“Oops! Sorry,” I say, stepping out of the way.
The volunteer stops dead in his tracks and stares at me with such malice that I pull away. “You!” he hisses, taking me completely by surprise. “What are you doing here?”
“What?”
“Is this a joke to you? You think this is funny?” He looks around. “Or maybe you’re doing some sort of hidden camera prank show?”
“What? A show? No!”
“You have no right to be here,” he says through gritted teeth. “Get out.”
Tears rush to my eyes. What’s going on? “But—”
“Get. Out.”
My mouth opens and closes like I’m a fish, but I can’t think of how to answer. He’s taken me completely by surprise and I’m disoriented by his attack. As if he’s given me a shove, I spin and run toward the door.
Confusion overwhelms me and I stumble, sobbing, into the street, not paying the slightest bit of attention. I barely hear a car horn when it blares just a few feet away from me.
Suddenly, the bright yellow hood of a taxi reflects the sunshine, glaring white as it approaches. The brakes screech wildly.
But there’s no way it can stop fast enough.
CHAPTER SEVEN
A constant beep pokes at my mind, a relentless, terrifying pitch that reminds me of a car horn, of stepping into nowhere and—
I burst into consciousness and am almost blinded by the sterile brightness of the room. Everything is white, cold, shiny, and far cleaner than anything I’ve been around in days.
The noise continues. I turn my head, surprised by the fact that I’m resting on a bright white pillow. The sound is coming from a machine of some sort, a small box flashing red lights and numbers. A hospital. I’m in a hospital. A tube is attached to the back of my hand. My head is pounding, and I am very thirsty.
“Ah. Look who’s awake,” says a male voice. I look up as the door swings open. “Sia Holloway? My name is Dr. Weinstock. How are you feeling?”
Holloway. One mystery solved. “Wh-what am I doing here?”
“You were in an accident, Sia. Do you remember stepping into traffic downtown? A taxi . . . ”
Everything comes back in a rush. I swallow hard. “I thought that was just a nightmare.”
The doctor has a kind face. He tilts his head and tightens his lips in sympathy. “Unfortunately, it wasn’t. However, every cloud, as they say, has a silver lining. And I’m about to reveal yours. Even though you didn’t have any identification on you, we were able to locate your family. It helped that they filed a missing persons report. Your parents say you’ve been missing since last week.”
I stare at him in shock. “My parents? You found them? You mean . . . you know who I am? That’s great!”
Dr. Weinstock frowns. “I don’t understand.”
I shrug at him. “Me neither. I’ve been wandering around all that time, not having a clue who I am. Until you just said it, I didn’t know what my last name was.”
“Really?” He scribbles some notes on my chart. “Tell me about this. What can you remember? Do you know what happened to cause your memory loss?”
I shake my head, even though it hurts.
“Who’s your best friend? Do you have a pet? Any brothers?” His questions seem endless and he makes careful notes of my responses. He looks fascinated with my answers. “Wait here a moment. I’ll be back.”
Where else would I go?
He returns with a clipboard and resumes his questions. A nurse trails behind him, carrying a small plastic tray. She hands me a cup of ice water, which I suck back right away. Big mistake. Brain freeze grabs my head and squeezes hard, shoving at the backs of my eyes.
While I’m waiting for the pain to ease, she reaches for my hand. “Just a little pinprick,” she says, jabbing the needle into my vein.
I peer at the doctor to distract myself.
“Other than today’s episode, do you know if you’ve ever had any major accidents?” the doctor asks.
“I don’t think so. I have no scars or bruises or abnormal pain.”
“Do you use recreational drugs?”
I shrug. “Not as far as I know. Definitely not this week.”
“All right. We’ll do a series of blood tests and see what we come up with.” He takes my hand—the one without the needle in it—and smiles. “You’ll be just fine, Miss Holloway.”
“What about my parents?”
“I’m sorry?”
“You said you’d found them. Are they coming?”
“They were in a couple of times before you woke up, but they had to leave for a bit. They said they’d be back here in a couple of hours. By then, we should have some of the test results.”
In fact, my parents arrive almost exactly two hours later. I hear their unfamiliar voices in the hallway, but I know who it is because Dr. Weinstock calls them “Mr. and Mrs. Holloway.”
He gently draws them away from my door. “There have been some complications with your daughter’s case,” he explains.
“What? Is she all right?” squeaks a woman I assume is my mother.
“She’ll be fine, Mrs. Holloway. But it appears she has some fairly significant memory loss. We are running tests to determine the cause and possible prognosis, but you should know that Sia has forgotten much. In fact, she didn’t remember her own name.”
I strain my ears to eavesdrop; I don’t want to miss anything being said about me.
A moment later, the woman asks, “But . . . does that mean she won’t remember us?”
“There’s a chance that seeing you could trigger her memory, but you shouldn’t get your hopes up.”
A man clears his throat. “Can we see her now?”
Dr. Weinstock enters first, followed by two complete strangers. I stare at them, seeing the worry in their expressions and the money in their clothes. I want so badly to remember them. Who are these people? How can I even be sure they are my parents?
“Sia?” The man speaks first. My father, I assume. “Are you all right, baby?”
I nod, feeling close to tears. My mother is instantly beside me, nestled on the edge of the bed. “Oh, sweetheart!” She brushes a few strands of hair from my face and tucks them behind my ear. “My beautiful girl! We were so worried about you! Are you in pain?”
“Not really.”
My father clears his throat. I can see he’s emotional, too. “Your mother and I were frantic. We went to the police, but no one knew anything.” He shakes his head. “And then a car ran into you? What an awful way to find you. Is she all right, Doctor?”
“Her physical injuries are non-threatening. Bumps and bruises, mostly. She did suffer a concussion, which is why we kept her overnight for observation. But everything else seems fine. Except for her memory.”
Everyone stares at me, and I stare blankly back. “I’m sorry I had you worried,” I eventually manage. “I didn’t know what to do. And I’m sorry, but I . . . I have no idea who you are.”
The couple look at each other, clearly at a loss. “Well, I’m your mother,” says the woman. She speaks slowly, as if she’s addressing a young child. My mother holds one hand out awkwardly. “My name is Janet. And this is your father, Raymond.”
I take her cool hand in my own and am startled when she gently shakes it. As if she’s introducing herself to a stranger, which she kind of is.
Dr. Weinstock flips through his notes. “She's a healthy, seventeen-year-old girl, and the tests show she has not been taking any illicit drugs.”
My mother sighs in relief.
“And after speaking with a colleague of mine, I believe I know what happened to Sia. He’s a brilliant psychiatrist, and he told—”
“Wait,” I interrupt, suddenly defensive. “A shrink? Are you implying I’m crazy? Because I’m not.”
He raises a hand. “Nobody thinks that, Sia.”
“Of course we don’t,” my mother says softly. “Doctor, please continue. What did your colleague say?”
She frowns. “I’m confused. This happened just because of stress? It wasn’t some traumatic event?”
“Not in this case,” he tells her. “Fugue amnesia is peculiar. I know that’s hard to grasp, but the human brain is a mystery to itself.”
“How long will it last?” I ask.
He only shakes his head. “I wish I could tell you. There aren’t many documented cases of fugue, and those on record show varied recovery times. Some patients recovered their memory in hours, days, weeks, or months. For others, it took years.”
I am frantic. “Years? I can’t stay like this for years!”
“No, she cannot!” my mother agrees. “Please, Doctor. There must be something you can do.” When she tears up, my father wraps his arms around her, as if that’ll help contain her rising hysteria.
“I’m afraid I can’t do much,” the doctor says. “Only thing I can recommend is getting Sia back into her regular routine and putting her back in school. Familiar surroundings could help jog her memory.”
“School?” my father asks. “But if she can’t remember anything, won’t her grades plummet? We can’t have her failing out of high school.”
“That’s okay, Ray,” my mother assures him. “She’s a senior, and all her major exams are done. She’s already been accepted to USC, so the rest of the year really doesn’t matter. It’s mostly social. Besides, we can talk to her teachers about her finals,” she says, winking pointedly at him.
Concern briefly creases his brow, but he clears it, along with his throat. “Yes, of course.”
“How long do I have to stay here?” I ask.
“Well,” Dr. Weinstock says, “I don’t see any reason why you should. I’d like you to make an appointment for next week to visit my colleague, George Saunders. He’s a neurologist. Other than that, I’ll go fill out your discharge forms so you can pack up and go home.” He smiles warmly at me. “Good luck, Sia.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
I keep waiting for relief to start flooding in. I’ve been reunited with my family, haven’t I? I won’t have to suffer the indignities and hardships of being homeless anymore. But I’m practically numb with fear as I step out of the hospital’s protective shelter and into my mother’s shiny black Range Rover. Before we left the hospital, my father said he’d meet us later at home. He did apologize for leaving us at a time like this, but there was some big meeting he just couldn’t miss.
Home. Where exactly is that?
The Range Rover starts up. I glance at my mother, who has just joined the endless line of traffic. She is a stunning woman. Her beautiful blue eyes are now shaded by large dark glasses, and a straight fall of blonde hair reaches a few inches below her slender shoulders, streaked with some expertly painted highlights. She’s very tanned—almost too dark, I think—and her lips draw into a tight line as she checks the rearview mirror and navigates traffic. After a while, she seems to remember I’m sitting beside her.
“Oh, Sia,” she says when we stop at a light. “We were so worried. A whole week you were gone! Why didn't you go to the police or try to find us?”
“Even I can't figure that out. Part of me wanted to. Badly. But every time I considered it, I had this . . . overwhelming sense of fear. I dreaded what I would find.” I sigh. “I can't explain it.”
She's quiet for a while. “Well, where did you go?”
“I lived on the streets.”
My mother recoils as if I just slapped her. “What?”
“Yeah. Like her,” I say, pointing at a hunched woman on the sidewalk. She’s pushing a cart similar to Tito’s, and my heart goes to him for a moment. “I met a wonderful woman named Carol. She helped me out.”
The light changes again. We drive through the intersection, silence sitting awkwardly between us. My mother’s expression has pulled taut. Her eyes are trained to the road, purposely avoiding eye contact with me.
“You lived like a bag lady?” she finally says. “That’s awful!”
I nod. “It was scary. Without Carol, though . . . I don’t know how it might have gone. She really did save my life out there. I want to find her and thank her somehow. Maybe I can take her some food.”
“Oh! Amber called a few times,” she exclaims suddenly, her face brightening.
“Amber?”
“Of course you remember Amber. From school?”
This may take a while, I realize. “I don’t remember anything, Mom.”
She glances at me. “Mom? You haven’t called me Mom for years. You usually call me Janet.”
“I do? And that’s okay?”
“Of course.” She abruptly changes topics, and her mouth pulls tight again. “I don’t want you going back to that homeless woman.”
“But I have to thank her . . . Janet. It’s the least I can do.” I'm not thrilled about the whole “Janet” thing. It just doesn’t sit right.
“I don’t know. We’ll see.” She smiles as we turn into a long drive. “Here we are. Home sweet home.”
My jaw drops. I’m staring at a mansion. “How many people live here?”
“Just the three of us, silly. Oh, and Beatriz, but she keeps mostly to herself, of course.”
The place is huge. All I can see so far is the front entryway. The outside walls are a light brown stucco, a Spanish style, with black iron railings, smooth archways, and pillars. I step out of the car and onto the bricked driveway, then follow my mother up the stairs, past the elegant, landscaped lawn, to the massive arched door. When the door opens, I stop and stare, marveling at the cathedral ceiling stretching over a gleaming marble floor. A winding spiral staircase wraps around one side of the room, bordered by an ornate wrought iron banister. It leads to the second story.
A young woman comes over to greet us. Her dark hair is pulled back from a pretty, copper-toned face. She’s wearing a black dress partially covered by a white apron. I might just be imagining it, but her smile seems forced. “Miss Holloway! So good to have you home again.”
I’m about to say something, but my mother speaks first.
“Did my husband call?”
“Yes. Just a few moments ago.”
“So you know Sia can’t remember a thing, right?”
“Yes.” She glances at me. “I’m sorry to hear that. I hope everything is back to normal soon.”
“Me too,” I say weakly.
My mother blusters by, dropping keys and sunglasses on a table by the door. “Sia’s tired, Beatriz. She needs to go see her room and take a long, hot shower before lunch.” She looks back at me as if just remembering I’m there. “Oh, and donate those clothes somewhere, will you?”
“Yes, Mrs. Holloway.” Beatriz tilts her head slightly and looks at me. “Would you like to come this way, Miss Holloway?”
Wordlessly, I follow the help up the stairs. It takes a little effort because my body is stiff from the car accident, but I cling to the banister for strength.
At the top of the curving stairway, Beatriz leads me into a massive bedroom that almost glows within light pink walls. The king-sized bed is set off by a matching set of ivory night tables. Another wall is made up almost completely of windows and a glass door, which leads out onto a balcony. My own private balcony. I have my own private magnificent view of Los Angeles.
I stare out the window. “This is all mine?”
“Of course,” Beatriz says, then gestures toward an open door. “And this, too.”
The door leads into a walk-in closet, packed full of clothes, shoes, and purses. At the end of the closet
, I discover a cabinet with drawers. Each drawer reveals a different selection of jewelry, a rainbow of twinkling metal and stones. I want to say something, to confide in Beatriz that I can’t believe it all, but she hasn’t followed me inside. She’s waiting in the bedroom, and she’s set some clothes on the bed for me: a pair of rhinestone encrusted jeans and a bright pink t-shirt that looks way too small.
“I thought you might want to wear something comfortable when you go down to dinner tonight,” Beatriz explains. “I hope these are all right.”
“Uh . . . ” I pick up the t-shirt and stretch it across my chest. Really? I’m comfortable in something this tight? And it’s really short. I know it will show my belly. “Do I have anything . . . looser? Less revealing?”
“No,” Beatriz says. She moves toward another door. “I’ve started the shower and set out some fresh towels. If you need anything, just call. Otherwise, I’ll be downstairs.”
Before I can say another word, she has walked out, latching the door quietly behind her. I stand in the middle of the room. I feel lost. I step to one wall, hoping to learn something from the framed photographs hanging there. The first picture has me in the middle, with a few other girls posing around me. We’re wearing white and red cheerleader costumes. Another picture is up close. I’m squeezed between two girls, cheek to cheek, and we’re all puckering at the camera as if we’re about to kiss it. I look so happy. So alive. I stare at the picture, feeling close to tears.
I’m like an intruder in this room. I keep thinking someone will come into the room at any time and realize I’m not who they think I am. I’m completely on edge. I need to calm down, let it all soak in. My mother’s right: a shower would be great right about now.
I open the bathroom door, letting out a cloud of steam, and step inside. Instead of calming me, the sight of the place bewilders me even more. The bathroom looks too perfect, with its shining white counters, ultra modern sink and tap, and a white marble floor that reflects a glittering chandelier hanging above. A chandelier in my bathroom. Really? My eyes catch the only non-white, non-sparkly surface: the thickest towel I’ve ever seen, dyed in a lush shade of pink. I pick it up and hug it to me, close to tears again.
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