by Wild, Cassie
I turned my head, painfully slow, to the other side. Monitors attached to thin metal poles wrapped in tubes trailed back to my bed. I squinted to read the teeny words on the machine. I saw my blood pressure, my heart rate, and some other acronyms I wasn’t entirely sure about. Was this a hospital? Why was I here?
I skimmed my body and was shocked to find a bandaged IV in my arm, a monitor pulsing on my left index finger, and a blood pressure cuff on my upper right arm. I hesitantly lifted the crumpled, white hospital blanket to find cuffs around my calves that periodically tightened and loosened.
What the hell? Did I have surgery or something? Was I still woozy from the anesthesia? I frowned, fighting to recall how I got to the hospital. I couldn’t remember much of anything. I thought hard about what had brought me here…and drew a blank.
Nothing.
It took less than a minute for stark panic to set in.
“Help!” I tried to cry out, only my voice was hoarse and weak. “Help me, please!”
No one answered.
Was I alone? What had happened to me? A giant gray remote control sat beside me on the bed. The minuscule cartoon picture of a nurse next to a red button was a shining beacon of promise. I scrambled for the remote and jammed my finger on the button repeatedly, desperate for answers.
The door to the room swung open almost instantly, and a nurse flew in. “Doctor!” she shouted over her shoulder. “She’s awake!”
“Who are you?” My voice broke. “What’s going on?”
A gentle-looking man with dimpled cheeks and a wide smile strode into the room, “Miss Keats,” he grinned. “Welcome back.”
Welcome back? From where? The look on my face must have given away my confusion. A bright light was shone in my eyes while I was bombarded with a million and one questions.
How did I feel? Did I hurt anywhere? Did I know how I got here?
My reflexes were tested, my coordination checked out. Every inch of me was poked and prodded until, finally satisfied with the results of my physical examination, the doctor sat down on the edge of the bed.
“It’s wonderful to see those stunning eyes of yours, sweetheart, such a relief. I’m Dr. Edwards,” he ventured, “Now, I know this might be difficult, but do you remember your name?”
I opened my mouth…but nothing came out. The harder I tried to remember, the more frustrated I became. Nothing. What the hell was wrong with me? The question was something any child could answer, but I couldn’t. “You called me Keats when you walked in, right?” I asked.
“Well, her short-term memory seems to be working well enough,” the doctor observed, then nodded to a nurse who was taking notes. He turned back to me, “Yes, Miss Keats, I did. Do you remember your first name?”
“No,” I managed to say, eyes burning as the tears threatened to spill over. I gulped at the air, combating the urge to cry because I knew that if I started, I wouldn’t be able to stop. What happened to me? “No, I don’t remember.” Dr. Edwards seemed concerned, but unsurprised. “And you have no memory of the events that happened before you came here?” he asked.
Again I shook my head. I didn’t understand what was happening. Why didn’t he just tell me?
He took my hand delicately in his. “Miss Keats, your first name is Preslee. Preslee Keats. You’re nineteen years old. You were on your way home from a night class when your car was struck by another vehicle.”
A car accident? I didn’t remember owning a car, let alone driving one.
He let that sink in for a moment, then continued. “The police haven’t been able to find the person who hit you, though they are still looking. You had no purse or identification in the car, so at first, there was no way of knowing who you were. Luckily, you were wearing a necklace with the name Preslee on it. A girl named Ava McCall reported you missing. Do you remember Ava?”
I wracked my brain, but it was like there was nothing inside except blank, white space.
“She told the police that she’d been on the phone with you earlier that evening, but that you hung up prior to the crash. When she couldn’t reach you the following day or the next, she reported you missing. The police contacted the major hospitals in the area and, with the help of your necklace, located you here. Ava identified you as Preslee Keats. She said the two of you have been friends since childhood.”
My head was spinning. Ava? I was at a loss for words. How could I confirm or deny anything when I had no memory of my life before the last half an hour or so? Ava. Ava. Ava. I repeated the name, hoping it would inspire something, a flash, a memory, her hair color, anything that could give me insight into our friendship.
The only thing that surfaced was a dense blanket of fog where my memories should have been. Dr. Edwards’ cornflower blue eyes crinkled with worry and something that bordered on sympathy. “When the EMTs brought you in, we weren’t sure you’d make it. Half of the ribs on your left side, and your left femur were broken. You had a punctured lung, numerous abrasions and contusions. Those have since healed. Your head injury was the most troubling.”
The way he said it made me cringe, picturing my brain rattling back and forth in my skull. “How bad was it?”
Dr. Edwards ran a steady hand through his styled salt and pepper hair. “We placed you in a medically-induced coma to wait for the swelling to go down, but even after we lifted the medication, you remained comatose. We’ve been waiting a long time for you to wake up.”
A long time? I suddenly remembered what he’d said. That my other injuries had healed. Broken bones and a punctured lung. I took a shuddering breath, anticipating pain, but there wasn’t any.
“How – how long?” I could barely ask the question.
“Preslee, today is March sixth.”
March? No. I shook my head. That didn’t sound right.
“You’ve been in a coma for four months.”
Four months? No. That wasn’t possible.
Dr. Edwards frowned, then seemed to think better of himself and lightly placed a hand on my shoulder, lowering his voice, almost as if he was talking to a small child. “Preslee, I know you’re shocked and confused. We had no idea how the injury to your brain would manifest when you woke up. It’s clear now that you’ve suffered severe memory loss. Do you remember your last name?”
“Keats,” I whispered.
He nodded, lips pulling into a satisfied smile. “Short-term still seems to be all right.”
“What about the rest?” My stomach was churning.
The doctor’s expression sobered. “We don’t know. It could be temporary, a result of the injury and then the trauma of having been in a coma for an extended period of time.” He glanced toward the door. “The nurse is calling your friend. Hopefully, seeing a familiar face will jog something, but if not, you’ll at least have someone around who knows your past.”
“Please, not today,” I said. “I can’t handle anything else today.”
“I understand,” he said. “This is a lot to take in. We’ll call to let her know you’re awake, but that you can’t have visitors just yet. Will that be okay?”
I nodded. A headache blossomed, sending pulsing pain to my temple and behind my eyes.
“We’ll bring the occupational therapist in later today to meet with you and make sure you’re able to perform all the basics. We’ll try to get you up and walking around as soon as possible. Sound good?”
I nodded again. I was too overwhelmed to do anything but mindlessly agree.
“As for the memories, don’t try to force them. If they’re going to come back, they’ll come on their own.”
When he left the room, I sank back into the hard hospital mattress, my mind whirling.
I had amnesia.
I’d spent the last four months of my life in a coma, but they weren’t the only months I was missing. My entire life before waking up here was gone. Vanished, as if it’d never happened. My memory was completely blank.
Chapter 3
Preslee
I hardly got any sleep that night, maybe because I had spent the past four months sleeping, but I knew that the real reason was because I couldn’t stop thinking about everything the doctor had told me. Was it true? If there was no identification in the car, how did they know the girl claiming to be my best friend was truly who she said she was? Why had no one else come forward to identify me? Didn’t I have any other family, or friends?
Then again, what would anybody have to gain by lying? If I’d been someone special, wouldn’t I have had more people looking for me? More people noticing that I was gone? Only one girl had come forward, and unless there was some seriously weird explanation about who I was and why I was here, there really wasn’t any reason to disbelieve what I’d been told.
According to the doctor, there was no guarantee that my memory would ever resurface, so rediscovering myself would have to be a learning curve. What other choice did I have? I had no memories to fall back on, and a sorry excuse for a clue in the form of a friend I wouldn’t be able to pick out of a lineup. She might be able to tell me some things, but there would be other parts of myself I might never know. I just couldn’t give up hope.
I flipped through the TV stations, eager to find an escape from the questions plaguing my every thought, but each channel showed unfamiliar faces and networks with acronyms that were indecipherable from the next. Did I have a favorite show or movie? Would I recognize it if I saw it? Doubtful.
I wanted to throw my hands up in fury and frustration, to let the tears come and feel sorry for myself, but that was as useless as wracking my brain for memories that were clearly blocked, maybe forever. The entire night was spent restless and wanting, beating myself up for coming up blank on the questions I’d tortured myself with. Who was I? What state was I in? Hell, what did I even look like? That last one was almost enough to get me to drag myself from bed and search for a mirror, but my lethargic muscles had other ideas.
By morning, I was exhausted and irritable. I groaned out loud when yet another nurse came in, flitting about, joyfully humming, so happy I could’ve strangled her. She was just the first. A parade of nurses bustled in and out of my room all morning, grating on my nerves as they asked useless questions and wrote all their little notes. I’d finally closed my eyes when the annoying squeak of the door alerted me to yet another visitor. I cracked one eye open, crossing my fingers they’d hurry up whatever they had to do so I could try to get some sleep.
“Preslee, you have a visitor,” a sugar-sweet voice oozed with a bit of a southern accent. The honey blonde nurse smiled wide, as if I was her favorite person in the world instead of just another pain-in-the-ass patient.
I sat up, ready to tell the nurse that I didn’t want to talk to anyone. A massive man, nearly six and a half feet tall, with broad shoulders, and a lean build was already there. His neatly trimmed platinum blond hair and flawless tan masked his age, but judging from the lines on his face, he was probably pushing sixty. His green eyes crinkled deceptively as he flashed a pearly white smile my way, but there was no warmth in that gaze.
Whoever this man was, I didn’t trust him.
I crossed my arms over my chest and tried not to look intimidated.
“Miss Keats, my name is Quaid Fields, and I’m an attorney,” he boomed. He reached out to shake my hand, and I returned the gesture warily. “I heard about your tragic situation and thought I’d come speak with you. May I have a seat?”
As he took the chair next to my bed, his eyes scanned my body in a cold, calculating kind of way. I tried not to squirm under the scrutiny, but couldn’t do anything to stop the butterflies in my stomach. And they weren’t good butterflies.
“Miss Keats, you’ve had a pretty bad run of luck.” His smile still didn’t reach his eyes.
“So they tell me,” I replied, trying to remain neutral. “I guess I should just be grateful to be alive.”
“You don’t actually remember anything about what happened to you?” He leaned forward, as if my amnesia was the true reason for his presence.
I weighed my answer, unsure why he was here. Was he some sort of ambulance chaser? Or one of those cheesy infomercial attorneys who hunt for the slightest whiff of malpractice? I’d seen enough of those shady commercials last night to last a lifetime.
“Why do you ask?” I asked cautiously.
“That’s what we lawyers do. We ask questions to help those who’ve had a bit of bad luck. You don’t remember anything?” He repeated his question, softening his tone, no doubt attempting to convey sympathy that rang entirely false.
I took my time replying. “I was told that I suffered acute brain trauma and that it could take some time before everything comes back.” He nodded sagely, as if in total agreement. On instinct, I added, “But the doctors seem to think that I should get my full memory back eventually.”
I couldn’t put my finger on it, but I got the impression that this Mr. Fields wasn’t nearly as concerned for my welfare as he was trying to make me believe. I might not have had my memory, but it looked like my instincts were working just fine.
“Miss Keats,” he said with another of those fake smiles, “you’ve been through a terrible ordeal. I can only imagine the hospital bills you’ll incur as a result of this, not to mention the cost of a new car. I would imagine that you have a job or, at least, that you had one prior to your accident.”
I frowned. I’d thought of that, of course, and even though I couldn’t remember what exactly I did for a living, I was sure that four months of not being able to work meant that I’d been replaced, no matter how understanding my employer might’ve been of my situation.
Quaid reached into his leather briefcase, and I waited for the pitch about how I needed to secure his services to sue whoever had hit my car. For a modest fee, of course.
Instead, he pulled out a thick manila envelope. “I represent someone with an interest in seeing you able to move on with your life. This is how you can do just that.”
I hesitated as he held out the envelope. I had a good idea of what the envelope contained. When he simply looked at me and waited, I slowly reached out my hand and took it. He watched as I looked inside, confirming my suspicions. Benjamin Franklin peered stoically at me from the front of one of the wrapped stacks. I might not have my memories, but I was pretty sure I’d never seen so much money in my life.
“It’s one hundred thousand dollars, Miss Keats,” Mr. Fields said without waiting for me to ask. “And in addition to the money in this envelope, your hospital bill will be taken care of.”
A real, but still unpleasant smile curved around his mouth. I could tell by the easy curl of his lip, and the way his shoulders relaxed that he thought he had me, hook, line, and sinker.
I could hardly believe what I was hearing. A hundred grand. He knew how to hit the right buttons, I’d give him that. I dreaded seeing what sort of bills I’d racked up after four full months of tests and medication and who knew what else. With this money and all of that taken care of, I could focus solely on putting my life together, with or without my memories.
It was an easy way out.
And yet…none of this felt right. A complete stranger sent his lawyer in to offer me a wad of money for no good reason?
“What’s the catch?”
“Catch?” he raised an eyebrow, the picture of innocence.
From the way he shifted subtly in his seat and averted his eyes, I knew I’d asked the right question. My instincts warred with my urge to throw caution to the wind and accept the money, consequences be damned. At least then, I’d have a way to start getting my life back.
But, still...
“Yeah, the catch,” I said. “I might have lost my memory, but I wasn’t born yesterday. If you’re willing to come here, without invitation, and offer me this money…there’s no way there aren’t any conditions. So what are the strings?”
He smiled tightly. “Miss Keats, there are no strings. My client has his reasons for wanting to help you. Reasons, which I unfortunatel
y can’t disclose. You know, attorney-client privilege. I assure you there’s no catch. But if you’d prefer to hand it back over...”
There was a split second in which I thought twice – I mean, all that money – but I knew that I had to return it. I didn’t trust him. How could I? Nobody hands out thousands of dollars to strangers without expecting something in return.
I tossed him the envelope. Mr. Fields stood quickly and shoved it violently back in his briefcase. Anything remotely pleasant about him had vanished.
“When you come to your senses, Miss Keats, please contact me or my associate.” He handed me a thick, glossy card with his name embossed in heavy letters.
“Your associate?” My fingers traced the letters on the card.
“My son, Kris, is also an attorney.” He headed for the door. “You’re making a big mistake, Miss Fields. Huge.”
“Thanks for the advice,” I said dryly.
He left without so much as a goodbye.
I sat in bed for a long time, turning his card over and over in my hand. I had more questions than ever now, thanks to Mr. Fields and his unexpected visit. Exactly who had hit my car? Clearly, it was someone important and with a lot to lose. Was Mr. Fields or his client somehow involved? It would explain a lot about the visit. The lawyer clearly knew at least the basic details of my case since he’d mentioned I needed a new car, but that could’ve been because he or his client had a friend in the police department. Except, according to Dr. Edwards, the police were clueless. No one had been brought in for questioning. It was like the other driver disappeared into thin air.
I felt restless, and unplugged my IV pump from the wall. Using the stand as an anchor, I slowly worked my way out of bed. My legs were still extremely weak, but Dr. Edwards had told me to get out of bed when I could. I was allowed to visit my en-suite bathroom on my own, but needed assistance if I decided to take a walk through the hall.
I didn’t feel like company at the moment, so I settled for taking a seat in one of the chairs by the window. If my situation hadn’t been so dire, I might have actually liked this room. It was nice, as far as hospital rooms went.
