.
Jamie cleared her throat and—perhaps uncharacteristically?—answered the original question with honesty. “It’s just that I had the feeling from the way you were talking that maybe you… knew me. Before the hospital, I mean.”
Teagan was quiet a moment, and Jamie looked up at her. The social worker’s face shone with something peculiar—a hopefulness, an excitement. “You thought that maybe we had met before?” Teagan asked. “Do you know where that impression came from?”
Jamie attempted, once again, to concentrate. She tried to remember if she had ever met Teagan—searching her mind for any inkling of the other woman’s persona in a stray image, a sound, even an impression. But there was nothing. “It’s just that I thought you acted like you knew me,” she said dismissively.
She did not understand, much less care to explain, how desperately she had wanted that to be true. She didn’t want to need anyone. She might be vulnerable at the moment, but that was temporary. She would get it back: her autonomy, her independence, her capableness.
She had to. It was all she had.
Teagan was still smiling at her. But the social worker’s soft brown eyes seemed melancholy. “We have met before, Jamie,” she said quietly. “That’s how I know your name. But it was a long time ago. You might not remember me even if you didn’t have a head injury.”
Jamie stared back. She could see no reason for the social worker to lie, but the statement lacked candor. Teagan was hiding something.
Of course. Just because they had met didn’t mean they were friends, did it? They could have worked together; they could have squabbled over a seat on the bus. Or more likely, over some guy.
You don’t have any friends.
Suddenly, sharply, Jamie felt bone tired. “I’m sorry, Teagan. I don’t remember anything about you.”
The social worker’s answering smile was a surprise, even if it did seem forced. “Oh yes, you do. You just said my name! That’s the first time since you got here that you’ve remembered anything for more than about five seconds.”
The social worker rose suddenly, then took a step back. “Try not to worry, Jamie. It may not seem like it, but you are improving. By this evening, your short-term memory will be in much better shape, even if your past is still a blur.”
The words, unexpectedly, struck Jamie like a blow. The present was bad enough, but “the past” bore potential for a whole other realm of horror.
“How did I get hurt?” she blurted, realizing for the first time how little she knew of her true predicament—of the bigger picture outside this hospital room. “What happened to me?”
Teagan’s eyes flashed with distress, but her voice remained calm. “I don’t really know.”
The effort was so lame, it was pitiable. Jamie muttered an expletive under her breath. “You know, for a social worker, you really suck at lying. Now, what happened to me? Was it some kind of accident?”
Teagan hesitated.
“I can tell it’s something bad. I’m not stupid!” Jamie insisted. “Just tell me the truth. I have the right to know, don’t I?”
Teagan exhaled with a sigh. “I wish I could tell you exactly what happened, but the truth is, I don’t know. You were found alone. A passerby noticed that you were hurt and called an ambulance.”
“A passerby? Where was I?”
“In Riverview Park. It’s a city park not far from here.”
Jamie’s agitation grew. “Well, what was I doing? Sitting on a bench, sleeping in a car, what?”
“I don’t know all the details,” Teagan answered. “I just know that you didn’t have any identification on you at the time, which is why you don’t have any family members or friends here with you yet. But I gave the police your name, and they’re working on locating them right now.”
Ha! There's no one.
“I’m afraid you have a fractured wrist as well,” Teagan continued, seemingly anxious to change the subject. “It needs surgery. You’ll probably be scheduled for that tomorrow. By then your head should be much clearer.”
Jamie looked down at her bandaged right arm, but could muster little concern for it. If her bones were broken, she must be on some very good painkillers, because she couldn’t feel a thing. At least not in her arm.
In her gut, she felt plenty.
The images swirled in her mind in an uneasy pool, gray and smoldering. A head injury. A broken arm. Abandoned in a city park with no ID. It could have been a simple mugging. But the raw feelings raging inside her suggested otherwise.
“Teagan,” she said deliberately, confirming the name again.
“Yes?”
“This is a safe place?”
“Very. We have tight security for assault victims. In your case, until we know more about what happened to you, anyone wanting to visit you or even asking for information about you will have to go through the police.” Teagan paused, then lowered her voice. “Are you afraid of someone in particular?”
The sense of foreboding in Jamie’s mind refused to settle. The more clear her head became, the darker her thoughts turned. She swallowed, but didn’t answer the question. Her every instinct was to deny her fear. To hide it, as if the threat that plagued her could smell it like a carnivore.
“No. Nothing in particular.”
The last part, at least, was true.
Teagan didn’t press. “The police will be back soon to talk to you, but the doctor has explained that you may not be able to answer all their questions. We don’t want you to feel pressured.”
Lost in thought, Jamie said nothing. Was she afraid of the police, too? No, she didn’t seem to be.
She only hated social workers. And perhaps, judges…
“Jamie?” Teagan called from the doorway. “Is there anything else I can do for you now?”
Jamie couldn’t look at her. She was tired, and something dangerously close to tears seemed to be pooling up behind her eyes. But tears were not acceptable.
Tears were never acceptable.
“I need to get this stupid brain working again,” she snapped. “And I need to get the hell out of here. I need to go—.”
Home. It was the obvious word to complete her sentence. But somehow, it didn’t seem right.
She left the statement hanging. Her eyes closed against the storm.
Teagan’s footsteps moved away. The door opened, then softly closed again.
Chapter Four
The sun was just setting, leaving the dimmest glimmer of light to reflect off the still-falling snow, when Teagan pushed the last column of accumulated white stuff down to the foot of her driveway. She was in the process of steering it into the pile around her mailbox when the rumble of a marginal muffler alerted her to the approach of her mother’s wood-paneled PT Cruiser.
Teagan moved quickly to the other side of the mailbox. It was only a wooden post, but it was better than nothing.
She watched, jaws clenched, as Sheryl Raye slammed on the Cruiser’s brakes well in advance of the driveway, sending the car into a fishtail on the slick coating of fresh flakes that overwhelmed the salt on the road. The car moved in graceful slow motion before coming to rest just short of the mailbox, facing the opposite direction. Sheryl raised a gloved hand from the steering wheel and waved merrily at Teagan as she redirected the car into the drive, then parked at the point closest to the house’s front door, blocking the garage.
“Teagan, honey,” she called as she hustled out, her coat held tightly around her, “come on inside with me! You must be freezing.” Then, without waiting for a response, she jogged up the walk and darted through the front door.
Teagan sighed into her scarf, propped her shovel against the mailbox, and followed. By the time she had shaken the snow off her boots and hung up her wraps to dry, Sheryl had already started tea.
“Do you want regular or herbal?” Sheryl called from the kitchen, her voice a sing-song. “Cinnamon Allspice is perfect for this time of year.”
“Regular’s fine,” Teagan answered, moving into the dining room and dropping into a chair. “Thanks.”
The ancient kitchen was a galley style, separated from the dining room by a doorway on one end and a small serving window midway along the wall. Catching glimpses of her mother buzzing comfortably around inside it filled Teagan with both a sentimental warmth and a tiresome dread. The warmth came from fond childhood memories of one of Sheryl’s few exemplary parenting skills—cosseting her daughter with food. The dread came from the obvious reason for the visit, which Teagan had no need to ask. There was only one reason Sheryl ever stopped by a relative’s house unannounced.
“So,” Teagan began, anxious to get the debriefing process underway. “What’s happening?”
Sheryl stopped buzzing and leaned her warmly clad yet perfectly tanned body against the doorway. She was an attractive woman. Never heavy, yet far too curvy to be called thin, she wore her thick, wavy hair long and bleach-blond, in contrast to her large, dark eyes. The most recent in a dynasty of artificial breasts, in concert with Sheryl’s own natural vivaciousness, completed a picture that oozed sex appeal. As a child, Teagan had thought her mother beautiful. As a teenager, she had thought her cheap. As an adult, she simply thought of her as Sheryl. With only a sixteen-year difference in their ages, Sheryl, now forty-two, had always been more of a sister to Teagan than a mother.
“It’s over,” Sheryl announced. “I thought maybe Stephen and I really had something, but I guess I was wrong.”
Teagan nodded solemnly. “He went back to the ex wife, then?”
Sheryl confirmed the tragedy with her signature expression—the pending cry. She was an expert at forming tears that were visible to an observer, yet never actually spilled forth to smear her mascara.
“I’m sorry, Mom,” Teagan offered, projecting as much sympathy as she could muster. “But I’m sure it’s for the best. You’ll find someone else soon enough.”
Teagan was, indeed, quite sure of it. For as long as she could remember, her mother’s life had been a quest for the perfect man—the perfect husband who would sweep her off her feet and whisk her away into the sunset. But though Sheryl had been swept and whisked many times, she never seemed to stay where she was put. When she married for the first time her daughter was only six, but even at that tender age Teagan had no expectation of permanency. She had accepted that first stepfather, and later his two successors, with the same cheerful nonchalance as she would an ice cream sundae. It would be fun while it lasted, but there was no point getting attached.
Sheryl withdrew her tears with a nod. “So, where’s that gorgeous husband of yours?”
Teagan suppressed a smile. Her mother always brought the conversation around to Eric eventually.
“And why were you shoveling the driveway?” Sheryl continued. “Isn’t that supposed to be the man’s job?”
Teagan looked at her watch. “Eric will be home any minute. As for the driveway, don’t be sexist. I needed the exercise.” Remembering the reason for her burst of nervous energy, her gaze returned to her mother. Teagan didn’t ordinarily discuss hospital business outside the hospital, but her own reunion with Jamie seemed a personal matter. “You’ll never guess who was brought into the ER last night. This morning I—”
Sheryl’s face paled. “Not Derrin!”
Teagan blinked. It took several seconds for her to recall the man in question—an erstwhile flame of Sheryl’s deposed for repeated DUI convictions. “No,” she answered coolly. “A friend of mine from ages ago. Remember that girl I met at the lake that I liked so much? She was a foster child of the Renicks—the family who used to own that big gray house on the peninsula across from Grandma and Grandpa’s place. Her name was Jamie.”
The tea kettle whistled. Sheryl poured the steaming water as she considered. “You mean that summer I was in California?”
Teagan nodded. Carl, the memorable bisexual painter her mother had married during her brief artistic period, had invited both Sheryl and Teagan to spend that particular summer in San Diego, enjoying a long honeymoon with his four Lhasa Apsos in a beach condo owned by his “best friend” Stan. The lure of a West Coast vacation had been strong, but Teagan, not blind to the red flags, had opted instead for Indian Lake, where she could frolic under the caring, yet not particularly watchful eye of her grandparents. Sheryl had followed in mid August, separation papers in hand.
“Yes,” Teagan answered. “I was really disappointed when we lost touch. When I saw her again, I couldn’t believe it.”
“Did she remember you?” Sheryl asked with feigned interest as she set Teagan’s cup of tea down on
the table, then returned to lean against the doorway. She bounced her own teabag up and down in her cup, as if to hurry the process along.
“No. But she doesn’t remember anything at the moment. She has a concussion.” Teagan’s tone turned grim. “I don’t know where she’s been all this time, but I have a feeling her story isn’t pretty. Her injuries were no accident.”
Sheryl stopped dunking. She turned and faced her daughter with widened eyes. “She’s not that woman from the park, is she? The one that somebody beat up and left in the snow?”
Teagan straightened in her chair. “Where did you hear that?”
“On the news! They said a jogger found her. It freaked me out—I used to walk through there all the time when we lived in the city. What do you think happened to her?”
Teagan sighed. The hospital hadn’t released any information about Jamie to the media, but police scanners could be easily monitored. The unfortunate result of such publicity was that whoever had hurt Jamie would now know that she had been found and taken to Northside General. They would also know that she was still alive.
“My guess,” Teagan answered tentatively, “would be domestic violence. It didn’t seem like a random attack.”
Sheryl’s lips pursed. “No, I suppose not—if some stranger jumped out at her in the park, she wouldn’t have been found wrapped up in a blanket, would she? Sounds more like she was dumped there. Is she going to be all right?”
Teagan winced at her mother’s casual use of the word “dumped.” The unofficial consensus at the nurse’s station had been just that—that Jamie had not been assaulted at the park, but had been brought there and left for dead. Radiology speculated that the break in her arm had come after she was unconscious; the nature of it suggested an arm that was bent at an odd angle and struck something hard, quite likely with her weight falling on top of it.
Teagan suppressed a shudder. The temperature had been below freezing. Jamie had lost a fair amount of blood and could easily have died. Her only luck had come in being found and transported to the hospital so quickly. “Yes,” Teagan answered, “she should be fine.”