by Edie Claire
“That’s right,” the woman answered, stepping over and sitting on the stool again. “How are you feeling this morning? They tell me you’re doing much better. No more disorientation, no more confusion.”
Jamie let out a bitter chuckle. “I wouldn’t go that far. I remember what happened yesterday, and some things from my childhood are coming back.” There was no question of going into detail, with Teagan or anyone else. Internalizing her emotional battles was as involuntary as breathing. “But every fifteen minutes someone asks me what my name is, and I still can’t answer. You said you knew it, though. What is it? Jamie what?”
Teagan paused briefly, as if trying to decide whether to share a cheat sheet. “When I knew you, your name was Jamie Knight.”
“Knight?” Jamie’s eyes narrowed for a moment, then she shook her head. “That’s not right. It’s Jamie something, but not Knight.”
Teagan frowned. “I suppose your name might have changed if you were adopted. Or you could have gotten married.”
As if!
“I’m not married,” Jamie said shortly. How she could be so sure, she didn’t know. But she was.
The social worker’s eyes met hers, studying her. The scrutiny made Jamie suddenly uncomfortable, and she looked away.
“The neurologist said that it’s perfectly normal for sensory memories to come back first, with factual details, like names, taking a little longer. He also said that the first memories to resurface are often a person’s earliest ones, from childhood.”
“You don’t say,” Jamie responded, keeping her voice level even as her heart, for unknown reasons, began beating like a jackhammer.
The social worker’s presence had become oddly disturbing. Jamie could feel Teagan’s gaze like a laser, even as she herself stared at the wall, at nothing. There had been something in the other woman’s eyes just now… something strangely compelling. What was it? And why, when Jamie wanted so desperately to know the answer, could she not bring herself to take another look?
“Jamie? Is something wrong?”
Who are you?
“Keep talking,” Jamie blurted, still not able to face her. “Say something else!”
The order made no sense, even to Jamie. Yet after only the briefest of pauses, Teagan answered in a voice nothing like her usual, professional tone.
“I keep telling you, I like my hair in a ponytail! I don’t care if it makes my ears look bigger. And this hat is not disgusting. It’s an antique, a relic. It’s art!”
The words broke through the darkness of Jamie’s memory like a wrecking ball, opening it to a beam of bright summer sun.
Her head snapped toward the sound. But the image that met her eyes was no social worker. It was a snarky, bossy, know-it-all preteen with her hair skinned tight off her forehead and hidden behind a baseball cap so hideously frayed, discolored, and stained it looked like it had been peeled off the bottom of a garbage truck by a Rottweiler.
The girl herself was chewing gum, the pink wad dancing around in her mouth as she prattled on about…
About everything. The gym showers at her old school. The fishing gear in her grandfather’s storage shed. Spree versus SweeTarts. The wonderful living world of pond scum. The right way to do the butterfly stroke. Why all prisoners should be rehabilitated. Her mother’s awesome cherry cupcakes. The unfairness of standardized tests. How puppies are born. The shallowness of people who fussed over their appearance and the moral superiority of those who didn’t care. The stain on the right side of the cap’s brim—well, that was barbecue sauce. Or maybe it was ketchup…
Words caught in Jamie’s throat. A hundred things to say had tumbled forward together, massing into one huge knot of emotion. As she struggled, the image of the girl before her turned, ever so gradually, back into that of the twenty-something woman who now sat beside her bed, leaning forward slightly in eagerness, waiting for the words that seemed forever in coming.
Jamie swallowed.
“God, that hat was gross.”
Teagan dissolved into peals of laughter, nearly falling sideways off her stool before catching onto the seat and planting both feet on the floor. “Was not!” she retorted when she could breathe.
“Oh, it so was,” Jamie said with certainty, sitting up. She could not remember everything; she still wasn’t sure why, where, or how she had known Teagan. She only knew that she did—and that the memory was flooding her with a unfamiliar warmth, a thrill that was almost dizzying.
“I still have it, you know,” Teagan bragged.
Jamie shook her head with a smile. “Where… I mean when…” She paused a moment as the images filled in. “We used to paddle a canoe around, didn’t we? On some big lake…”
“Indian Lake,” Teagan supplied. “My grandparents used to have a cabin there.”
“And that was—”
“Almost fifteen years ago,” Teagan finished. “When we were twelve.”
Fifteen years. Jamie’s otherwise damaged brain performed the calculation swiftly. “So, I’m twenty-seven now.”
“Almost,” Teagan answered. “Your birthday’s in April.”
Mom died in April.
Jamie fought back at the sadness that gnawed at her. She couldn’t think about that now. Her mother was gone, but Teagan wasn’t. Teagan was right here.
“What happened after that?” Jamie blurted, her mind racing ahead of her words. Surely there was more between them than just one summer. Their connection was deep. She could feel it. “Why do I only see you as a kid?”
Teagan’s genuine smile faltered; slipped into something artificial. “We were only together the one summer. Then I went back to live with my mom.” She looked as if she were going to say something else, then stopped.
“Really?” Jamie questioned. She didn’t disbelieve it, but she could see that, once again, Teagan was hiding something. “Tell me more about the summer, then. What else did we do?”
Even as she asked the question, the images continued to appear—scattered, disconnected visions of water and sun. “I can picture you in a swimsuit,” she narrated, not waiting for Teagan’s answer. “There was a tree that leaned out over the water. We used to jump off it!”
Teagan grinned. “That was the ‘jungle’ swimming hole. We had a couple favorite spots. We would paddle around and then stop and swim. You’d never been in a canoe before that summer, but pretty soon you were doing the steering. You had a real knack for it.”
Jamie looked into Teagan’s face again, thinking hard. But despite the plethora of images and feelings the other woman evoked, no coherent story line materialized. “Tell me something specific that happened,” Jamie begged. “Something I can try and bring back.”
Teagan considered. “Well, there was the time we came up on a water snake, and you were so fascinated by it you made us paddle beside it halfway across the lake. But then we both leaned out over the side at the same time, and the canoe tipped. You about screamed your head off when you realized it was wriggling around in the water a couple inches from your face.”
Jamie shuddered. She had no desire to remember that. “I hate snakes!” she said with a grimace.
Teagan snorted. “Tell me about it. Every time after that I wanted to annoy you, all I had to do was yell ‘snake’ and you’d start throwing things at me.”
Jamie smirked. She could remember none of what Teagan was saying, but the “throwing things” part sounded true to form. “Did we tip over often?”
“Only about a hundred times.”
“Whose fault?”
“Yours. Always.”
“Liar.”
Teagan narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “Do you remember that, or are you just guessing?”
Jamie smirked again. “I’m just guessing. But as I already told you, you suck at lying. Now, try another story on me.”
Teagan appeared to think a moment, and Jamie watched as something resembling mischief flashed behind her eyes. But instead her tone turned serious.
�
��There was one thing I’m sure you’ll remember. There was, well, a kind of an accident. You tried to do a back flip off the dock, but your shoulders hit the edge of it on the way down and you got the breath knocked out of you. You were under the water for a while before I found you—you’d taken in a couple of lungs full of lake water already. Once I got you out, you coughed it all up, and you were fine. But it was scary.”
Jamie stared. The story seemed incredible.
“Do you remember any of that?” Teagan asked.
Jamie shook her head with frustration. Shouldn't nearly drowning leave some sort of impression? Yet she was not afraid of water. She was fairly certain she could swim well.
“I did a back flip?” she asked.
Teagan nodded.
“Funny,” Jamie continued. “I don’t see myself as the daredevil type. Not with stupid stunts and things like that.”
“Think about it,” Teagan urged. “I’m sure it will come back to you.”
Was I different back then?
Jamie picked up the mirror that lay on the mattress beside her and, for the hundredth time that day, studied her reflection. The more she looked at herself, the more ire rose within her; and despite her excitement at having remembered Teagan, this view of herself had the same, aggravating effect.
“These damned eyes!” she said bitterly, tossing the mirror aside again. “They’re not right!”
Teagan stared at her in surprise. “Your eyes are beautiful! What do you mean they’re not right?”
“I mean I fixed them. They’re not supposed to be yellow anymore.”
Teagan looked confused.
Unaccountably, Jamie’s face flushed with heat as tears welled up behind her lids. She fought the impulse with a vengeance. Why on earth was she crying over her eye color? How stupid was that?
But it wasn’t just her eyes. There were things she knew, yet didn’t know—things hovering just outside the reach of her feeble brain. Sensing them there, yet knowing they were unattainable, was maddening. The problem with her eyes was just the tip of the iceberg; they weren’t supposed to be yellow, no matter what the mirror showed. It was like being told you were only six when you knew full well you were ten.
“Maybe you got contacts,” Teagan suggested. “Colored contacts. Does that sound like something you might have done?”
The bizarre warmth that associated itself with Teagan swelled up in Jamie like sunshine, quelling her tears on the instant. “Yes!” she practically shouted. “Hell yes, I would! And I did! I know I did. So where are they?”
Teagan’s face clouded, as if she were remembering something unpleasant. “Your personal effects were put into a bag,” she explained. “But it was just clothing. You didn’t have a purse with you. If you were wearing contacts when you came in, I’m sure they were removed—and probably thrown away. But I can check your record and see if there’s a note about it.”
“I want some others,” Jamie demanded. “Can I get them here?”
Teagan’s expression showed a concern that was clearly readable. Why the hurry?
Jamie wasn’t able to explain herself. All she knew was that every time she looked in the mirror, everything about her felt wrong. She felt naked, exposed. She wanted to look like the person she felt she was.
Before Teagan could answer, a throng of uniformed people opened the door without knocking and entered the room, stretcher in tow. “It’s time to get you ready for surgery,” a woman in blue scrubs announced, pulling the stretcher closer.
Teagan rose and moved out of the way. “I’ll look into it,” she replied, sounding like a social worker again. “But try not to worry about it right now. Just concentrate on getting better. This surgery will be over in a snap, and before you know it, you’ll be up and walking out of here.”
The newfound warmth inside of Jamie began to cool.
She’s getting paid, you know. It’s her job.
Another image. Another time. Another woman who claimed to care. You won’t be here long; this is just a temporary placement. The time will be over in a snap, and before you know it, you’ll be adopted and in your very own “forever home.” Okay?
Peachy.
But it was a lie. They were always lies. Delivered with a cheerful smile.
“Jamie,” Teagan asked, sounding as if she were having to repeat herself. “Are you all right? I’ll be back to see you after the surgery.”
The crew had moved her onto the stretcher; a woman with colorful rainforest frogs on her smock was inserting the plastic cannula of a syringe into the port on Jamie’s IV line.
Teagan tried again, “Are you—”
Jamie’s eyes closed. “Peachy,” she muttered with a shiver. The stretcher was cold. “Just peachy.”
Chapter Six
“We can’t come up with jack on that name. She thought of any other possibilities?”
Teagan slumped in her chair, but she could only slump so far before her knees hit the desk. The social services “office” was a windowless closet just outside the ER; the news coming over the phone from the city homicide detective was unexpectedly bad. “Nothing on a Jamie Knight? But how is that possible? Did you look in Somerset County?”
“We checked all the standard databases, statewide and national, with that age and history, and I’m telling you, the woman doesn’t exist. No birth certificate, no social security number, no school records, nothing. You’ve got the wrong name.”
“Maybe the spelling—”
“We ran every conceivable alternative spelling, too.”
Teagan let out a breath. Thirty-six hours had passed since the assault was first reported to the police. The detective on the other end of the line had been helpful enough, and Jamie’s case was rightly being treated as an attempted homicide, rather than a simple assault. But this news proved a serious setback. Teagan had assumed that once the police had Jamie’s name, it would be easy to locate a relative, neighbor, or coworker who could finger the appropriate suspect. She had even hoped that the threat to Jamie might be removed before she was discharged from the hospital.
“How much does she remember now?” the detective asked.
“She’s remembered some things from her childhood, but that’s all,” Teagan answered. “No names yet. The neurologist says that’s all normal; he thinks she’s got a good shot at getting nearly everything back within the next four or five days. But he also said she may never remember the last couple hours before the injury.”
“They often don’t,” the detective agreed, “but if this is a domestic situation, she should still be able to give us our suspect. I’ll try to talk to her myself later today or tomorrow. In the meantime, if she gives you anything: a last name, a significant other, even part of an address—call this number.”
Teagan agreed that she would and hung up. Lost in thought, she spun her chair back and forth like a pendulum until a smarting sensation in her knee informed her that she’d been ramming it against the file cabinet. She was positive that “Knight” was the name Jamie had told her. Why on earth would a twelve-year-old girl lie about her surname?
She stopped fidgeting and got up. Jamie should have recovered from the effects of the anesthesia by now. It was time for another talk.
Teagan walked to the elevator and pushed the up button. How else could she find out Jamie’s legal name? The Renicks had left Indian Lake over a decade ago. Knowing Jamie’s first name, one set of foster parents, and her month and year of birth, Teagan or the detective could probably wrangle the information out of the county Children and Youth Services department eventually. But that process could take weeks, even months.
Teagan rode the hospital elevator to the fifth floor and headed toward Jamie’s room with her feet dragging. She wished she had some positive news to share. But not only had the police failed to discover any potential friends or family of Jamie’s, not a single soul had contacted the authorities about a missing woman matching her description.
Teagan knocked softly on the door
and pushed the lever.
“Yeah, wait a minute,” Jamie’s voice answered with irritation, and Teagan paused with the door open an inch. Footsteps and the sound of rustling fabric met her ears. “Yeah, okay.”
Teagan swung the door open just wide enough to admit herself, then closed it behind her. Jamie was standing by the bed, one hospital gown covering her front and tied in the back, another slung over half her body in a failed attempt to cover the flipside. She could not get her arms through the holes, and with a cast on one arm and an IV line trailing out of the other, it was no wonder.
Teagan crossed to one of the cabinets and pulled out a white gown decorated with blue and green squares. “Here,” she said, swiftly preparing and handing it over. “Try this one. It has snaps instead of arm holes. I did the one arm already; just slip it over the cast and then you can snap the other one around the IV.”
With any other patient, Teagan would have helped by snapping on the gown herself. Any other patient would have rung for a nurse in the first place. But Jamie wasn’t like most patients. When it came to doing things herself, she was as obstinate as a two year old. It was a quirk Teagan remembered well, because they shared it.
“Thanks,” Jamie offered, following directions. It took her several minutes, but at last she had the snaps fastened and some semblance of a decent garment in place. She dropped back onto the bed, looking exhausted.
Teagan surveyed her with an irrepressible twinge of jealousy. Even sporting dirty hair and a frumpy hospital gown, Jamie was the kind of woman who could draw second looks from any heterosexual male past puberty. Anyone who knew the girl could have predicted she would grow up pretty, but Jamie’s evolution had exceeded all expectations. As preteens the two had been of equal height, but while Teagan had turned out half a head taller, Jamie had emerged the better proportioned. Her figure—already enviable by the age of twelve—had matured to a natural perfection even Sheryl’s plastic surgeon couldn’t duplicate.
“I feel like crap,” Jamie snapped. “They won’t let me take a shower yet.”