And in an instant, she began to fade, her form disappearing before his eyes before he could make out her face and commit it to his memory. “No, don’t go,” he begged. “Please don’t go.”
“All vitals are normal.”
“Please don’t...”
“I’m going to change out his IV site today.”
“Please,” he said.
“Wait. Did he say something? Did you hear that?”
“Yeah. It sounds like he said—”
“Please,” he repeated, wincing a bit before he smacked his lips and slowly opened his eyes.
“He’s awake.”
With a grunt and a hard swallow that pained his throat, he blinked rapidly to adjust to the sudden bright light from above and his vision focusing. Two images on either side of him became clearer. One was a white woman, the other black. Both offered him warm smiles.
“Call the doctor. I’ll stay with him,” the Black woman said.
He felt disoriented and his eyes shifted about him. Sunlight rimmed the edges of the window around the blinds. Voices and noises beyond the room reached him.
“You’re in the hospital. You have been for the last three weeks,” she explained.
He looked at her. She was dark skinned with bright eyes and deep dimples. Her hair was in long straight braids pulled back from her face.
“Three weeks,” he said, clearly confused.
He felt like he had just awakened from one good night of sleep and not three weeks worth. “What happened?” he asked.
“I’ll be right back,” she said, giving his ankle a comforting squeeze before she left the room.
Three weeks.
He winced as he struggled to remember details. Nothing came to mind. Absolutely nothing. Shaking his head, he closed his eyes.
“Are you awake?”
He opened his eyes. It was the cute Black woman with the braids again. He looked down to the name tag clipped to the front of her dark blue uniform. Zora Madison, RN BSN. “No, I’m not, Zora,” he said.
She offered him a smile that was more dimples than anything.
“I’m Dr. Sanchez. Your neurologist.”
He turned his head towards the male voice and found a middle-aged Hispanic man with silver hair at his temples.
“Hello, Dr. Sanchez,” he said, his voice like a harsh whisper.
“This may seem like an odd question but can you tell me your name?” the doctor asked.
He opened his mouth but no words came as he struggled to remember his name. “I don’t know it,” he finally admitted to the doctor and himself.
He felt panicked.
“Three weeks ago you were brought in to the emergency room here in Greenville, SC after a hit and run accident,” Dr. Sanchez began, giving him a smile that was friendly and reassuring.
He was thankful for that.
“You suffered some bruising and scars but the largest concern was a head injury that put you into a coma for the last three weeks,” he continued.
Greenville?
Hit and run?
Head injury?
“Unfortunately you had no identification on you. We’ve been calling you John Doe,” Zora added, coming to stand by the side of the hospital bed.
Who am I?
Three weeks.
He looked to Zora and found her eyes sympathetic. Or was it pity? He didn’t know his own name but he knew he didn’t like the thought of being pitied. Closing his eyes, he pressed his head back against the pillows and forced himself to take deep calming breaths as he tried to come to grips with feeling lost inside his own mind.
“I need to do a neuro check so let's raise the head of the bed and get you sitting up,” Dr. Sanchez said.
He nodded as Zora pressed the button on the bed to do just that.
The next few hours were packed with several doctors coming in to check him and the nurses coming in to follow the orders they were given by them. All of the medical equipment that helped him subsist during the last few weeks were removed and with the help of a physical therapist, he was pushed to leave the bed and use the bathroom. Hospital personnel explained that the local news wanted to speak him about his recovery and how it might help him to be identified but he declined, not wanting to feel like an animal on display at the zoo. When police detectives from his hit and run case came to question him—to no avail—they took his fingerprints to see if they could discover his identity. The only thing revealed was a lack of any arrest records.
Feeling overwhelmed, he was thankful when all the activity died down and he was left alone in his room sitting in a chair by the window.
What now?
He honestly had no clue.
Who am I?
Where do I belong?
What happened to me?
He released a heavy breath, looking out the window at cars passing by in the parking lot. Rising from the chair with his bare buttocks exposed by the open rear of the hospital gown he made his way over to the sink and mirror in the corner of his private room.
He studied his reflection, rubbing his nearly bald head and stroking his beard. “Three weeks,” he said, shaking his head.
Why didn’t anyone come looking for me?
“I kept your hair and beard from looking crazy.”
He turned to find Zora leaning against the wall now dressed in street clothes and light makeup. “Thank you,” he said.
“I have three brothers,” she said, sitting her tote and a large black leather duffel bag on the chair for visitors before coming over to gently hold his arm as he made his way back to the bed. “I know how black men are about their hair.”
He sat down on the edge of the bed hating that the three weeks in bed seemed to have sapped him of his energy.
“This should help you get your strength back up,” Zora said, turning to pull a KFC bag from her tote. She sat it on the bedside hospital tray. “A man's first meal after almost a month should not be hospital food—and a soft diet at that.”
His stomach grumbled at the sight and smell of fried chicken, mash potatoes, coleslaw, and corn on the cob. “I won’t tell if you won’t,” he promised, taking the plastic spork she handed him.
“If I had more time I would have cooked you a real meal,” she said, picking up her tote to sit on the chair, setting it on her lap.
“Trust me, I appreciate this especially since I either have no one in my life or just no one who cares,” he said, offering her a smile to cover his sadness at that truth.
“Actually I have more for you than just food,” Zora said.
He paused wondering just what that “more” could be.
She reached into her tote and withdrew a small plastic container. “I spoke with the detectives when they were here earlier and then went to the area where you were hit. There’s was nothing within a two miles radius in either direction but strip malls and motels.”
He frowned, desperately trying to remember. When he failed yet again, he dropped his spork into the small container of coleslaw in frustration. “How do I make a way in this world without knowing who the hell I am? Maybe I should’ve let the press plaster my face all over the news.”
Zora leaned forward to hand him the container. “You didn’t let me finish,” she said. “I went to every motel in the area—”
“All of them?” he asked, his face incredulous as he opened the container to find a set of keys and a wallet.
“Yes. You booked a room out near the airport for a week and when it came time for checkout the maid gave all items you left in the room to the manager,” she explained, nodding her head towards the duffel. “Thankfully they kept everything in the lost and found.”
He opened the wallet. “So, I lost a little weight,” he said, eyeing the driver license photo.
“Not much.”
“Armstrong Mann. 22 Birdsong Lane. Holtsville, South Carolina,” he read.
“That’s about two and a half to three hours from here,” Zora supplied, her eyes on him.
“I think all the answers to every question you have is in Holtsville,” she said, offering him an encouraging smile. “After the doctors release you, that is.”
“I think so, too,” he agreed, feeling such sweet relief to have something of his identity upon which to grasp.
Zora extended her hand to him. “It’s nice to finally greet you properly, Mr. Armstrong Mann.”
He took her in his and chuckled. “Thank you, Zora Madison, for helping me to go home,” he said, anxious to find out just what that was.
CHAPTER FOUR
One week later
Meena glanced up at Monty as he held the passenger door open and helped her out of his sedan. “Thank you,” she said, giving him a soft smile before moving past him to climb the stairs to her front door.
He followed behind her and Meena eyed him as he did. He was tall and slender with the Lowcountry Charleston preppy boy style of khaki pants and a polo under a lightweight blazer that was so different from—.
No, Meena, let him go. He’s gone. Armstrong. Is. Gone.
‘But not my hurt though,’ she thought.
Monty slid his hand into the pocket of his pants as he looked down at her under the porch light. He smiled.
“What?” she asked, her eyes searching his.
He reached up to press his palms against her cheeks and gently tilted her head upward as he lowered his own to kiss her.
She brought her hands up to lightly grasp his wrists. At the first feel of his mouth on hers, she closed her eyes and truly tried to enjoy the moment.
She failed.
“Be real with me, Meena. Do I even have a chance?” he asked, his voice low.
No.
“Honestly?” she asked.
Monty nodded, letting his hands fall back to his sides.
“I’m just trying to have some fun with a cool dude,” she said. “Nothing more. Nothing less.”
“Did you have some fun tonight?”
“I did,” she said in truth. The movie, dinner, and conversation had all been enjoyable.
“Then I got you,” he teased, pressing his hand to chest and tapping it.
“Cool,” she said.
They fell quiet.
He gave her a leisurely up and down look that was pure appreciation.
Meena arched a brow. “Not that much fun,” she quipped.
They shared a laugh.
“You can’t blame me for trying. You look good as hell in that jumpsuit,” he said, licking his lips.
“That I do,” she said, striking a playful pose. “Sex on the first date though? That I don’t.”
He bent at the waist to press a kiss to her cheek. “Call me?” he asked.
“I will,” she promised.
Monty gave her a final wave before crossing the porch and jogging down the stairs to his vehicle.
Meena turned to unlock her front door, giving him one last look over her shoulder as he started his car and drove off. As soon as she stepped inside and closed the door she kicked off her strappy wedge sandals with a sigh of relief and set her pocketbook and keys on the table by the door.
“Hey, Meena Meen.”
She screeched and jumped back to press her spine to the door as she eyed her stepfather Kaleb standing in the entry to her kitchen with a plate of rolls in his hands.
“How was the date?” he asked over his shoulder as he left the living room.
Meena held up her hands, her face incredulous, as she followed behind him. “With all due respect. What are you doing here?” she asked.
“We’re all here,” Kaleb said, stopping at the closed French doors and motioning with his chin for her to open them.
Meena’s steps to the door faltered at the sight of the entire Strong clan—including children—gathered on her deck and in her backyard. “Y’all wildin’,” she said, before pulling both doors open wide.
“Oooh, thumbs up on the date night outfit,” Aunt Bianca said, raising a hot dog in bun in a toast.
“Thanks, Auntie,” Meena said, looking around at her family in bewilderment.
The rest of the crew noticed her standing there and greetings sook surrounded her. Meena found it hard to stay annoyed at them.
She went over to where her Papa Kael and Nana Lisha sat together at one of the two tables on the deck. She pressed a kiss to each of their smooth cheeks before stooping down to smile and coo at the plump eight-month-old baby of her Aunt Kaitlyn and her husband Quinton.
“Do you think he will have the Strong silver hair?” Meena asked, stroking his abundance of soft brown curls.
Quinton Wells, Junior giggled and released a big spit bubble as he kicked his bare feet.
“It’s a strong family trait—excuse the pun,” Kael said, smiling and causing the wrinkles at his eyes to deepen.
“I wouldn't mind,” Quinton said, coming over from the grill to press a kiss to the thin streak of silver hair in his wife’s hair.
Meena went around the entire group and greeted everyone individually. Her aunts leaned against the banister sipping wine from large goblets. Bianca the veterinarian who found love with Kahron in the midst of their war over land and now had a nine-year-old son, KJ, to whom they both instilled their love of animals and farming. Garcelle, the Dominican nurse, had helped the widowed Kade move past his grief and raise his daughter, Kadina, before having their son, seven-year-old Karlos. Jade and Kaeden proved that opposites attract and bravely dealt with the difficulties of conceiving to eventually give birth to their beautiful daughter Jewel, now close to two years old. The baby girl of the family, her once spoiled aunt Kaitlyn, had let the love of Quinton and his daughter Lei settle her down and mature her up.
With them was her mother Zaria, a woman who looked to be twenty years younger than her true age had found love with Kaleb, a man fifteen years her junior. Never did Meena guess she would have more siblings, but now she refused to even imagine life without five-year-old Kasi and three-year-old twins Kalel and Kaliya.
“Hey, Twin,” Neema said, her eyes hopeful.
“Hey, Twin,” Meena replied, her stare threatening her for any role she played in the family ambushing her.
“How was the date?” Garcelle asked, her Spanish accent still thick. She reached for the open bottle of wine to pour Meena a glass before handing it to her.
“I know y’all not that nosey to ride to Summerville to my house—”
“Technically,” Zaria interjected in a sing-song style.
Meena gave her a thumbs up. “To ambush my momma’s house where I now live all by my lonesome,” she said.
Zaria chuckled and gave her a toast in thanks to the correction.
“We,” Jade began, directing her finger around at the semi-circle of women. “Wanted to know if you had a good time.”
Meena nodded as she took a sip of wine. “I did,” she admitted.
“And we,” Kaeden began, motioning his fingers towards himself and the men sitting on the steps of the deck. “Wanted to make sure you got home safe...”
“Tonight,” Papa Kael added.
Meena shook her head, well aware of the overprotective nature of the men of the Strong family. Most would find it intrusive—and sometimes she did—but women lacking men with strength and honor in their lives would yearn for it. She was blessed to have not just a father and stepfather, but an entire squad of beautiful Black men who would not only defend and protect her but encouraged her to also stand up for herself as every woman could and should.
Meena's brows dipped when she eyed the table and took in the many bowls and platter of food. Potato salad. Baked beans. Corn on the cob. Jambalaya rice. Garden salad. Mac and cheese. Fresh fruit and a cheesecake. “Just when did y’all plan this?” she asked, carefully picking up a plump grape to pop in her mouth.
“You know we can throw together a set in no time,” Bianca said.
Over the rim of her goblet, she looked around at her family
just chilling and enjoying each other’s company. Kadina and Lei were both eighteen and in college but happily played music from their phones and did the latest dance moves with all their younger cousins surrounding them. Babies were loved on and passed around from lap to lap. The men took turns watching the meat on the grill and the table was covered with dishes lovingly prepared by the women.
Never had Meena missed Armstrong as much as she did at that moment because he would normally be right there in the mix.
“Damn,” she whispered, closing her eyes against a wave of pain so deep that she swayed.
Thirty-seven days.
Meena hung her head. “I should have fought for him,” she admitted suddenly without any shame. “I love him and I should have fought for him.”
Every adult family member rose to their feet.
Meena shook her head and held up her hand before they could encircle her with comfort and support. “I just need a minute,” she said, setting her goblet on the table and quickly entering the house.
She reached the front door in record time, snatching up her keys and purse from the table as she stepped into her shoes before leaving the house. Quick strides took her across the porch and down the stairs to her car.
Nothing but the grace of God kept her from getting a speeding ticket as she ate up the miles from Summerville to Holtsville. The silence in the vehicle made her thoughts of regret seem to echo in her head.
She ran her hand through her hair as she turned the car down the road leading to Armstrong’s home at the front of the mobile home park. In truth, seeing the modest home was both a connection to him and a reminder of his disappearance from her life.
Meena slammed on her brakes, gasping in surprise at the sight of his rusted red truck parked in the yard with the lights illuminating the windows.
Welcome Back, My Love Page 6
