I pick up my pen and make a list:
No family, no friends, no Facebook, no contacts
One photo of us – possibly photoshopped?
DL in my name, my face.
My lipstick. Could have been mine in my real life?
This isn’t enough evidence to prove anything. Just the opposite. I seem to have equally supporting evidence of both possibilities. I make a new list:
Dream with body and gun.
One possible memory of me thinking “no entanglements.”
Images of driving through a city. A fancy restaurant. What does that prove?
Surgery on my face – mean anything?
I’d thought about that in passing. It wasn’t that suspicious that I had reconstructive surgery following a car accident with head trauma and broken bones. It still makes me wonder, though.
What if there’s a reason for my memory loss? I’ve had a gut feeling all this time that something is wrong here, but I keep telling myself there isn’t any logical reason that anyone would do this to me. But what if there was? What if I knew something before that someone needed to cover up?
Then they could have just killed me.
So this still doesn’t make any sense, but I’m not crossing off the idea. I almost write out what I’m thinking when I hear footsteps. I scrunch the paper up as fast as I can.
“Hello, Mrs. Hawthorn?” a deep voice asks.
“Oh, hi.” I search for his name. It’s the police officer.
“TJ.”
“Right. Come on in.”
“Did I catch you at a good time?”
He’s polite and smiling, and I find myself smiling back like we’re old friends.
“I’ve been sitting around in this room for who knows how long. I’d love company.”
He laughs and sits down. He looks comfortable and that puts me at ease. Actually, I feel surprisingly comfortable with him. I pull my legs up to sit cross legged on the bed, the blanket draped over my lap.
“I wanted to check on you and make sure things are better.”
Better? I couldn’t say if better is the right word. I shrug and open my mouth to answer… and then find myself unable to lie. So I say, “Could you check missing persons for someone with my description?”
His face remains in his customary almost-smile. “Already did.”
“You did? When?”
“After I was here. Everything seems above board, but I wasn’t going to walk away and not check into it.”
“And…nothing?”
He shakes his head.
So that was it then.
I have to look down for a long minute. I hear him rise and approach the bed. His hand rests softly on my shoulder. “I’m sorry you feel alone and confused. I really did look into every possible match just to be sure.”
I start to look up when he points to the balled up paper. He doesn’t even say anything.
“I was making a list of things that seemed odd.” To my surprise, I unfold and flatten it out again. It wasn’t anything I meant to share, but now I do. Handing it over, I ask, “Am I nuts? Why am I so suspicious about all of this?”
He scans my lists twice. Now my embarrassment hits. I reach for the paper and he lets me take it back.
“No, you’re not nuts. You’re confused, maybe a little scared. I would be too. I want to reassure you, Megan. Eli’s story checks out. Your history in foster care, the marriage license, apartment leases in Maine, your mortgage here in Oregon. You’ve been building a life together over the last five years.”
I meet his friendly eyes and nod.
“It might take some time for everything to feel like your life, but it is. You just have to accept it.”
I nod again, my throat choked up.
He points at the paper again. “Want me to toss that somewhere discreet?”
My cheeks light up. “Yes, take it.” I glance around the room. “No one would probably see it anyway, but just in case. I don’t want to hurt him any more than I have.”
Those words are true. I don’t want to hurt him. So maybe I care about Eli?
TJ stands and rests a hand on his belt. He’s handsome and so damn nice.
“Eli’s a good guy. You two will work it out.” He walks to the door and gives me a smile and nod before leaving. Is Eli a good guy? I uncurl and lay down. It sounds like TJ talked more to Eli than what I knew about.
Chapter Eight
I’m getting out of here. Finally. Part of me doesn’t believe it. I’m shaking as I think about it, from excitement and… fear?
I finally made one decision: if the hospital treated me and is now releasing me, there can’t possibly be something evil going on. Right?
I’m going home with Eli. We’re “getting back to normal.” I know the feeling of wanting to get back to normal, but I wonder if I’ll ever feel normal again. I’ve been filling in what things might look like, but I know I’m probably way off base. So part of me actually wants to see “home” and my life.
I’m standing in the bathroom and inspecting the scar by my hairline in the mirror. Can I make this work with Eli? Do I have a choice? I could leave him, I suppose…but I don’t know where that would leave me.
The bathroom door is shut, but I hear voices start up. Dr. Harris and Ellison.
I turn on the water so they’ll think I’m busy, but I strain to listen to them. I catch Dr. Harris speaking, his voice low, commanding, threatening.
“If she remembers anything, anything—
He’s cut off, probably by a gesture.
If I remember anything, what? Why would he issue such a warning?
Have I mentioned anything to Eli about a memory? I didn’t tell anyone about the short memory, the one of just a voice saying “no entanglements.” Sometimes I try to figure out if that means relationships or something else. There’s no way to tell at this point.
When I emerge, Dr. Harris is smiling, sending me off like an old friend. Ellison gathers my things and Bethany comes with a wheelchair.
“I’m going to miss you!” she says, beaming, “But I’m so happy to see you on your feet again.”
I don’t let myself comment on the irony of her statement: Not only am I sitting in a wheelchair at the moment, I’m not on my feet in any sense.
It’s so surreal. We leave the room, and then that wing, and then I’m seeing a new area. I don’t have a grasp of how big the hospital is, or where we’re at in the city, or even what Portland looks like outside of pictures I’ve seen of the river and the lights at night. We reach the main doors and they slide open, throwing a punch of cold air at us.
“Want to wait inside?” he asks.
“No.” I look up at Bethany. “Take me outside. I want to feel it.”
Ellison goes to fetch the car and I sit in the wheelchair with Bethany standing behind me. Oddly, she’s quiet. The wind blows again and the cold air burns my face and neck. It looks and smells like the dead of winter out here but I remind myself it’s November. The sky is gray and dark, the clouds growing thicker and ready to rain again. The trees are bare. The fallen leaves have been removed so there isn’t any bright orange on the ground either. At least the grass is green. It’s green during the winter here in Oregon, a fact I remember from somewhere.
The car pulls up and my heart flat lines. What am I doing?
He comes around and opens the passenger door. I stand up, and just like that Bethany wishes me the best of luck, waves, turns briskly and wheels the chair back inside. I turn back around and stare at the seat while Ellison stands there, holding my door.
Only then do I hear my breathing. He knows I’m terrified.
“Meg.” He steps close and pulls me into an embrace even though I remain stiff. “I love you.”
He says the words in my ear, like a sweet secret. Is that the first time I’ve heard him say those words, at least since waking up?
I can’t say anything back.
“I know you’re afrai
d and you don’t think you know me, but I love you and I’m going to take care of you. It’ll get better.”
I pull back to look at him. Tears dance in the bottom of his eyes. He’s wounded and tired, and desperately trying to hold it together. I stare up into his face, my lips parting as I wish for words. The intensity is going to crack me open. He leans down to rest his forehead against mine, squeezing his eyes shut, and a tear lands on my cheek. I gasp for some reason, my lungs thinking I should cry too, and then I feel his mouth on mine, his lips soft and yet needy.
It’s over before I react. Eli steps back, looking into my eyes with what looks like complete openness and honesty. I’m standing between the car and the door, and he brushes my hair back from my face. “Get in, Megan.”
***
Rain comes down as Eli navigates through Portland. The view from the bridge is stunning with the steel sky and gray waters. Even though it’s daytime, the lights pop out like Christmas ornaments.
As the city starts to spread out, I sit up. “We have service out here. I can get internet!”
He glances at me, disbelieving like I asked something very inconvenient. “Your phone is in your purse.”
I know that but don’t comment. I also don’t want to stare at a little screen for this. “You told me there’s a laptop in the car.”
He moves his head a few degrees to look at me, and the eyebrow I can see is pulled down.
“Remember, you said you’d answer questions and let me research.” I’m not sure if that’s exactly what he said, but his expression softens. He begins looking around, and soon we stop at a café.
“Alright, we can spend some time here, if it’s that pressing.”
Yes, I think with my face turned the other way, discovering the truth is pressing.
Parking takes a few minutes, and then we run through the rain. Inside, I grab his laptop and a table. He asks what I want, but I completely ignore him, watching the screen come to life. A second later, he leans over and types a password. It’s still not that simple. He gets me the Wi-Fi password and then waits in line.
I get online.
There’s a handful of articles and videos about people who recovered from a two month coma. Most are “miracle cases” with lots of media.
No one even visited me.
A small empty hole opens in my heart and spreads. Apparently, it’s a very big deal to wake up after two months, and yet Dr. Harris acted like it was all normal. There’s a video about a college student. They were going to pull the plug when the doctor, on a hunch, had one more MRI performed. The student wasn’t brain dead after all, so the doctor convinced the family to wait a week. That night, the boy moved two fingers. Within weeks, he was talking and up with a walker. I watch a video and listen to him talk, wondering if he sounds a little slow, like the coma or brain damage left permanent damage.
I am feeling luckier by the second. And more confused.
Eli sits down and slides a steaming mug over to me. I take a sip—it’s a holiday latte of some sort with cinnamon. I glance at Eli. He knew I’d like it.
“Find some good info?”
“I think…” I close a few windows before he can see. Of course, he’ll find them in his history. I’m not sure how I can delete that without him noticing. He’s sitting at an angle so he can see what I’m doing.
A woman behind me laughs suddenly. I jump and try not to glance guiltily at Eli. There’s so much noise here compared to my deathly quiet hospital room. Questions rattle around. How did I recover so quickly and easily? Why wasn’t it a big deal to the medical community? I could dig deeper and read more, but it didn’t help the way I thought it would.
I’m staring at Eli. I have been for a few minutes and just realized it.
He’s staring right back with a friendly face, waiting. We finish our drinks and head out. Being in a car gives me that hopeful road-trip feeling. Eli turns on music but keeps it pretty low, in case we want to talk, I guess. It’s current hits from Katy Perry, Taylor Swift, Coldplay, Beyoncé, songs I know. I’m humming, then singing along. I don’t care if it’s crazy. I need a few freaking minutes of normal.
The highway takes us out of the city and through smaller towns separated by chilly autumn landscape: wispy fog swirling around bare trees sporting a few bright orange and yellow leaves. Some houses have Christmas lights up even though it’s before Thanksgiving.
“Here’s Sandy coming up.”
We enter a small but ritzy town, and I stare out the window, looking for something I might recognize.
“We fell in love with this country road and this town the very first time we laid eyes on it. You said you had to live here.”
“I did?”
“So we moved.”
I try to picture myself jogging on this road and stopping to talk to neighbors. Nothing about that feels familiar. I close my eyes, more confused than ever. And in my mind I see city lights twinkling in the dark as I look through an expansive window… the sun has set and the skyline is just barely visible with a line of lighter blue. The lights go on and on, spreading to both edges of my vision.
The car turns so I open my eyes.
“This it?”
“Not yet. Almost.” He’s smiling like a little boy on Christmas. “At least this is fun, right? Like it’s the first time you’re seeing it. Don’t get me wrong, I wish you’d never have gotten in that wreck, but… But we’re making a new memory. Right here.”
It’s a tree-lined gravel road with a few houses. He drives for two miles before slowing down. “Ready? This is it.”
The road curves gently to the right and I see… a structure. Thick Tyvec is stapled to the wooden skeleton house. A gold colored Chevy Silverado sits off to the side, mud sprayed clear up to the roof. There’s a concrete mixer on the other side and a small, new shed. The ground is gravel under the car but mud and tire tracks in other places.
“This side isn’t finished, of course, but look at the setting. I have the bedroom done in the back, and the kitchen. The back deck, too.”
He idles in the road and we stare for a few minutes before he pulls the car past the front and around the side. There’s a door here at least.
“I’ll show you the plans so you can picture the finished product,” he says, getting out.
The plans will probably speak more his language than mine. I get out too, and he’s suddenly by my side and swinging me up into his arms. As he carries me through the door, I ask, “You didn’t lock it?”
“Well, the front is just plastic. Seems kind of pointless.”
Inside, it smells of wet sawdust, new wood, and metal equipment. Maybe a hint of glue. And it’s freezing cold. I shiver.
“Oh, I did finish the gas fireplace back here in the bedroom. Come on.” He carries me out of the unfinished room and into a finished hallway and then a large master bedroom, where he sets me down in the dimness and hurries to the fireplace on the opposite side. It flicks to life and I walk near to warm myself. There’s a king bed with an elaborate headboard—one with built-in shelves. A white, thick comforter covers the bed, with a gorgeous, colorful quilt covering the bottom half. As I step closer to admire it, I can smell the newness of the blankets.
Eli stands with his hands in his pockets. He looks at me and then at the bed, and his face looks like he’s picturing us there. We haven’t touched that much for a married couple. I don’t know what I feel about the idea of sleeping in the same bed together. Eli comes to me.
“We’ll take everything as slow as we need to.”
I feel raw and turn away, not wanting more emotional tension. We have plenty already.
There’s a bookshelf with some books on it and a cedar bedroom set. I check out the adjoining master bath and gasp. It has a garden tub with candles sitting around the edges.
I hear him slide open the giant curtains in the room. The fire is starting to warm things up, but the window is misted.
“I want to show you something else. Th
is is the part best,” Ellison says proudly, his hand lightly at the base of my back, as he guides me through the sliding glass door and out onto the deck.
Chills raced up my back, and not just from the cold blast of air hitting us. Sixty yards out, an icy blue river flows by, back-dropped by thick forest.
I turn into him, gasping.
“When I crashed… was there a river?”
“No, just a sharp, wet corner.” He stands frozen for a full minute while my mind races. Why am I so afraid of the river?
His arms slide around me. I feel his warmth and realize I had stepped into his arms yet again when I planned to put some distance between us. I don’t like the fact that he is my entire world right now.
“Let’s go back inside,” I mumble against him.
He lets me walk inside first and slides the door shut. I glance back. Eli looks completely deflated and I feel a twinge of guilt.
Actually, a full blown case hits me. He’s helping me, pausing his life to take care of me.
“I’m sorry.” The words come out without my permission. I am sorry, but I’m also defensive and not wanting to let him have any more power than he already does.
We stand awkwardly for a minute before he goes into the closet.
“I’m ready for a clean shirt. I was out at the hospital.” He speaks as he comes out, pulling his shirt over his head. This is the most skin I’ve seen. I notice two things at once: he’s wearing dog tags and he is totally ripped. Normally you’d have to pay to see a stomach like that with a perfect six pack. I gawk as he pulls on the other shirt.
“Think I want to get this house warmed up before grabbing a shower. And I need to check on the food supply. I haven’t been shopping and stocking properly, just grabbing fast food or snacks at the hospital.”
He goes down the hall to the kitchen. I follow, eyeing him, realizing with a flush that the rest of his body must be that defined under those jeans.