Siri, Who Am I?

by Sam Tschida

  This is a work of fiction. All names, places, and characters are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real people, places, or events is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2020 by Sam Tschida

  All rights reserved. Except as authorized under U.S. copyright law, no part of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher.

  Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data

  Tschida, Sam, 1979- author.

  Siri, who am I? / Sam Tschida.

  LCC PS3620.S44 S57 2020

  DDC 813/.6—dc23 2019051818

  ISBN 9781683691686

  Ebook ISBN 9781683691693

  Cover designed by Andie Reid

  Cover illustration by Carolina Melis

  Interior designed by Molly Rose Murphy

  Production management by John J. McGurk

  Quirk Books

  215 Church Street

  Philadelphia, PA 19106

  quirkbooks.com

  a_prh_5.6.0_c0_r0

  To Lila, who ate so many frozen pizzas while I was busy writing this book. And to Daphne, who learned how to make macaroni and cheese and a mean scrambled egg. I love you girls!

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  CHAPTER

  ONE

  It seems as though I’m the kind of person who lands in the hospital in a cocktail dress on a Tuesday night with no ID and no friends. The doctor says I’ve been in a mild coma for the last two days like Peter Gallagher in While You Were Sleeping, a movie I seem to remember every word of. As for my name? No clue. All I know is that I hate my hair. Maybe it’s just coma hair (medical-grade bedhead), but still. You’d think they would have washed out the blood, not to mention a crust that feels like bridesmaid-level product build-up, but Brenda the day-shift nurse explains, “This ain’t a spa, honey. We only do blowouts on doctor’s orders.” And then she laughs. When she hands me an oversize cup of water a minute later, she looks at my hair like it’s the first time she’s noticed it and says, “You know, it’s actually cute.” Just being nice, I think. Either that or she has no taste. I can’t judge because I’ve only seen her in scrubs.

  The doctors say that, amnesia aside, I’m mostly fine, but that doesn’t seem true. I definitely feel like I almost died. I mean, I didn’t see any of my dead relatives welcoming me to the other side but that proves nothing; if I can’t remember who I am, I probably wouldn’t recognize them either. That’s probably what happened—God sent Uncle So-and-So to pick me up and I just assumed he was a perv and missed the ride to heaven.

  Though circumstantial, the evidence of my attempted murder is highly convincing:1

  ■ Blunt force trauma to the back of the skull. (Let’s hope that’s why my hair looks bad.)

  ■ Cocktail dress. (This should factor in, I think.)

  ■ Blood alcohol of…I don’t know what the numbers mean, but mostly Grey Goose. Funny how I know what I drink, even if I don’t know where I live. #priorities.

  ■ Someone (anon.) called an ambulance for me but didn’t wait around to hold my hand on the ride in.

  I’m just going to assume someone tried to kill me. That’s what it feels like. Eight out of ten on the pain scale with a side of abandonment. If I find out I just slipped and did this to myself, I’m going to be really disappointed.

  Halfway through Keeping Up with the Kardashians, which I’ve been binge-watching on the small TV in my hospital room ever since I woke up, my medical team walks in. They all smell like Purell, even though current research tells me they’re probably mostly spreading germs. Bad hair won’t be my only problem if I don’t get out of this place soon. And I’m pretty sure I’m not even a germophobe. I have a feeling that I’m really well-adjusted. Who the fuck knows, though. What does well-adjusted even mean? I might as well say that I love all kinds of music, even country. But no one loves country.2

  Brenda, who ordered me a special gluten-free, vegetarian meal because I “just look like a vegetarian, honey,” explains the facts to the neurologist, Dr. Patel. He’d be attractive if he didn’t look so much like a neurologist. If Queer Eye ever got their hands on him, they’d get rid of his rumpled, secondhand clothes and truss him up in a sexy, fuchsia shirt and slim-fit pants in his actual size. (You are not a 34-inch waist, Dr. Patel.)3

  “The patient can’t seem to remember her name,” Brenda says.

  Kim, Khloé, Kourtney, Kris, Caitlyn, Kanye, Kendall, Kylie, and all the assorted babies…I know all of their names. But who the hell am I?

  The neurologist interrupts Kim, who’s talking about permanent lip liner with zero expression on her face. “How are you doing?”

  Why can’t I tune Kim out? It’s like my brain is hardwired to focus on her. Because she’s pretty? Because her problems are dumber and therefore less stressful than mine? Because of her butt? “I seem to be having trouble focusing,” I say to Dr. Patel. “I don’t know if that’s normal for me.”

  Patel finally looks up from my chart. “Time will tell. Before I explain your test results, do you mind if I do a physical examination of your head?”

  I might not have all of my memories, but I have a feeling I’ve been asked that before.

  “As for the physical trauma,” he says, “MRI and CT are negative for signs of intracranial bleeding. The swelling in your brain must be going down, which is why you woke up. The headache probably won’t go away for at least a week.”

  “How about my memory?”

  “Your memory—” He stops for a second to look at an incoming text on his phone.4 “You have what’s known as traumatic amnesia, which means your memories will likely come back to you as your injuries heal. But there’s no telling when—and you might struggle for quite some time.”

  The light-headed feeling hits again and my peripheral vision starts to blur, but I lean back and shut my eyes. No passing out.

  “For now, I think you should try to reconstruct your life as best as you can. If you can get back into some old routines, you will increase your chances of remembering. Once you get home, surround yourself with familiar faces, go back to work—you might begin to remember things.”

  Home. Routines. Wasn’t he listening? I don’t even know my own name or who cuts my hair.

  * * *

  “Girl, you gotta cheer up,” my nurse, Brenda, says. “I have good news.”

  “Tell me it’s a cure.” Or an invitation to live on her couch. I’ll take either.

 
“Definitely better than anything the doctors are gonna do for you.” She looks up, waiting for my full attention.

  “Go on.”

  “Well, I still suspect you’re a vegetarian, so you’ve got that to deal with—”

  “How do you know?”

  With a shake of her head and a If you have to ask, you’ll never understand look, she says, “I charged your phone. The intake nurse thought it was broken but I gave it a little check-up. It’s cracked, but it works.” She holds it out to me.

  An iPhone, cracked to hell and splintered. I won’t be able to click on anything in the upper third of the screen, but only my banking and weather apps are up there. The important stuff is all at the bottom, within thumb’s reach.

  My desktop background is a picture of myself. I’ve got good hair in it, at least. Gwen Stefani blond, all sirens-of-the-silver-screen glamour on one side and a buzz cut on the other, but salon quality; it doesn’t have that I buzzed it myself in a dimly lit bathroom vibe—I don’t think. I hold out the phone to Brenda. “Does this hairstyle seem like a weird choice to you, or is it just me?”

  Brenda lets out a startled laugh. “Little weird. Can’t say I’m surprised.”

  “Whatever, Brenda. You love me.”

  She raises an eyebrow. “And you love quinoa.”

  “Take me out to lunch and we’ll find out.” I look at the screen. It’s a lifeline to all of my friends and family—everything that matters. I mean, it’s one thing to lose your memory but another thing altogether to lose your phone. Email, texts, Facebook, Twitter, Instagram…Does it even matter that my memories aren’t in my brain? Everything that counts is on my phone. Hard data and digital evidence.

  Including my name…

  1 Am I a lawyer?

  2 Except for “Jolene.”

  3 I might be a fashion expert.

  4 Or is he just reciting this off of WebMD?!

  CHAPTER

  TWO

  As soon as the facial recognition software locks on my features, my phone’s screen unlocks. (Someone finally fucking remembers me!) “Siri, what’s my name?”

  “Hello, gorgeous. Your name is Mia.”

  “Siri, did you mean Elizabeth?” I feel more sophisticated than a Mia. Mia sounds like someone who plays the flute or volleyball. A girl who earns two hundred fifty dollars every summer babysitting. Someone who likes strawberry ice cream and always has her hair in a ponytail. Elizabeth—she sounds like someone with potential, like a chick who could run for Congress or become a doctor. I must be important if I had somewhere to go in a cocktail dress on a Tuesday.

  “No, gorgeous, your name is Mia.”

  I frown at the phone. “Mia…Mia,” I repeat to myself. “What do you think?” I look up at Brenda hopefully.

  Brenda pats my hand. Her peppermint Altoid barely covers the smell of her coffee breath. “It’s the first day of the rest of your life, Mia.”

  Maybe she really will let me sleep on her couch.

  “Siri, what’s my last name?”

  “I don’t know, gorgeous.”

  “Why does she keep calling me gorgeous?”

  Brenda smirks. “You must have nicknamed yourself that, gorgeous.”

  I seem to have a healthy self-image.

  Another nurse, Cindy, wanders into the room, apparently aware of the memory upload currently going on. I’m the major plotline on this week’s episode of fourth-floor hospital gossip. “Just think, you could be anyone. Maybe you’re a doctor or a lawyer or an actress or…” After an up-and-down look, she says, “I don’t know why but I kind of think you might work for an airline.”

  “Uh, thank you…?” Was that a compliment? Not to mention, these nurses don’t understand memory loss at all. “Ladies,” I explain, “it’s not like I’m getting a chance to start over or something.”

  “Well, sort of. If I passed out for two days and woke up to find out I was a rocket scientist or a supermodel, I mean…” Cindy raises her hands in the air, as if that would obviously be the best thing that had ever happened to her. No wonder no one thinks my situation is a crisis. They all probably want to forget who they are, too.

  “You could be royal. Like a princess who was visiting and got separated from her royal entourage. I mean, you were wearing a tiara when they admitted you. An understated one, like something Meghan Markle might wear to a polo-match afterparty, but still.”

  Okay. The nurses are watching waaaay too much TV. Most likely I’m going to find credit card debt and a mountain of student loans the minute I figure out my social security number. I mean, I woke up in America. But still, they’ve planted a seed of hope. I’m hoping I’m a college graduate at least. Even if I’m not, I know I’m important because that’s what tiaras signify—importance (and glamour).

  I look at the shiny black mirror that is my iPhone and click on the texts icon, but there are no texts. Not a single conversation is listed in the text message app. How could that be?

  When I show the anomaly to the nurses, Cindy says, “Oh, you’re one of those.”

  “One of what?”

  “You must be super OCD about erasing all your messages.”

  “Why would I do that?”

  Cindy looks at me like she’s about to deliver one of those lines punctuated by a dun dun on Law & Order and says, “I guess you have something to hide.” She follows up with a laugh. “Probably just sexts, unless you’re a princess. You wouldn’t want the paparazzi to get their hands on it and publish your private conversations in the Daily Mirror.”

  I think I’m just efficient, not a lazy bum with old conversations using up all of the space on my phone, space I could use for other more important things like…

  I pull up my contacts list. “Where should I start?”

  “That’s easy. Check your contacts for ‘boyfriend’ ”—she seems to glance specifically at my haircut—“or ‘girlfriend’?”

  “Boyfriend. I think.” Boyfriend—if I have a boyfriend, I probably listed him under his actual name, meaning he might as well not exist. If he does exist, I might have to break up with him anyway. I mean, where was he when I cracked my skull? Something tells me I don’t have a husband. (No ring.) Plus, the cocktail dress and Grey Goose don’t scream married.

  Brenda, standing with her hands on her hips and clearly not expecting me to find out that I’m a doctor or rock star, speaks up. “Check for Dad and Mom. That’s who you need right now.”

  Oh Brenda, the voice of reason. There’s no way I’m a princess or a doctor. If I were a doctor, I’d probably have a sham degree and dispense pills to anyone who asked. At least that’s what the look on Brenda’s face told me.

  I scroll down to M. Mom—bingo! I take a deep breath and close my eyes. She’s probably worried. She probably even filed a missing person report. I wonder if she smells like apple pie, or if she hates to cook and lives off Lean Cuisine. I can’t picture her to save my life.

  My pulse races as I wait for her to pick up. In one second I’ll find out if I’ve won the amnesia patient’s lottery. I silently pray, Come on, Big Mary! (Or is it Big Money?) and Dear God—please let my momma save me. Come to think of it—do I believe in God?

  One, two, three, four rings. I start thinking of the message I’ll leave—“Mom, it’s me, Mia…I’m in the hospital, but I’m okay.” Hopefully she’ll fill in the rest: SAT score, favorite food, ex-boyfriends, and—dude, where’s my car.

  An automated message cuts off my train of thought. “We’re sorry. The number you’re trying to reach has been disconnected.”

  Fuck.

  Brenda and Cindy look at me expectantly. I announce, “I don’t have the right phone number for my mom.” As if that isn’t a giant red flag. It’d be one thing if I didn’t have an entry for my mom at all, like we were estranged or she died. But to have the wrong number? That’s weird. />
  I say, “Siri, call home.”

  An old lady with a quavery voice answers the phone. “You’ve reached the Nelsons. Hello.” I imagine Auntie Em and my home in Kansas perhaps. “It’s Mia.”

  “Mary?”

  “No, Mee-uh.”

  “I’m sorry, dear, but I think you have the wrong number.”

  Don’t I have any decent relationships? I’m a Millennial, clearly, but Millennials have mothers, too.

  One more try. Someone from my contacts list must know me. I click on a recently dialed number—someone named Crystal. Maybe she’s a friend or a sister or…literally anyone who knows me. She has to know me. I talked to her for three minutes and twenty-eight seconds a few days ago.

  She answers on the first ring. “Hello?”

  “Hi, this is…” I pause. My name is strange on my tongue, not because I don’t like it, which I don’t, but because it’s my name and it feels downright foreign. Like when it takes months before your cat really feels like a Marmalade instead of a Kit Kat, which in retrospect sounds like the more fitting name—not that I remember owning a cat or anything…(Am I a cat lady?) “I’m Mia.” Might as well be Kit Kat. “I don’t know if you remember me,” I say. A tear leaks out.

  A half second later, she answers, “What are you calling me for? I told you, I’m done.”

  The line goes dead. What. The. Fuck. I’m a disaster, a hot mess, exactly the kind of person you’d expect to land in the ER in a party dress on a Tuesday. I drop the phone in my lap and try not to look as straight-out-of-a-country-song desperate as I feel. I don’t need Brenda feeling like she has to be my only source of emotional support, even though she totally is.

  “I’m cool. Crystal and I weren’t close, I guess.” Understatement of the year. “I think I’ll take a break.” How much rejection could one girl handle right after surviving a major head injury?

  Brenda looks at the clock. “Lunch time. What do you think, would you like to order something?” When I don’t respond, she says, “The egg salad isn’t bad. Not as good as a hamburger, but…” As if there’s any saving things.