Wagering Home

by C. M. Boers

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN-10: 1-7333163-0-2

  ISBN-13: 978-1-7333163-0-9

  Copyright © 2019 C. M. Boers

  Like many things in life, this book took me on a different path than I ever thought it would. But that is the way life goes and because of that, I’d like to dedicate this book to my Mom. She’s always been the one who stood with me and continues to do so whenever I need her to no matter what life throws at us. Thanks Mom.

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  MORE

  Beep. Beep. Beep.

  “Has there been any change?” A woman’s voice broke through the darkness.

  “No, she . . .” The muffled reply faded away.

  It’s quiet. Nothing tugged at me like the place of constant beeping.

  Every now and then, the beeping place pulled me back. The noise there hurt my head, but even here the dull ache never completely left.

  ***

  Beep. Beep. Beep.

  Not here again. Please.

  “We’re doing everything we can, ma’am. She’s breathing on her own, and brain activity is good. We have to give her time to heal.”

  A woman sobbed.

  Ow. Please stop. That hurts.

  “Doctor, how long do you think it’ll be?” a man asked.

  “There’s really no way to tell. She’ll wake when she’s ready.”

  The voices drifted away again in a fog. Silence once again filled my head.

  Thank you.

  ***

  Beep. Beep.

  Aside from the beeping, the room was still. The ache in my head seemed to be diminishing. Voices from farther away floated toward me. And ringing. A phone, maybe?

  I groaned.

  “Melanie?” a woman’s voice said from beside me. “Melanie? Can you hear me?”

  Who’s Melanie?

  “I’ll go get the nurse,” a man said with urgency, his voice fading, along with his footsteps.

  I couldn’t move anything. At first. I kept trying, thinking only of my hand. Then slowly, my finger twitched.

  I moaned. Behind my eyelids, it wasn’t dark anymore. My left foot slid against the sheet, the other remained stuck in place.

  “Did I hear that right? She’s waking up?” a different woman, older maybe, said.

  “She moved and made some noises.” The first woman’s voice contained an edge of hope.

  “Melanie, my name is Wendy. I’m a nurse here at the hospital. Can you hear me?” the older woman said.

  Melanie? Is she talking to me? Is that my name?

  I couldn’t will myself to speak. The words wouldn’t come.

  Beep. Beep. Beep.

  “Melanie, I’m going to hold your left hand. Can you squeeze it for me?”

  Something closed around my hand, and I moved my finger under its weight.

  “’Atta girl.” The older woman chuckled.

  A strangled sob came from the other side of me.

  “Melanie, can you open your eyes for me now?”

  Eyes? I whimpered. That lets the light in, doesn’t it?

  I pulled my hand, but something tugged against my elbow. I reached with my other hand to unharness my arm, only to be stopped.

  “Don’t mess with those IVs, sweetheart,” Wendy said.

  My eyes fluttered open. Though they didn’t clear right away, whiteness faded, giving way to shapes. Then, all at once, faces came into focus. Three of them stared at me. Waiting. Hopeful.

  “Well, hello there, Melanie. It’s nice to see your beautiful blue eyes. Can you say something?” The nurse, Wendy, crossed her arms, watching me.

  “W-” I croaked.

  “Here, try some water.”

  Tears poured down the other woman’s face, the one who didn’t wear scrubs.

  Why is she crying? Why am I here?

  “Who is . . .” I thought hard about what they kept calling me. “Melanie?”

  The sobbing woman opened her mouth to speak but froze, looking at the others in the room. I focused on the nurse.

  The nurse just eyed me, expectant.

  Why won’t anyone answer me?

  “What’s your name?” the nurse finally asked.

  My name? I hadn’t even thought about it. It didn’t come to me. And when I didn’t answer, the nurse’s face changed to concern.

  “What’s your name, sugar?” she asked again.

  “I-I don’t know.”

  What did that mean? Was my name really Melanie? Who forgot their own name?

  “Something’s wrong . . .” I bit my lip.

  “It’s okay,” the nurse said.

  It didn’t feel okay.

  “Do you remember anything?” the sobbing woman asked.

  I rubbed my hand on the rough blanket. Something nagged at the back of my thoughts. It told me I should know who she was, yet nothing about her seemed familiar. I felt no closer to her than I did the window filled with cards or vases of flowers that filled the table below them. But she sat near me, crying at my bedside. That meant something. One didn’t cry at a stranger’s hospital bed.

  “I’m sorry,” I whispered.

  The woman buried her face in the man’s chest. His face creased with worry as though he held back all the emotion the woman couldn’t.

  “Maybe it would be a good time to take a walk.” Wendy rubbed her shoulder.

  The man nodded and ushered the woman from the room.

  “Do you remember anything about them?” She pulled a tablet against her body.

  I searched my thoughts for anything, but nothing came. A knot settled in the pit of my stomach. I looked down at my feet protruding from the blanket, one appearing bigger than the other.

  “I see. Don’t worry. Give yourself time. You’ll remember.” She bent down and whispered, “They’re your parents.”

  ***

  “Well, look at you.” A girl who looked no older than eighteen wheeled herself into the room. “You’re finally awake.”

  I rubbed the sudden pain shooting in my temple. “Uh, do I know you?”

  An exaggerated look of shock crossed her face, and she grasped her chest. “I’m hurt you don’t remember me—your very best friend.”

  “I’m sorry . . . I—”

  She laughed. “I’m just kidding.” Then her tanned face scrunched. “We’ve never officially met. I’m Grace.” She pointed at her legs. “Spine injury. I fell off my horse like a dummy.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Is that all you ever are? Sorry?” She made to put her hand on her hip, but the wheelchair got in the way. “Do you have a name?”

  I didn’t answer.

  “Hello?”

  “I can’t remember, but they’re calling me Melanie.” I picked at the blanket hem.

  She wheeled her way to the end of the bed and grabbed the tablet the nurse had left behind.

  “Yep. That’s what it says. Melanie.”

  I shrugged.

  “You really don’t remember anything?”

  I shook my head. I didn’t know how I should feel about her getting to see that when I hadn’t.

  “No wonder you were so apologetic for not knowing me.” She chuckled and continued thumbing through my chart. “Broken leg. Collapsed lung. Broken ribs. Dislocated c
ollarbone. Concussion. Multiple lacerations.” She blew out a breath. “You’re a mess.”

  She took stock of my injuries like she was reading a grocery list, and I could distinctly feel each one. “I feel like a mess.”

  “Well, you were out long enough.”

  “I almost wish I still was. It’s like I’ve woken up to a nightmare.”

  “Eh, it could be worse.”

  I lifted my head to look at her. She must be insane. “How?”

  “Psh.” She waved me off. “So, those your folks?”

  I stared at her.

  “The ones Wendy shooed out of here,” she added.

  “Oh.” I bit my cheek. “I guess.”

  “Right . . . you don’t remember. My folks don’t come in much anymore. Can’t take any more time off work, ya know?”

  I remained quiet as the ache in my head, and everywhere else, intensified.

  Nurse Wendy strolled back into the room, took one look at Grace, and grinned.

  “Couldn’t wait a moment longer, could you?”

  Grace smirked. “Of course not. She’s the only one here even close to my age.”

  “Shouldn’t you be at physical therapy?” She rested her arms across her chest.

  Grace didn’t answer but looked at me sheepishly.

  “Go on, get out of here. Give Melanie time to rest.”

  “Oh, fine. I’ll be back though.” She winked at me and wheeled herself out.

  Wendy handed me a small cup. “Those should help with the pain.”

  They felt like glass going down my throat, and I grabbed the foam cup from the tray beside me, gulping water to soothe the ache.

  “Now, just sit back and relax. Lunch will be here in a few minutes.”

  My stomach grumbled just thinking about it. “Can you tell me how long it’s been?”

  Wendy looked at the clipboard in her hands. She rubbed her forehead as if debating whether to answer.

  “It’s not important,” she said.

  “It is to me,” I whispered, though not on purpose.

  “Two days.”

  I’d missed two days in what felt like no time at all. I nodded, feeling as though I owed her that much for her honesty.

  Nurse Wendy left the room with muted steps, and I sank into sleep again until the sound of sniffles interrupted the darkness.

  Beep. Beep. Beep.

  My eyes fluttered open. Someone had dimmed the lights while I slept. I rolled my head toward the sniffles and saw the woman from earlier sitting alone, blotting her eyes with a tissue. I watched her, noticing the precise movement of her hand as it brushed the tissue along her face. Her shoulder-length blonde hair hung loosely on the sides of her face, partially shielding her eyes from my gaze. Curiosity filled me with questions about her.

  She looked up, putting a halt to my thoughts. Her tear-filled eyes met mine, and I didn’t know what to say to her. I’d caused her pain.

  “Hi, baby.”

  “H—” I couldn’t push words from my tight throat. I swallowed against the dryness, but it was useless. I had no words to say to her anyway. I cleared my throat and offered her an apologetic smile.

  She sat up straight, grabbed the cup from my table, and held the straw to my lips. It seemed a bit too close for my comfort, but her eyes lit up at the opportunity to help, so I drank.

  I leaned back against the bed, allowing her to put the water back on the table. “Hi.”

  She smiled.

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  “For what, baby?”

  What, exactly, was I sorry for? That I didn’t remember her? That I was lying in a hospital bed in the first place? That I’d made a choice, whatever that may have been, that brought us both to this point?

  “For all of this, I guess.”

  “You didn’t cause this.” Her hands remained folded in her lap.

  I didn’t know what else to say, so I rolled onto my back and looked at the ceiling.

  “Dad went home,” she offered. “He should be back soon.”

  I nodded.

  “He’s going to bring some pictures from home, and a few things from your room.” She paused, as if hoping I’d say something. “We thought, maybe, it might make you feel more at home.”

  “Thanks.”

  Awkward silence followed. She continued to watch out the window. For a while, I lay there, somewhere between consciousness yet fully aware of the weight of everything I faced.

  My mother cleared her throat beside me. “I know you don’t remember me, but we know you. I want you to know we’ll be here with you every step of the way, as much as we can be. I don’t want you to think about anything other than getting better. Okay?”

  I turned back to face her. “Okay.”

  “Good. No more saying you’re sorry or feeling bad . . . for anything.”

  I smiled but instantly regretted it when pain sliced through my cheek. My fingers brushed the tender skin.

  “Is there a mirror I can use?” I asked.

  “Oh, umm, let me check the bathroom.” She disappeared for a moment and returned with a small hand-held mirror.

  I took a deep breath before I held it up, nervous about what I might find. A fading black eye, lined with a small cut on my cheekbone on the right side, and a yellowing bruise on my forehead on the left. Beneath it all, I was beautiful. My bright blue eyes shone through it all, standing out the most. I studied myself for probably longer than normal.

  “There he is,” Mom said.

  The same man from before, Dad, walked in carrying a box. I put the mirror down and watched him enter. He set the box on the counter by the sink and made his way over to me.

  “How’s my little girl doing?” he asked, looking right into my eyes. His hand found mine, and he gave it a small squeeze.

  “I don’t know yet.”

  He smiled. “We’ll figure it out.”

  Mom started to unload the box, setting picture frames nearest to me. Pictures of me with my parents, as well as pictures with other people I didn’t recognize.

  I squinted, trying to see them more clearly. Dad grabbed the one I’d been trying the hardest to see. It was me, and after he handed it to me, I could see it clearly—a boy stood next to me.

  Dad watched me inspect it. He waited. But when I still said nothing, he sat on the edge of the bed. “Does he look familiar?”

  “Ted! We aren’t supposed to ask.”

  I glanced up at her. “What? What aren’t you supposed to ask?”

  Mom nervously fidgeted with her hands. She didn’t want to answer.

  “The doctor said if we push you too much or ask you too many questions, it could prevent you from remembering . . .”

  “I don’t think he meant what I asked,” Dad said.

  “It’s fine.” I looked at the photo again. “No, he doesn’t. Who is it?”

  “That’s Jeremy,” Dad said.

  I glanced at him again, with his arm around me, my face pressed against his shoulder. My hand rested on the boy’s chest. Jeremy’s chest.

  “Is he my . . . boyfriend?” I asked.

  Mom nodded. “Almost a year now, I think.”

  If we were together for so long, why isn’t he here? Unless . . .

  “He was in the car, wasn’t he?” I asked, yet I already knew the answer.

  Mom’s lips went tight before she nodded.

  I peered into her eyes, searching for something that could tell me he was okay. Without any knowledge of him, I still worried harm had come to him. Somewhere deep inside of me, I must care for him, even though I had no recollection of him.

  “He’s okay,” Mom said. “They released him yesterday.”

  I handed the frame back to Dad.

  “What happened?” I asked. “The crash, I mean.”

  “A car ran a red light. They hit the passenger side . . . where you were.”

  “That’s why I’m so messed up.”

  Dad nodded. “The police think the other driver fell asleep at t
he wheel.”

  I breathed in deep. Three families affected by some tragic accident.

  “Are the others okay?” I asked.

  “The police wouldn’t say.”

  After Mom finished unpacking the box, she handed me two books and a single envelope.

  I slid my finger under the flap and pulled out the card. My eyes watered and stung as tears pressed their way out.

  It was a get well soon card signed by so many people. So many. Yet I didn’t recognize a single name.

  “Oh honey, what’s wrong?” Mom asked.

  “I don’t know who any of these people are.” I sobbed.

  “This was too much. I’m sorry. Here, I’ll put it on the table.”

  I handed it over with the books. I didn’t know what their pages held, but I couldn’t bear to look at them. Not now.

  I wiped away the tears and turned away from all the pictures staring back at me from the table by the window. However well-meaning, having all of it there made me feel so much worse.

  My parents whispered to each other in the corner. Didn’t they already know how much of an outsider I felt? Their whispers twisted in my gut.

  “Honey, we’re going to go to give you some time to rest,” Dad said.

  “We don’t have to if you want us to stay . . .” Mom said, letting it hang there, waiting for me to tell her to stay.

  “No. It’s okay.”

  She kissed me on the forehead and walked to the door. Dad squeezed my hand on his way out, and they were gone. I didn’t expect to feel so much relief as I watched them walk away.

  Sunlight filtered through the crack in the curtains. Just enough to cast a thin beam on the floor.

  I blinked a few times, pushing the sleep from my eyes. Sleeping was rough. Every time I moved, it hurt or monitors pulled at me. The nurse checked on me throughout the night, waking me each time I’d managed to drift off.

  A breakfast tray sat on the rolling table pushed up against the bed, just within reach. I lifted the lid, almost afraid of what I might find—hospital food wasn’t exactly crave-able. Oatmeal and fruit. Could be worse.

  I’d just taken the first bite when a soft knock sounded on the door. I swallowed the thick lump of oatmeal and turned to the door, grateful for a distraction from the not-so-great breakfast.