by Jessi Kirby
“Better,” I say. It’s partly true.
She brightens. “The nurses said you made it through the night without any painkillers. That’s a good sign. Your ribs must not be hurting you too much then? That’s such great progress, sweetheart.” She glances at the sunflowers on the bedside table, then at the shelf opposite.
“Oh, wow, look at that!” she says. “Those are just beautiful!” She walks over and examines the giant bouquet from KBSY, pushing the flowers gently to each side. I know what she’s looking for. “No card? That’s strange. Who would send such a beautiful arrangement without including at least a quick note? Or maybe it got lost? I wonder if we could find out from the florist?”
She’s nervous. This is what my mom does when she’s nervous. She just keeps talking. And maybe now she thinks if she just keeps talking about the flowers, I won’t ask any more questions about the news van outside, or the video, or anything else.
I think of the note card I’d tucked safely under my pillow last night and I almost mention it. But something holds me back. “I don’t know,” I say instead.
She glances at the flowers again, and then looks back at me. “Anyway. I have a surprise for you, if you’re feeling up to it.”
I’m not sure I’m feeling up to any surprises right now, but she has this little hopeful smile, and I don’t want to hurt her feelings. “What is it?”
“It’s not a what, it’s a who. Dr. Tate said now that you’re stable, it would be all right. That it’d probably even be good for you to have some visitors.”
“Is Sam here?” The thought of seeing my brother actually lifts my spirits a little. He’d crack some jokes. Make me feel normal. Tell me what happened if I could get him alone.
My mom tilts her head and smiles like she’s surprised. “No, he’ll be home tomorrow. He’s on his way back from the trailhead in the Eastern Sierras, remember?” Her phone chimes, and she looks down at the screen, then taps a quick answer.
“Oh, perfect,” she says. “That’s Paige. She just got here, if you want to see her.” She stops. Frowns. “I’m sorry. I should’ve asked you first. Is that okay?”
“Of course!” I sit up and look toward the hallway, mostly ignoring the pain that comes with the movement. “Yes! Yes, I want to see her. Is Jules here too?”
My mom frowns. “No, you two haven’t—” She bites her lip. “It’s just Paige for now. Poor thing’s been so worried about you, but I didn’t want her to see you like—until you woke up. I’ll go get her right now.”
She disappears out the doorway, and I sit there, trying to figure out what she started to say about Jules, and why she wouldn’t be here with Paige. A few moments later, I hear footsteps, and a voice I recognize, coming down the hallway. Paige’s voice. “I hope it’s okay, Mrs. Jordan. I just knew she’d want to see him too.”
“I don’t have to go in right now, if it’s too much,” a male voice says.
The footsteps stop outside the doorway.
“It’s all right, honey,” my mom answers. “You just surprised me, that’s all. I’m sure she’ll be happy to see you both.” She lowers her voice now, enough that I can hear her whisper-talking but can’t make out the words. I’m straining to hear, and trying to figure out who Paige brought with her, and all of a sudden I feel anxious. This keeps happening. Everyone keeps doing and saying things faster than I can follow, and I feel like I’m two steps behind, and it almost makes me want to cry. But I can’t, because right then, they all come in.
For a moment, it’s silent.
And then I can hear the intake of their breath—of Paige and the boy who hangs back in the doorway.
“It’s okay,” I hear my mom say. “She’s okay. Come on in.”
I can’t do anything but stare, because the girl who steps forward looks like Paige but doesn’t at the same time.
She’s taller and curvier, with shiny blond hair that’s straight instead of curly, bright white teeth with no braces, and brows arched over eyes that wear more makeup than Paige is allowed to.
As soon as we make eye contact, tears spill down her cheeks, and she’s immediately at my bedside, both of her hands wrapped around mine. “Oh my God, Liv,” she says, “you’re really okay.”
I don’t know what to say. I just look at her, trying to get my bearings with this version of Paige. Her eyes run over me like she’s doing the same, and I flash on the image of my reflection in the mirror last night. If it scares her as much as it did me, she doesn’t let it show.
She squeezes my hands. “You’re a miracle,” she says, looking right into my eyes. Her mascara is running, and she sniffs, then dabs at her nose. “I’m sorry. I know I shouldn’t cry. But I’ve been a total mess—so worried. I don’t know what I would’ve done if . . . if . . .” She shakes her head and dabs at her nose again. Sits up straighter. “Anyway. I just love you so much, and I’m so thankful you’re okay, and . . .”
She trails off, and it’s quiet, and I know I should say something. She needs me to say something.
“I love you too,” I say softly.
This sets off a whole new wave of tears in Paige, and she leans in and gives me a gentle hug. Over her shoulder, I can see my mom fighting off her own tears, and the boy standing in the doorway like he’s afraid to come in, and really I don’t blame him with all this going on.
Our eyes meet and he looks down at the floor.
Paige releases me from the hug and I look at her. “Where’s Jules?”
She gives me a strange look. “I don’t know. We don’t . . . She’s not . . .”
She looks to my mom for help, but a nurse I don’t recognize steps into the room. “Mrs. Jordan?”
“Yes?”
“Dr. Tate would like a word with you now, if that’s okay.”
“Oh. I . . .” My mom looks at me. “Are you okay if I step out for a minute, sweetheart?”
Paige smiles at me. “We’ll keep her company.”
“Okay?” my mom asks again.
I nod.
“Hopefully I won’t be long,” she says. And she turns to follow the nurse back out into the hallway. When she gets to the boy, she puts a hand on his shoulder. “It’s okay,” she says, and then she lets her hand fall as she steps past him into the hallway.
This seems to be what he was waiting for, and he takes a step fully into the room. He’s tall and athletic-looking in sweats and a T-shirt. Handsome. One of his arms is in a sling; his opposite hand, bandaged. There are bruises beneath his eyes—bruises like I saw in the mirror last night.
I can feel Paige watching me as I try desperately to add up all the details.
“I’m sorry,” she says. She looks from me, over her shoulder, at the boy. “I know you two probably have a lot to talk about, I can go—”
“No,” I say, more forcefully than I mean to. “Stay. Please.” I hold on to her hand. Tight.
She glances at the boy, then nods at me. “Okay. I’ll stay.”
It’s quiet.
“Liv,” he says finally, and I startle at the sound of my nickname and the tremor in his voice when he says it. Like he knows me. Like I should know him.
His bandaged hand shakes the slightest bit as he takes a few steps toward the bed.
“I’m so sorry,” he says.
I tighten my grip on Paige’s hand, and try to ignore the rawness of his voice and the worry it triggers in my chest: that something is very, very wrong. I should know who he is. I should know what he’s sorry about.
“God, I’m sorry. I don’t even know what to—I didn’t know what hit us. We went over so fast, and then we hit the water, and it came pouring through the windows, and the airbags were everywhere—I couldn’t see anything.”
His words sink in—we . . . us . . .
The accident.
“You were in the accident too?”
I look at him, and all of a sudden it feels hard to breathe.
“I couldn’t find you at first,” he says. “I got out, and I dove back
down, over and over.” He shakes his head. “And then I did find you, but I . . .” He looks at me now. “You were stuck and I couldn’t get you out.” He runs his hands over his face and through his hair, and looks at me with glassy eyes. “I’m so sorry, Liv.”
My throat tightens, and I try to take a breath, but it hurts. I look at Paige, beg her silently to tell me what’s going on.
She just squeezes my hand.
“Liv?” His eyes plead with me. “Say something. Please.”
“I don’t . . .”
Worry creases his forehead. “I know you don’t remember. I just . . . wanted you to know that I tried. I would’ve traded my life for yours if I could have.” He takes a step closer and reaches out a tentative hand. Rests it on the edge of the bed. “I love you, Liv.”
I press my lips together and try to keep from crying, but it’s too late and there’s no other way to say what I need to.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “But I don’t . . .”
I can hardly bring myself to say it, because of the look on his face, and because now I’m certain something is very, very wrong.
My voice is shaky and hollow when I finally form the words.
“I don’t know you.”
Confusion spreads over his face. “What do you mean?”
I glance at Paige, who seems just as worried and confused as he is. “Liv?” She looks from me to him and back again, alarm in her eyes. “Liv, what’s wrong? What’s going on? It’s Matt.”
I look back at the boy standing there by the bed, and I repeat the only thing I know to be true in this moment.
“I don’t know who you are.”
FIVE
DR. TATE STANDS next to my bed, and my parents hover at the end of it. My dad is in his uniform—he came straight from work when my mom called him. She’d come back to the room to find Paige still holding my hand, Matt pacing quietly, and me sitting there feeling like I’d failed them both terribly.
They’d gone silent when I’d finally said I didn’t know who he was, looked at each other in that worried way people have been doing around me, hoping I don’t notice, since I woke up. It was a relief for all of us when my mom had come in. I think even more so for them when, after we told her everything, she thanked them for coming, suggested that I needed some rest so they should probably go, hugged them both, and assured them that she’d call later with an update. As soon as they walked out the door, she called the nurse on duty, who called Dr. Tate.
That was hours ago.
Since then, Dr. Tate has taken me through a series of tests that started with questions like what was my full name, and when was my birthday. After I got those questions right, we’d moved on to me counting backward and repeating sequences of words, identifying the names of everyday objects in pictures, and answering questions like whether or not a stone floats on water.
It had all felt strange and ridiculous, but those were all tests I had passed. It was the questions that came after, the ones my parents had asked me, that I didn’t have the answers for. Questions about Matt, and school, and volleyball. Birthdays, and dances, and summers spent working at the marina. They’d gone backward in time with their questions, starting from this morning when I didn’t know who Matt was, until finally we got to the summer before freshman year, and I started to have some answers.
Which brings us here, now.
Dr. Tate flips through the last few pages on my chart, then closes it in her hands and focuses all her attention on us. “Based on the full CAP assessment, and the questions you’ve helped me ask her, I believe Liv is experiencing posttraumatic retrograde amnesia.” She looks at me now. “You’ve been through a major trauma—one in which you were without oxygen for an extended period of time.” She turns to my parents. “That could be the cause, or it could be the blow she suffered to the head when she was pulled onto the boat. In either case, based on the memories she is able to recall, we know she’s missing a period of recent years.” She looks back at me. “Between four and five, as far as we can tell. Right?”
I close my eyes, try to wrap my mind around what Dr. Tate is saying.
That I died for a few moments and came back missing years of my life. That there are years of the life I’ve lived that I do not remember. Years that still feel like they’re ahead of me. Days I was looking forward to. Big moments I’ve already had. They’re gone. Like they were never mine.
“What does this mean? Is it permanent?” my mom asks.
It’s quiet for a long moment, and I open my eyes and look at Dr. Tate, who’s looking at me.
“It’s hard to say. In many of these cases, some or all of a person’s memories return over time. In others, they don’t. At this point, it’s a waiting game.”
“So we just have to wait and see?” My mom’s voice is shaky now.
Dr. Tate nods sympathetically. “I know that’s not the answer you want, but as hard as that sounds, yes. We’ll continue to assess her and monitor any progress we see, but there’s very little we can do for this besides give it time.”
Now my dad chimes in. “There has to be something we can we do to help her—besides wait and see. That doesn’t—there’s got to be something more.”
Dr. Tate nods, like she understands. “You can take her home. Get her back to her routines, and the things she’s used to doing. Surround her with the familiar.”
“She can come home? When?” my mom asks, like she doesn’t believe it. Then her brows furrow. “Are you sure? That seems awfully fast, especially with her . . . with this.”
“She’s made it through the most critical part of her recovery, is stable, and healing. Our job is to get her back to her life now. I’d like to keep her here tonight, but tomorrow morning you can bring her home,” Dr. Tate says.
She looks at all of us and smiles, like that should be great news.
My mom takes a deep breath and nods like she’s telling herself that it’ll be okay. My dad comes to the head of my bed and puts his hand on my shoulder and squeezes. I sit there, terrified. I don’t know what my life even is. I don’t know what it looks like now. I want to go home to my own room, and bed, and things, but I don’t know if I’ll even recognize them as mine. I don’t know what will be there, and what will be missing.
So far, I’ve found out it’s a lot.
I know my family, and my little beach town. I have fond and not-so-fond memories of being a kid. I remember Sydney, our golden retriever, and how much I loved her, and how sad I was when we had to put her to sleep. I remember the bike I got for my tenth birthday, and the day I fell off it and broke my arm. I remember slumber parties and family vacations. My best friends and my first kiss. I remember who I was. But all those memories are just the edge pieces of the puzzle.
I’m missing the pieces that make up the picture in the middle. The pieces of who I am now.
Today I learned that I’m eighteen years old, but the last birthday I can remember celebrating is my fourteenth. I graduated high school a month ago, but I’ve never been. I’ve stopped hanging out with one of my best friends in the whole world and I have no idea why. And I have a boyfriend—Matt—who I’m head over heels in love with, but who I only just met today. He’s a victim of the accident in more ways than one. A stranger.
Or maybe I’m the stranger. That’s what it feels like, and it makes me afraid—that I won’t know how to go home. Or know what to do when I get there. That I won’t know how to be me.
“Well, that’s great news,” my dad says.
Dr. Tate nods. “We’ll continue to monitor her progress. I’ve already booked her first appointment with our neuropsychologist. She’ll need to continue her course of antibiotics to rule out any infections, and we’ll send you home with some pain medication, though judging by last night and today, I don’t think she’ll need it.” She looks at me now. “Of course, you’ll need to take it easy for a while. Listen to what your body’s telling you, pain-wise. It’s okay to walk around, but those ribs will be sore for some time,
so take it slow. For the next few weeks, you may be more tired than usual, so rest. Okay?”
I just nod, as I try to take in what she’s telling me. The only thing I can think is that I don’t know what my usual is. And that somehow, they think it’s okay for me to go home like this.
SIX
DISCHARGE DAY. AFTER I’ve demonstrated that I can swallow breakfast, which is a few spoonfuls of oatmeal, and my vitals have all been checked for the last time, my IVs are removed, my bracelets are cut off, and I’m given the change of clothes my mom has brought for me.
I still don’t believe they’re going to let me go home, even as she helps me dress. We move slowly, carefully, because even small movements send pain radiating through my rib cage. I watch in the mirror as she sweeps my hair up into a messy bun, since I can’t raise my arms over my head to do it myself.
“Your hair is so thick,” she says, struggling with the rubber band. It snaps, and my dirty hair falls back over my shoulders. I stare at the long tangles. Start to cry.
“Oh, honey,” she says, meeting my eyes in the mirror. “Don’t cry. It’s okay. I don’t know why I was trying to put it up. You always wear it down, anyway.”
“I do?” I ask her, trying to hold back more tears. I don’t even know this about myself anymore.
“Yeah.” She seems to consider the question for a moment. “Well, let’s see. You put it up for volleyball, of course. And when you’re doing your homework. And at night after you’ve washed your face.” She smiles at me now. “But when you go to school, or out with Matt, or anywhere else, you wear it long and loose, and it’s beautiful that way.”
I stare at my reflection, trying to picture it. Trying to see past the oily hair and bruises to the me she’s talking about, but I can’t see her there.
“Tell you what. Later tonight, if you’re feeling up to it, I’ll wash your hair for you, and you can see for yourself. How’s that?”
