“Brain trauma?”
I raise my hand toward my chest, wincing the whole way, until I can press my palm over my heart. I gasp. That hurts. I slowly lower my arm back to my side.
“It’s still beating, if you’re wondering.” That’s from the original voice. He must be the doctor. “You shorter girls need to try to sit as far from the steering wheel as possible. A deploying airbag is like getting punched in the face with a one-ton truck.”
I let my heavy lids fall shut again and try to remember, but there’s nothing in my head. It feels empty and full at the same time.
“Can you tell me what day it is?”
Day...I recite them one by one in my head. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday—but none of them register as being accurate. “How long...been...here?” I manage to ask. My throat feels raw, but I don’t know how an accident would cause that to happen.
“Here,” the female voice says, pushing a straw against my lips. “It’s water.”
The water feels like a blessing, and I gulp until the straw’s removed from my reach.
“That’s enough. We don’t want you getting sick.”
Sick off water? I lick my dry lips but can’t muster up any energy to argue. I slump back onto the pillows.
“You’ve been here for three days. Let’s play a game,” the doc suggests. “Can you tell me how old you are?”
That one’s easy. “Fourteen.”
“Hmmm.” He and the nurse exchange a look that I can’t figure out. Am I too young for the drugs they’re giving me?
“And your name?”
“Sure.” I open my mouth to answer, but my mind goes blank. I close my eyes and try again. Nothing. A big fat nothing. I glance at the doctor in panic. “I can’t...” I gulp and give my head a fierce shake. “It’s...”
“Don’t worry about it.” He grins easily, as if it’s no big deal that I can’t remember my own name. “Give her another dose of morphine and a Benzo cocktail and call me when she wakes up.”
“On it, Doctor.”
“But I—wait,” I say as his footsteps fade.
“Shh. It’ll be fine. Your body needs the rest,” the nurse says, placing a restraining hand on my shoulder.
“I need to know—I need to ask,” I correct myself.
“No one’s going anywhere. We’ll all be here when you wake up. I promise.”
Because it hurts too much to move, I let myself be reassured. She’s right, I decide. The doctor will be here, because this is a hospital and that’s where doctors work. Why I’m here, how I got hurt—that can all wait. The morphine and Benzo cocktail—whatever that is—sounds good. I’ll ask more questions the next time I’m awake.
I don’t sleep well, though. I hear noises and voices—high, low, anxious, angry. I frown and try to tell the worried ones that I’m going to be all right. I hear a name on repeat—Hartley, Hartley, Hartley.
“Is she going to be okay?” asks a deep male voice. It’s the one I’ve been hearing say that name—Hartley. Is it mine?
I lean toward the voice, like a flower seeking the sun.
“All signs point to that. Why don’t you get some sleep, son. If you don’t, you’re going to be in the same bed as her.”
“Well, I’m hopeful,” cracks the first voice.
The doc laughs. “That’s definitely the right attitude to have.”
“So I can stay, right?”
“Nope. I’m still kicking you out.”
Don’t go, I plead, but the voices don’t listen to me and all too soon I’m left with the dark, suffocating silence.
Chapter 3
Easton
The Maria Royal wing of Bayview General feels like a morgue. Every person in the plush waiting room is cloaked in their own fog of grief. The dark cloud is about to swallow me whole.
“I’m going to get some air,” I mutter to Reed.
His eyes narrow. “Don’t do anything stupid.”
“Like putting my kid in a wing named after a mom who killed herself?” I mock.
Beside my brother, Ella sighs in frustration. “Where would you have put Seb?”
“Anywhere but here.” I can’t believe these two don’t sense the bad vibes in this place. Nothing has ever gone right for us in this hospital. Our mom died here. Seb won’t wake up from his coma, and my girlfriend’s head nearly split open.
The two give me a dubious look and then turn to each other to engage in a silent conversation. They’ve been dating for over a year now, and their cycles have synced up or some shit. Of course, I don’t need to be sleeping with either of them to figure out that they’re talking about me. Ella’s telegraphing that she’s worried I’m going to lose it and Reed’s reassuring her that I’m not going to do anything to embarrass the family. When she’s not looking, he casts me a dark stare that repeats his earlier admonishment to keep my head screwed on.
I leave the grief room, the heavy automatic doors sliding shut behind me. I wander down one of the two wide, white marble halls of the hospital wing built with my dad’s blood money. It’s quiet here, unlike the emergency room on the first floor where kids are crying, adults are coughing, and bodies are in constant motion.
Here, rubber soles move silently across the tile as pristine uniformed staff dart in and out of rooms to check on their wealthy patients. There might be a new hospital wing lying in one of those beds, so they take extra special care here. There are nicer mattresses, expensive sheets, designer hospital gowns. There are no interns or residents allowed up here unless accompanied by a full-fledged doctor. Of course, you pay for the privilege of being in one of these VIP suites. Hart’s in one only because I threatened to raise holy hell if she was punted to the general admission population. Dad doesn’t like it. He thinks it’s tantamount to an admission of wrongdoing, but I threatened to go to the press and say it was all my fault. Dad told me he’d pay for a week. I’ll fight him if she needs to stay longer, but I’m going to deal with one crisis at a time.
I locate my brother, Sawyer, slumped in front of a trash can.
“Dude, you okay? You want something to eat? Drink?”
He raises a set of hollow eyes in my direction. “I threw my cup away.”
Does that mean he’s thirsty? This boy is the walking dead. If Seb doesn’t wake up soon, Sawyer will be the next Royal in a hospital bed, not me.
“What was it?” I ask, peering into the can. I spot some fast food wrappers, the brown paper cartons from the VIP deli cart, and a couple of energy drinks. “A Gatorade?” I guess. “I’ll get you a new one.”
“I’m not thirsty,” Sawyer mumbles.
“It’s not a problem. Tell me what you want.” If he even knows. He sounds delirious.
“Nothing.” He struggles to his feet.
I hustle back to his side and put my hand on his shoulder. “Hey, tell me what you want.”
Sawyer slaps my hand away. “Don’t touch me,” he spits out in a sudden burst of anger. “Seb wouldn’t be in that room if it weren’t for you.”
I want to protest, but he isn’t wrong. “Yeah, I got you,” I say with my throat tight.
Sawyer’s face grows pinched. He clenches his jaw to prevent his lips from trembling, but this is my baby brother. I know when he’s seconds away from breaking down, so I haul him in for a hug, holding him even as he struggles.
“I’m sorry.”
He grips my T-shirt shirt like it’s a lifeline. “Seb’s going to be okay, right?”
“Damn straight he is.” I thump my brother on the back. “He’s going to wake up and make fun of us for crying.”
Sawyer can’t reply. His emotions are filling his throat. He clings to me for a solid minute before pushing me away. “I’m going to sit with him for a while,” he says, his face turned to the wall.
Seb likes to rescue baby animals and overuses the heart-eyes emoji, whereas Sawyer’s the macho twin. The one who doesn’t talk as much. The one who doesn’t like showing emotion. But without his twin, Sawyer’s alone and sca
red.
I squeeze his shoulder and let him go. The twins need to be together. If anyone can pull Seb out of his coma, it’ll be Sawyer.
I make my way down to the end of the second hall where Hartley’s room is. One of the near-silent nursing staff greets me at the door. “I’m sorry,” she says. “No visitors.”
She points to the digital display to the right of the door that has a private sign flashing.
“I’m family, Susan.” I read her nametag. I haven’t run into Nurse Susan before.
“I didn’t realize that Ms. Wright had brothers.” The nurse gives me a look that says she knows who I am and what kind of bullshit I’m trying to sell.
It’s not in my nature to give up. I smile winningly. “Cousin. I just flew in.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Royal. No visitors.”
Busted. “Look, Hartley’s my girlfriend. I need to see her. What kind of asshole is she going to think I am if I’m not checking up on her? She’s going to be hurt and we don’t need to add any grief onto her plate, am I right?” I can see the nurse softening. “She’s going to want to see me.”
“Ms. Wright needs her rest.”
“I won’t stay long,” I promise. When she doesn’t give in immediately, I bring out the big guns. “My dad wants an update. Callum Royal? You can check the intake forms. His name is on there.”
“You’re not Callum Royal,” she points out.
“I’m his son and his proxy.” I should’ve asked Dad to put me on whatever form needed my name so I could come and go freely. This is the first time I’ve tried to get in without him, so I hadn’t realized how much influence his name held. I should’ve, though. This wing was built with his money.
Nurse Susan frowns again but moves aside. There are advantages to having your last name on the side of the building.
“Don’t wear her out,” the nurse says. With one last warning glare, she leaves.
I wait until she’s turned the corner before letting myself in. Yeah, I want her to rest, but she can sleep after I’ve seen her with my own two eyes and made sure she’s okay.
Quietly, I make my way around the sofa and chairs in the sitting area of the suite. Like Seb, she’s asleep. Unlike Seb, she’s had moments of consciousness. The doctor told my dad this morning before he left for work that she’d probably be fully awake today or tomorrow.
I drag one of the heavy side chairs over to the bed and pick up her hand, careful not to dislodge the finger monitor. Seeing her motionless on the bed with tubes and wires snaking their way from her slender arms up to IV bags and machines makes my stomach roil. I want to rewind the clock, spin the world backwards, until we’ve returned to her apartment where I’m feeding her burritos from the corner food truck after she’s worked a hard day at the restaurant.
“Hey, Sleeping Beauty.” I stroke her soft skin with my thumb. “If you wanted to get out of going to class so bad, you should’ve told me. We could’ve just skipped or forged a doctor’s note.”
She doesn’t stir. I peer up at the monitor above her head, not knowing quite what I’m looking for. The machine makes a steady beep. Her room is marginally less frightening than Seb’s. He’s got an oxygen mask, and the click of the machine as it winds up to breathe for him is scarier than the background music in a horror film.
I need Hart to wake up so she can hold my hand. I drag my free hand down my face and force myself to think of something positive.
“Before you showed up, I kinda wished I’d skipped my senior year, but now I’m glad I didn’t. We’re going to have fun. I’m thinking Saint-Tropez for Thanksgiving. It gets cold here and I’m tired of wearing coats and boots. And Christmas, we can go to Andermatt in the Alps. But if you ski, we could stay in Verbier. The high-altitude slopes are fucking awesome, but maybe you’d like St. Moritz better?” I vaguely remember some of the Astor girls not shutting up about the shopping there.
She doesn’t answer. Maybe she doesn’t like skiing at all. It occurs to me that, before the accident, we’d barely scratched the surface of getting to know each other. There’s so much I don’t know about Hartley.
“Or we could go to Rio. They have an awesome New Year’s party. Pash went there a couple years ago and said it was like a two-million-person rave.”
Actually. Maybe with her head injury, she won’t want to party. Fuck, East, you can be thick. “Or we stay here. We could fix up the apartment. Or maybe find a new place for you and your little sister, Dylan, if you can convince her to come stay with you. Do you like that?”
I don’t even get an eyelid twitch. Fear sweeps over me. I can’t take this, both Seb and Hartley unconscious. This isn’t fair. The hand that holds hers begins to shake. I feel like I’m on the edge of a cliff and the ground’s breaking away beneath my feet. The abyss is calling for me, promising me a dark peace after the free fall.
I drop my chin to my chest and bite the collar of my T-shirt as I try to get a hold of my emotions. I know exactly how desperate and lost Sawyer feels. Hartley showed up at a time when I was feeling my lowest. She made me laugh. She made me think that there was a future beyond drinking and partying and screwing. And now her light’s snuffed out.
She’s going to be okay. Nut up, boy. Sniveling into your T-shirt isn’t going to change shit.
I take a deep breath and bring her hand to my lips. “You’re going to be okay, babe.” I say it to comfort myself as much as anything. “You’re going to be okay, Hart.”
She has to be okay—for her sake and mine.
Chapter 4
Hartley
Heart. Heart. The word runs through my head. Something to do with my heart. No. Hart. Hartley! I pop open my eyes and croak. “Hartley. Hartley Wright’s my name.”
“Gold star for the pretty patient in blue,” a familiar voice says.
I roll my head to the side and see the doctor there. We smile at each other—me because he’s here like he said he’d be, and him because his patient woke up and said her name.
The cup of water and straw are shoved in front of me by Susan, per her nametag, a plump nurse who barely reaches the breast pocket of the doctor next to her.
“Thank you,” I say gratefully, and this time it’s not taken away, so I suck the paper cup dry. A whirring sound buzzes next to me as Susan raises the head of my bed into a seated position.
“Do you know where you are?” Doc asks, flicking a penlight at my eyes. His nametag says J. Joshi.
“Hospital.” This answer is a guess, but given the doctor, nurse, and ugly blue gown with pink flowers draped over my shoulders, I’m confident in my answer.
“Which one?”
“Bayview has more than one?” Nice. I even know where I am. I settle back comfortably. That blank space when I first woke up was entirely understandable. I’d been hurt bad enough to be hospitalized and was disoriented.
He knocks a fist against the wooden footrest. “Two out of three isn’t bad.”
“What happened?” Have I asked this question before? It seems familiar. But if I did, I didn’t get an answer. At least, not one that I can’t remember. When I close my eyes and try to recall how I got here, I see nothing but a black landscape. I hurt all over, so I feel like I must’ve been in an accident. Did I get hit by a truck? Fall out of a second-story window? Get bashed in the head while buying groceries?
“You were in a motor vehicle collision,” the doctor says. “Your physical injuries are healing nicely, but from your other lucid moments you appear to be suffering from trauma-induced retrograde episodic memory loss suffered when you fell in the hospital.”
“Wait, what?” Those were a lot of words he just fired out at me.
“You’re suffering from memory loss that—”
“Like amnesia?” I cut in. “That’s a real thing?”
“It’s a real thing,” Doc Joshi confirms with a small smile.
“What does that mean?”
“It basically means that the autobiographical memories that you formed, such as your firs
t day of kindergarten or your first kiss or a bad fight with your boyfriend—those aren’t likely to be retrieved.”
My jaw falls open. He’s kidding me. “I may never get my memory back? Is that possible?” I look around for the camera, for someone to jump out and yell, “Surprise!” Except no one does. The room remains empty but for Susan, the doctor and me.
“It is, but you’re young and so it shouldn’t be too traumatic.”
I swing my gaze back to Dr. Joshi. “Not too traumatic?” I can feel hysteria burbling in my throat. “I can’t remember a thing.”
“That’s how it feels now, but actually you remember many things. From what we’ve observed—when you were sleeping and just now as you and I talk—you’ve likely retained procedural memories. Motor skills that you’ve learned, along with developmental skills such as oratory abilities. Some of these skills you won’t know you have until you do them. For example, you might not realize you know how to ride a bicycle until you hop onto one. What’s important is that you’re going to be just fine after a few weeks of rest and recovery.”
“Just fine?” I repeat numbly. How can I be just fine if my memories are gone?
“Yes. Don’t focus on the negative.” He jots something down on the chart before handing it to Nurse Susan. “Now I’m going to give you the hardest bit of your recovery.”
“It’s a good thing I’m lying down if losing my entire memory isn’t the hardest part of my recovery.” I know I shouldn’t be sarcastic, but damn, this is hard to swallow.
Doc Joshi grins. “See, you haven’t lost your sense of humor.” The smile fades as he grows somber. “And it’s very possible you can regain your autobiographical memories. However, you need to keep an open mind when you interact with people. Their recollection of events is going to be different than yours. Does that make sense?”