Stranger in my Bed (full series)

by Kristen James

  “Wait!”

  He pulls me in the bathroom, helping me so I won’t fall.

  “Eli, stop.”

  “You’re freezing cold. I swear to god I won’t look at you, but you need to get warmed up.” He tilts his head way back, eyes on the ceiling, and reaches for me, feeling for the tie on my robe. It’s sopping wet so he tugs it off and turns me around to untie the hospital gown. I look over my shoulder at him. He turns his back as I peel the gown off my wet skin. I steady myself on the wall and step into the warm water. There’s a shower seat to sit down, so I sit and let the water run over me. Eli stands in the bathroom, back to me, arms crossed, and a stance like he’s in thought.

  A few minutes later, I ask, “Are we going to talk about that?”

  “Did you find what you needed?”

  I hesitate, unsure. Did I? I don’t know how to answer honestly so I give him the answer he needs: “Yes.”

  “Then we don’t need to talk about it.” He turns around, leans in the shower and turns the water off. I’m watching him, and his gaze doesn’t drop, but he probably sees me. There’s a towel in his hand, and he wraps it around me, then holds me tightly.

  He’s shaking.

  Chapter Six

  Is he angry or scared? He holds me a long time, and I let him, trying to ignore all things that don’t add up. Before letting me go, he kisses the dip in my neck and looks into my eyes.

  I try to hide my shiver of pleasure at feeling his lips on my skin. I try to hold back and not look like a lost little girl, but I’m not sure how well I did. He’s offering me the protection and care I crave. He’s putting himself out there. Meanwhile, I’m looking for… Damnit, I don’t even know what I’m looking for.

  We don’t talk about it then or the rest of the day. I can’t believe he let me off that easy. No I-told-you-so or passive aggressive comments. Nothing.

  I wait almost twenty hours for the right time to go through the Foster bag alone. Eli kissed the top of my head and said he’d be back in a few hours. He was vague, but I didn’t push him. It’s to my advantage if he has something he needs to take care of. That means he’ll be gone longer.

  Once I’m alone, I open the cupboard to grab the purse and see the big plastic bag again. I pull it out and look inside. I was expecting to see my clothing that I was wearing when I was brought in. It occurs to me that my clothes from the accident would be torn up and bloody. They were probably thrown out.

  There is an outfit, or two, but everything is clean and folded. Several pairs of lacy panties, identical except for the colors: red, black and dark blue. A pair of dark brown leggings, a gray long knitted sweater, a pair of jeans and a black shirt. Short socks and knitted boot socks, the kind everyone is wearing now.

  Odd that I know that but not much about my life.

  Then I spot a small plastic baggie in the bottom of the bigger bag. A soft noise stops me, and I glance toward the door. I creep over to peek out into the hallway. It’s empty, as usual.

  I go back to the big bag, but can’t stop myself from checking the doorway several times. Then I pull the baggie out and find a ring inside. A wedding ring. But Eli said they didn’t bring it back, and that’s why I’m not wearing it. I pull it out of the bag and hold it up to sparkle in the light. It’s a braid of two lines of little diamonds. Petite and pretty… and the kind of ring I’d like. I slide it on, noticing that my hands are trembling.

  It fits.

  It actually looks very nice on my hand. So why didn’t Eli see it in the bag or know about it? I hold my hand out and admire it while thinking this over.

  I come to a conclusion I don’t like. He must have thought I wouldn’t want to wear it, so he lied about having it. I rejected him when I woke up.

  There’s been so much to deal with that I haven’t stepped into his shoes. I haven’t felt the way he must feel. A twisted up feeling churns in the very bottom of my stomach, and I try to run away from this new knowledge. I drop the ring back into the little bag, and then the big bag, and stuff the entire thing away again.

  I grab the Foster bag and dump it out on my bed, revealing a few sales receipts, a hair pick, a Ziploc bag of almonds, wallet, makeup, two tampons, a tiny bottle of sun block, another one with lotion, hair ties, and lots of change. Good lord. Am I a hoarder? My eyes land on a cell phone, a Samsung Galaxy 5 Active in dark green. I push the power button, and to my surprise, it starts up. My heart rate picks up while it powers up. It only takes a few seconds. I hit Contacts as soon as it’ll let me.

  There’s a dozen or so names.

  Eli.

  Mindy Fisher, running.

  Sabrina, neighbor.

  Sharon Hawthorn.

  Sharon must be Eli’s mother. The others don’t have a note with them. I read through the names waiting for a reaction but nothing comes. It does appear I made a few friends in Sandy. There’s one tiny bar of service but it won’t load anything. Eli wasn’t lying about that.

  The photo gallery is full of shots of pretty mountain country, many with Eli in the photo. He’s smiling at the camera in one and others look like candid shots. God, he’s hot. For a second, I stop and wonder what he’s doing with me.

  The next few photos have a structure in progress—our house, I take it. Then the next one is a selfie. Of us. It’s just our faces, grinning, our heads pressed together. I look a lot better in this picture than I do in the mirror right now. I just wish something, anything, was showing, like a background, our clothing, some kind of clue. I pull the screen even closer, studying the light on our faces. It appears his face has a darker shadow on it than mine. It’s such a slight difference that it could be natural. I study it for a long time, and then realize I haven’t checked the hallway in a while. I need to finish this and put it all away.

  The phone’s navigator is set to an address close to Sandy. I don’t have much personalized besides that. I turn it off again and put it back in the bag.

  I have a nice wallet filled with cards: American Express, Discover, Macy’s, and a debit card all in my name of Megan Hawthorn. There’s a punch card for a coffee place with six punches, a few clothing store coupons, and a business card for a local bakery. I wonder why I have that and flip it over. Handwriting on the back says, “Our new cell numbers,” and lists two 503 area code numbers. I have thirty-three dollars in the wallet and a shopping list.

  There was a notepad somewhere around here with the hospital logo at the top. I see it on the counter and grab it, then copy the shopping list.

  The handwriting matches.

  My heart sinks. If Eli is telling the truth, I’m paranoid and angry, and probably need help.

  There’s cherry ChapStick—partly used—and lipstick. I open that to find a very pretty coral color: light orange with a touch of pink, just like the sunset. I walk to the mirror and look between the lipstick and my face several times. Apparently I’m enough of a girly girl to know lipstick colors. I’m sure it’ll look good before I put it on, and it’s not that easy to find your perfect shade. I slide the stick around my lips, making sure it’s perfect before looking at my face. Yes, it’s my shade. It compliments my eyes and skin tone without overpowering. It would be a hard color for most women to pull off, so I’m certain Eli didn’t pick it up at a grocery store to fool me. I stare at myself for a while, then retrieve the powder from the purse and put that on too. Again, it’s been professionally matched.

  I hear voices right outside the door and hurry to the bed, but it’s not enough time to put everything back in the bag.

  Eli and Bethany enter together, talking, before they see me and stop. I fight a blush.

  “Wow, Megan, you look fantastic,” Bethany says as a smile spreads across her face. She playfully elbows Eli. “Looks like you two might need some privacy.”

  She winks at me and leaves.

  “Didn’t she need to talk to me?” I ask. “Check on me?”

  Eli looks back toward the door and does a don’t-know frown. “I guess she can tell you’re
doing alright.”

  “You do look breathtaking.” He looks me over again. I can’t drop my gaze. He comes over and takes me by the shoulders. We stare into each other’s eyes and I can all but hear a romantic swell of music.

  I give him a gentle push back.

  “I can’t—I can’t do—I’m just not ready for that.” I rush into the bathroom before I see his face, where I bend over, clutching my stomach.

  A minute later I hear him by the partly open door.

  “It’s okay. Don’t worry about it.”

  He pushes the door open and comes to me, taking my shoulders so I’ll stand up.

  “Maybe we could just veg out a while. Watch some TV or something?”

  I nod and follow him to the bed. He slides in with me, holding the remote that controls the bed, TV, and calls the nurse. I settle back into the crook under his arm, willing it to feel familiar.

  But what if all of this is a lie? And I fall for it? What happens then?

  Chapter Seven

  I stare at the blank page in the notebook. Ellison bought it for me at the gift shop per my request, so I can write down everything I’m learning. I think it’ll help me put my life picture back together. It’s been a few days since the 9-1-1 incident, and we never did discuss it. Eli didn’t make one single comment that I might not have it all together. I wonder if he knows how important that is to me.

  I glance up at him now, catch sight of his eyebrows pulled together.

  “I want to remember all this. It’s a lot.” I try for a smile, and he relaxes and sits down. I proceed to write my name at the top of the page and look at him. “How old am I?”

  “Thirty one.”

  “My birthday?”

  “August seventh, nineteen-eighty-three.”

  He answered without hesitation both times. That information was on my license but I was curious if he knew it off the top of his head. I begin writing down the little things he’s told me, trying to keep them in order but realizing there are huge holes all over the story of my life.

  “Dr. Harris says you’re physically ready to leave… are you ready for that? To go home?”

  My pen stops.

  “Do I have a choice?” I wasn’t expecting to say that out loud.

  “Choice?” He squints and gives a small shake of his head. “You don’t want to go home? I thought we straightened this out.”

  “I’m not sure it’s home… I’m not sure what’s out there.” My voice shakes and it’s hard to push the words out without completely breaking down, but I do, in a rush. “It doesn’t make sense, from my end, to leave here and move in with someone I don’t know.”

  “You will know me.”

  “I…”

  “What?”

  I exhale, calming myself. It felt so nice to be honest for a minute, to share my fears, but something stops me from going any further. How can I tell him that I don’t feel safe? I close my eyes and lean back, hoping that will stop the tears. I’ve let him see me being weak far too many times.

  “Do you need to rest?” he asks, and then the light goes off. Apparently the conversation was too emotionally charged for him too. I gather from our time together that Ellison is the quiet type.

  A few minutes pass and I hear him talking in the hallway. His voice grows louder until he reaches the curtain inside my room.

  “Meg?” he whispers.

  “I’m awake.”

  “It’s Mom. My mom, Sharon.” He comes in and flicks on the light above my bed–it’s dimmer than the main light so we’ve been using it more. He sets the phone on the bed. “Mom, you’re on speaker phone. Megan’s right here.”

  He looks at me.

  “Hi.” My greeting sounds more like a question.

  “Meg, honey! I’m so happy to hear your voice. How are you? Are you doing okay?”

  Her voice is sweet and energetic and I picture a plump, middle aged woman with short blond hair and a big smile, the kind of woman who can cook and do home crafts.

  “I’m… pretty good, I guess, considering.”

  “Oh. Are you… do you remember anything?”

  The question feels out of place. I’m not sure why; maybe her voice had changed. Didn’t Eli tell her I don’t remember a thing?

  “No.” I make eye contact with him. He’s watching me with a blank face. I’ve seen it quite a few times now and I’m starting to wonder if it’s a guarded expression.

  “Well, don’t worry yourself about it. I know it must be hard. But you have Eli. I’ll come visit soon too.”

  There’s a pause and I think I’m expected to say something. Nothing comes to mind. Did I talk to her much before? Do I even know her? Or worse, did we not get along?

  Eli picks up the phone and leaves the room. I feel like I let him down, or maybe both of them.

  I lean back in the bed, something sinking in me. Had I wanted more of a connection there? Then I wonder what he’s telling her about me. Hopefully he doesn’t mention how I ran off, but that seems to be exactly the kind of thing you’d tell your mother.

  ***

  It’s strange how familiar the sound of Eli breathing at night is to me—not from our life together but from this time in the hospital. He falls asleep easily once we stop talking, but if I make any noise he wakes up immediately.

  It takes me much longer to fall asleep. My muscles are sore from physical therapy and getting around again, and I’m mentally tired from learning so much about myself, but my mind races every night as I try to wind down.

  Or maybe I’m not trying. I play a game every night, something like true or false. In my game, however, I have no way of knowing if it’s true or not, so I’m playing “Makes Sense” or “Could be Suspicious.” A few times, I reach a conclusion on one item, but most of the time I just get more frustrated. If only I could leave it all alone.

  What Eli has told me about us makes sense.

  The fact that I have no family or friends seems suspicious, except that I don’t feel like an extrovert.

  Moving out here to Oregon from Maine could make sense. It’s not that strange to want a fresh start.

  Actually doing it, making that fresh start and cutting ties—that’s suspicious. Deleting my Facebook account and all my contacts seems very suspicious.

  It makes me wonder if I was an unstable person before the accident. That conclusion is most logical. It answers the most questions. And it’s the reason why I keep playing this game, trying to get a different result.

  ***

  It’s about three the next day and almost dark outside, between the winter daylight hours and cloud cover. I watch out the window for a few minutes, trying to decide if this kind of weather feels normal to me. With a sigh, I return to the bed with the notebook. I’m alone so I can write out my thoughts—my real thoughts about all this. It’s an extension of my game that keeps me up, just another way to drive myself crazy.

  I keep weighing my doubts and my options, wondering if I should sneak out of the hospital. If I can get online, maybe I can find a starting place. Because right now, I don’t know where to go or who to ask for help. And I’m not sure that Eli is tricking me. Part of me wants to believe that if there is any deception going on, he’s not a part of it. But how would that work? I keep myself in this stupid limbo, not sure if I’m crazy or if I’m in danger, or if I’m just stuck in this weird situation where I don’t belong.

  I pick up my pen and make a list:

  No family, no friends, no Facebook, no contacts

  One photo of us – possibly photoshopped?

  DL in my name, my face.

  My lipstick. Could have been mine in my real life?

  This isn’t enough evidence to prove anything. Just the opposite. I seem to have equally supporting evidence of both possibilities. I make a new list:

  Dream with body and gun.

  One possible memory of me thinking “no entanglements.”

  Images of driving through a city. A fancy restaurant. What does that prove?
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  Surgery on my face – mean anything?

  I’d thought about that in passing. It wasn’t that suspicious that I had reconstructive surgery following a car accident with head trauma and broken bones. It still made me wonder.

  Oh, my god. What if—what if the accident was so horrible that I blocked out all of my memories? What if this wasn’t caused by actual brain damage but fear? That would mean I could recover my memory.

  I get excited and wonder when Eli will be back, and then stop myself. Maybe this isn’t good news. What if there’s a reason for my memory loss? I’ve had a gut feeling all this time that something is wrong here, but I kept telling myself there wasn’t any logical reason that anyone would do this to me. But what if there was? What if I knew something before that someone needed to cover up?

  Then they could have just killed me.

  So this still doesn’t make any sense, but I’m not crossing off the idea. I almost write out what I’m thinking when I hear footsteps. I scrunch the paper up as fast as I can.

  “Hello, Mrs. Hawthorn?”

  “Oh, hi.” I search for his name. It’s the police officer.

  “TJ.”

  “Right. Come on in.”

  “Did I catch you at a good time?”

  He’s polite and smiling, and I find myself smiling back like we’re old friends.

  “I’ve been sitting around in this room for who knows how long. I’d love company.”

  He laughs as he sits down. He looks comfortable and that puts me at ease. I pull my legs up to sit cross legged on the bed, the blanket draped over my lap.

  “I wanted to check on you and make sure things are better.”

  Better? I couldn’t say if better is the right word. I shrug and open my mouth to answer… and then find myself unable to lie.

  “Could you check missing persons for someone with my description?”