CHAPTER SEVEN
SYDNEY
The first thing I notice upon waking is that I feel nothing. Nothing at all. Then slowly, I start to feel a pounding in my head. It's just background noise though. It's there and I can feel it, but it's as if something is blocking me from completely feeling the full force of the pain. From what I can tell, that's a good thing. Otherwise the pain would be unbearable.
I open my eyes and stare up at the ceiling. Perfectly white and clean. As I start to fully come around, I hear the sounds all around me – mechanical beeping, voices that are low, and muffled footsteps. It's all a fuzzy sound though, like I have cotton in my ears or everyone is trying very hard to be quiet. The beeping, however, makes my head hurt even worse and seems to be right in my ear.
“Stop it,” I mutter, my voice nearly scaring me from how loud it is, compared to the backdrop around me.
“What's that, dear?” a woman's voice asks from my right.
I grimace but turn my head toward the voice and see an older blonde woman standing in the doorway, wearing light blue scrubs. Her hair is short, pixie cut. She walks over to me, and I never take my eyes off of her. It's then that I realize what the beeping is – it's machines hooked up to me. Likely my heartbeat. The nurse takes a look at the screen and then smiles down at me.
“Well good morning, sunshine,” she says brightly. “Did you need someone?”
“That sound. It's giving me a headache,” I say.
“I'm here with your pain meds,” she says. “That should help ease the headache some.”
She inserts something into my IV and I watch, catching a glimpse of her name tag that says Tara.
“What happened?” I ask, my voice sounding thick and slow even to my own ears.
I work my mouth open and closed. It's parched and wonder how long I've been out.
“We're still trying to figure that out, dear,” she says. “The doctor will be here shortly. I'll let your husband know you're awake.”
“Husband?”
“Yes, dear. He's been so worried about you...” she says, letting her voice trail off as she looks at me.
Maybe she can see the confusion on my face, maybe not. She clears her throat and continues either way.
“Don't worry, the doctors say your memory loss is only temporary,” she says brightly. “You should have all of your memories back soon.”
Memory loss. That explains it. I close my eyes and try to remember something, anything at all. My name is Sydney Bellflower. At least I remember my name, that's good. Brownie points for me. Though, honestly, I only think I remember that because I heard somebody say it. But who?
Aside from my name though, everything else is sketchy. I can't recall anything – including where I am. When I try to think about everything, and what landed me in this bed specifically, it's all a dark spot in my brain. It's completely opaque. Like somebody reached into my brain and just plucked out all of my memories.
“Where am I?” I ask. “I mean, besides the hospital, that one's pretty obvious, even to me.”
“You're in Aspen, Colorado,” Tara says.
“Aspen? Why am I in Aspen?”
I can't recall anything before the accident, but I'm positive that I'm not from Colorado. I can't say why I'm sure, but I'm sure that I'm from California. Los Angeles, to be exact. I know that to be correct down in my bones. More brownie points for me. I can remember my name and where I'm from, but I can't even remember my husband's name or face. Or the fact that I'm even married in the first place.
The more and harder I try to remember, the more elusive the memories are. I let out a low growl and slam my hands onto the bed, frustrated that I can't remember anything. Tara gives me a sympathetic look, cocking her head to the side.
“I'm sure your husband and the doctors can fill you in better than I can,” she says. “I just assumed you lived here. Or at least in Redstone. That's where they brought you in from.”
Redstone. The town name sounds familiar, though I don't know why. I close my eyes and try to conjure it in my head, but I can't recall what it looks like. Tara hands me a cup of water. I take it gratefully and put it to my lips, relishing the cool liquid as it slides down my throat. I drink it all down and she gets me another.
“I'll call your husband now,” Tara says. “He'll be so happy to see you awake and talking.”
“How long have I been out?” I ask.
“Only a few days.”
“A few days?”
“The doctors had to put you into a medically-induced coma to help with healing,” she says. “You had a pretty bad head injury and a lot of swelling around the brain. But you should be able to go home soon. I think you'll recover quicker in more familiar surroundings.”
Home. The idea of going home should comfort me, but it doesn't. Mainly because I have no idea where home actually is. Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe I'm, not from Los Angeles, after all. Maybe I do live in Aspen. How in the hell would I know?
It's all so blurry, and I hope the nurse is right. I hope my husband, whoever he is, can shed some light on what the hell happened.
ooo000ooo
“Look who's here!” Tara chirps brightly a few minutes later.
I look toward the doorway and see a tall, handsome man standing there. He runs a hand over his short-cropped brown hair and stares at me with an intense gaze, his baby blue eyes boring into mine. The way he looks at me fills me with warmth, and there's definitely love in his eyes, but I have no idea who he is. He, like everything else in my world right now, is nothing but a blank spot.
He walks into the room and stands next to the bed, his eyes never leaving mine. We stare at one another for a long, awkward moment.
“Who are you?” I manage to choke out.
Tara looks at the man, then me, and whispers to him, “She's still experiencing some memory loss from the head injury, but doctors assure us that it'll be back soon,” she says. “They're very optimistic about her recovery.”
He nods, never taking his eyes off me. The weight of his stare makes me uncomfortable, as if I should know who he is, but I don't. I don't have the faintest idea. I look him over, letting my eyes roam from his scruffy facial hair to his tight jeans, and I can't help but think I'd remember a man like him. How could I forget him? Especially if he's my husband?
“Can you give us a minute, please?” the man asks.
The nurse nods, giving me one last sympathetic look before leaving the room. He waits until she closes the door behind her before turning back to me and offers a weak, uncertain smile.
“Sydney, it's me, Jack,” he says softly.
Jack pulls a chair to the side of my bed and sits down, taking my hand in his. My tiny hand is swallowed whole by his massive one, which is rough and calloused to the touch. It's as if he does a lot of work with his hands.
“I'm sorry, I don't remember you,” I say, looking away from his chiseled, handsome face. The look in his eyes is killing me. “They say you're my husband, but I don't remember anything – ”
“It's okay.” His eyes dart around the room, away from me. “It's complicated, but I'll explain everything once you're feeling better. Do you remember anything? Anything at all?”
“About what?”
“About when you got hurt.”
I shake my head. “Nothing. Last thing I remember was an apartment in Los Angeles,” I say, my voice little more than a whisper. “I thought I lived in LA, but they're saying I'm in Aspen. I don't know how long I've been here or how much I've forgotten.”
“Do you remember your parent's names?” he asks me.
I nod. “George and Carol Bellflower,” I say as the answer pops into my mind, crystal clear.
“Good. That's good,” he says, patting my hand. I find his touch strangely soothing. “Do you remember anything about who you are?”
I try to put together the pieces, most of which is fragmented. “I – I'm just really confused right now and can't think straight,” I say. “And since you say I'm married to you – ”
He stops me, silencing me by pressing a fingertip gently to my lips. “Let's change the subject. Let's focus on getting you well enough to get you out of here.”
There's a knock on the door, which is open, and there's another woman is standing in the doorway. She's younger than the nurse, with dark skin and very dark, but sweet, compassionate eyes. Her black hair is pulled back in a twist and she's definitely more likely to be a doctor than a nurse. I can't explain how I know this, but I do. Maybe it's just her bearing. The air about her. Something. I don't know.
“How are you feeling, Sydney?” she says with a friendly, overly white smile that's nearly blinding, but also pleasant.
“Confused.”
She gives me the same sympathetic look that the nurse gave me. “That's to be expected,” she says. “I'm Dr. Mitchell and I've been looking after you over the last few days. Since you're awake now, I thought you might have some questions for me.”
I do. So many questions swirl through my brain, but I'm afraid she won't be able to answer most of them. Most of the questions are about me. About who I am and who this man sitting next to me is – the man they say is my husband. Try as I might, I don't remember him. I don't remember getting married.
Instead, I ask, “When will I get my memory back?”
“Soon, we hope.”
“Hope?” Jack and I both ask at the same time.
“Unfortunately, we don't know for sure how much memory you'll get back. Or when,” Dr. Mitchell says, her smile falling a bit. “Most patients do gain most of their memory back within a few days or weeks of the injury. But, you need to prepare yourself for the possibility that there may be parts of your memory you'll never get back. It's impossible to say for sure. Brain injuries can be very tricky, and your injury was pretty severe. Any idea how that may have happened?”
Her gaze shifts over to Jack and I can see the question in her eyes. I follow the doctor's gaze and look at him as well. He seems to be the one person who can provide the answers we need.
“I don't remember anything,” I say, hoping that the desperation in my voice will encourage him to tell me what he knows.
“Your husband tells me that he was eating at the diner in Redstone, and you were with a friend,” the doctor says. “He says found you walking down the street, injured.”
I can clearly hear the skepticism in her voice. She sounds as if she didn't believe Jack's story in the least. Hell, I can't say that I blame her. Only he knows what really happened, however. His story, while convenient, doesn't sound entirely convincing. Not to Dr. Mitchell, and the more I hear it, not to me either. A sudden, dark thought fills my head. Did he have something to do with this?
I look into his eyes and see that he's holding something back. I quickly pull my hand away from Jack's, a chill slithering down my spine. He stares at me with open hurt in his eyes. It's as if he's trying to tell me something, trying to communicate with me, but in my current condition, I can't make out what it is.
“Others have verified that he was, indeed, in the diner at the time,” Dr. Mitchell says, confirming some aspects of his story. “Though a few of the witnesses also mention seeing you there too – with another man.”
She speaks slowly, as if hoping one of us will say something to fill in the blank spots. I struggle to recall something of that night, but shake my head, frustrated. I'm trying as hard as I can, but I still can't remember anything at all.
“Another man?” I ask. “Who? Who was I there with, Jack?”
Jack shrugs, but he refuses to make eye contact with either of us. My unease begins to grow.
“Anyway, I'm not the police, ” Dr. Mitchell says, “But whatever happened to you, Sydney, you're incredibly lucky to be alive. You're now in stable condition and should be able to go home soon. I hope that your husband can help fill in some of the blank spots in your memory.”
I can't help but hear the accusatory tone in her voice when she says the word ‘husband’. Clearly, she thinks he's holding something back as well. Something important. There's also that other word again. Home. I want to ask her where home is, but she likely doesn't have the answer any more than I do. Instead, I look to Jack.
“Where do we live?” I ask.
The pain in my head died down shortly after Tara gave me my medication, but it's having other side effects. My eyes are getting heavy and I feel like I haven't slept for several days, and darkness is starting to creep in at the edges of my vision. The good stuff is kicking in, I think to myself. Either that, or I've already had enough for the day.
I don't fight sleep. It'd be no use anyway. Besides, it's an escape from this strange reality I'm existing in. The hope is that maybe if I get some sleep, I'll wake up with a clearer head. Maybe my memory will come back after a good solid nap. A girl can hope, right? I close my eyes and let myself drift off into a restless sleep with Jack by my side.
Jack. My husband. A man I don't even remember.