Dead
Two months later
Amber
Short blond hair, blue eyes, and dirty clothes, that’s all I knew about myself when I woke up homeless on the street. And I only knew that much because when I ventured out of my box in the alley and onto the street, I caught my reflection from the glare in an antique shop’s window. What I remembered from my life... it was all gone.
Not even a name.
I grimaced, lifting my hand to my temple to prod at a large bump. My head hurt like a bitch. Drawing my hand away, I found my fingertips covered in a light residue of blood. Someone hit me. Hard. My brows scrunched in confusion and pain followed the movement. I moaned, putting a palm to my forehead.
Why would I assume someone hit me?
I winced when I stepped farther out of the alley, and a sunbeam caught my eyes. I moved back into the dull light of the alley to avoid the pain. I would kill for some pain relievers, right now. Wiping the blood away on my to my dust-covered black jeans, I looked around at my surroundings.
The broken sidewalk looked to be in a historic part of town. The antique shop next to me seemed to be in a downtown district of who-knows-where.
Weak and with my stomach cramping, I placed my hand on the red-brick of the shop and closed my eyes to ward off the blinding pain. I turned to rest my back against the wall and slid down, not worried about the grime I might sit in. Scooting my knees up to my chest, I curled my arms around them and rested my cheek against my forearms, hoping to ease the ache that sliced through me.
What was I going to do?
I couldn’t remember who I was or where I came from, but I had to start somewhere. I was hurt. Where do people go when they were hurt? The hospital. I shuddered. I didn’t like hospitals. Then, another thought occurred to me. What if I couldn’t go to a hospital? What if I was wanted by the law? Whatever prompted me to have that thought, it held merit. Why wasn't I in the hospital to begin with if I was hurt? Was I running? Was I hiding?
A broken laugh escaped me, and I immediately regretted it. My head throbbed like the dickens, and my stomach cramps felt like I was going through a bad monthly. Quieting myself, I reasoned that I was probably a dull housewife who ran into some unfortunate circumstances which landed me here. And that thought prompted a new one. Did I have a husband who was missing me? Kids? My body tensed at the idea. Easing into a straight position, I lifted my shirt to check for stretch marks or a scar and found none. I didn't have any children. I relaxed and curled back into a ball.
Laying my head on my knees, I listed my options. I needed help. That was obvious, but did I want to chance going to the hospital? The clear answer was yes because even if I was wanted for breaking the law or I was a housewife, the gash on my head needed to be tended to. I probably needed stitches and antibiotics. Who knew what kind of infection I contracted from lying in that filthy alley? Maybe at the hospital, they could figure out who I was.
“Ma’am? Ma’am, do you need help?”
I opened my eyes and gazed up at an older couple standing in the entry way to the side alley. The man kept a hand out to his wife or girlfriend to tell her to stay back as he approached me.
“Y-y-yes.” My voice sounded odd to my own ears. “I need a d-doctor. I-I’m bleeding on my head.”
I scooted back when he neared. He stopped about two feet away and crouched down to my level.
His kind, old eyes scanned my frame. “Aw honey, you need a hospital. Someone really did a number on you.”
My heart thudded with anxiety. “Will you help me?”
The man turned to the woman. “Jenny, call for an ambulance.”
When he turned back to me, he offered a reassuring smile. Despite his gray hair, there was a hardness to him. He’d seen worse than me.
Fight this. Don’t give up. I hissed at the sharp pain that followed the thought. Where did that come from?
“Hey, hey. You okay?” Concern filled his voice.
I peered back at where he still crouched, keeping his distance. He hadn’t tried to touch me, which gave me comfort.
He gave me a reassuring nod. “I won’t leave you. We’ll keep you safe until the ambulance gets here. What’s your name?”
I relaxed a bit. I didn't know what made me trust him, but in that moment, he was the only one who stopped to help. Not enough people did that nowadays. Unless they were going to kill you. But someone already tried that. So, I took a chance. If he got me to the hospital, then I'd say I was lucky he was the latter and not a killer.
My own thought process scared me.
“I-I think my name is Amber,” I stuttered.
“That’s good, Amber. We’ll get you some help. Just hold on.”
***
One short ride to the hospital and a million questions later, the hospital staff called the police. I suspected they would. I was a woman with a head wound and amnesia who thought her name might be Amber. It was protocol.
Again, my head hurt when my eyebrows furrowed. Wait, did I really know if it was protocol?
While I waited for the police to show up, the nurses helped me into a gown and put my ruined clothes into a large bag. Then one of them hooked me up to an IV and took some blood. Next, a man came to collect my insurance asked full my name. I didn’t know it, and I told him that. It put him into high gear.
Only then did a doctor come to check on me.
In a white coat with a stethoscope around her neck, the doctor greeted me with a warm smile. “Hi, Amber, I’m Dr. Hurst, and I hear you have a nasty bump and are experiencing some amnesia. Will you let me check you?”
Since I came in here for help, I wasn’t going to deny her. “Yes.”
She walked over and checked me out, examining my pupils’ dilation then focusing her attention on my head. Poking and prodding, she asked, “How’d you get this bump, Amber?”
“I don’t know.” I flinched as her fingers moved over my wound. “I don’t recall anything before today.”
Picking up a square of gauze, she drizzled some solution on it. “What’s the first thing you do remember?”
I tried not to wince as she cleaned the area. “Waking up in an alley with this baseball of a lump on my head.” Again, my voice sounded odd to my own ears. Rusty.
“Good.”
Confusion jolted through me. “What do you mean good? Someone hit me and left me for dead.”
She put a hand on my shoulder to keep me from moving. “You didn’t let me finish. It’s good you remembered what a baseball is. It means you have some memories. We just have to filter through them.” She patted my shoulder and went back to cleaning my wound. “Now, why do you think someone wants you dead?”
I bit my lip. “Because I was alone in an alleyway with a bump on my head? I don’t have my ID, not even jewelry or a wedding ring. I might have been mugged, but wouldn’t I have had more bruises?” About to shake my head, I remembered not to move.
Another nurse slipped in. She looked to me, then back to the doctor, and she held out a chart. “Dr. Hurst.”
The doctor set the blood-stained gauze on a nearby cart and took the folder. Reading through it, the doctor gave some directions to the nurse, then turned to me. “You’re pregnant. Have you experienced any cramping lately?”
I froze, shocked. “Y-yes. I thought I was on my monthly.”
She had me lay down, started to feel my stomach, then prepared to give me a checkup.
So I had somebody. Spent time with them. At least enough to get between the sheets with the man. I turned my head to the side, thinking of another possibility. My heart clenched. No, I couldn't go there. And with all this blood, it was probably unlikely that whatever little baby was inside of me would survive. A tear slipped down my cheek. What kind of life did I live that put me in this situation?
When Dr. Hurst finished, she confirmed my fears; I had miscarried. She fixed up the gash on my head, and they took me back into a surgery so they could finish what my body started.
As I went to sleep, I thought to myself, why me?
***
I woke up to a soft hand holding mine and glanced over to see an older woman's face, the one who stopped with her husband to save me. Her eyes were glassy and red-rimmed with spent tears.
She patted my hand and gave me a smile. “Well, there she is. I'm sorry. I hope it's all right, but the doctors said you might want someone with you when you woke up.”
I scooted up a little bit in the bed, and she reached over to the side, giving me a cup of water with a straw. She helped me sip it, and I relished the cool water that slid down my throat.
As she sat the cup on the side table, I leaned back against the bed. Turning back to me, she then held out a hand, and I took it, wanting comfort.
I gave her a small smile. “Thank you. I’m glad you stayed.”
The older woman patted my hand. “My husband is out there talking to the doctors. When you get out, you’re going to need a place to stay, or they’re going to send you to a halfway house.” When I went to interrupt, she held up a hand. “No, listen. I’m not sure where you were before, or what kind of life you were living, but this is a chance for you to stay off the street. Come and stay with us while you recover. We’ll help you the best we can to find out who you are, if that's what you want. Our kids are grown and moved away. It’s just us living in an empty house with an extra six bedrooms. One could be set up for you.”
I swallowed hard, humbled by their generosity. “You’d do that for me?”
The old woman’s face softened. “Honey, you can't be more than what, nineteen? Twenty? You’re still just a baby, a young girl alone in the world with no idea who you are or who your family is. We can help you get your life back or at least some sense of it.” She patted my hand and brushed back a piece of hair. “If you like, since you don’t have a last name, you can use ours for the time being.”
After two weeks in the hospital, no one had arrived to claim me, and I did what I thought best. I borrowed the Jameses last name and went home with them.
And it was the best thing I ever did.