The nurse stares down at her. Sal sees her scrutinizing her face, and Sal remembers the bruise on her cheek, the ones on her throat, and knows this woman is only trying to protect her. She’s fierce. Like a matronly guard dog. “You tell us, honey. If you say ‘treat this person like family,’ we will.” She gives Sal a pointed look. “And if you say ‘no visitors,’ then no visitors it is.”
Sal would slap a no-visitor sticker on Roy in a heartbeat. Sal closes her eyes, remembering the kind way the man had reached for her. His hand held out like a promise everything would be okay.
“No.” She juts a brave chin. “I want to see him.” When she says it, for some reason she feels better. For some reason she feels safe.
As the doctor and nurse exit, Sal takes a moment to collect her thoughts, dissolving back into the pillows and closing her eyes.
Jenny.
She shudders at the name. It had always sounded so wrong to her. Like it was never hers to begin with. But this new name.
Sal.
She likes it. It’s like a slinky dress she could slip on and wear. It fits because it was hers.
But what else was hers?
Certainly not the life she was living. She doesn’t know if it makes her feel better or worse. Panic threatens to take over, but she goes to the place inside her head. The place where the song lives. She begins to hum, the lyrics like a tattoo on her brain.
Minutes later, a noise sounds, the door cracking. Sal opens her eyes, rolling her head across her pillow. Hovering in the doorway is the man from the beach. His clothes are wrinkled, his face drawn and worried.
Sal searches her mind for his name, then says, “Seth.”
Immediately, his expression softens. “Hey.” His drawl is deep and worn. He steps into the room, rubbing his hands together. “How you feelin’?”
“I’m okay.” She smiles. His familiar face is a welcome relief from the strangeness, the sterility of the hospital. Sal smooths her hands across the sheet on her lap as nerves eat at her. Still, a sense of calm laps at the back of her mind. “You helped me. Thank you.”
The words flatten him for a moment. A muscle works tight around his jaw as he moves deeper into the room.
“Can I sit?” Seth asks, and when Sal nods, he perches in a chair beside her bed. His light blue eyes track her face. There’s anguish in his expression, but also relief and awe. Sheer awe. The way he’s looking at her—like she’s a ghost. A living, breathing ghost.
“The doctor said she explained some things.”
“She said I was in a plane crash?” She searches her mind hard for the memory but finds only black corners and raging silence.
“You were.” Seth squeezes his eyes shut, pained at the question. “Nine months ago.”
“I don’t ... I don’t remember anything.” Sal bites her lip. She feels bad, like she knows this admission will hurt this man. “I don’t remember you. My brain feels scrambled as hell, but I feel like I know you.” She watches as Seth’s face breaks into a happy smile. “Are we friends?”
“The best,” he says, his voice thick.
His hand moves for hers, then stops, only to fall helplessly against the edge of the bed.
“We’re family?” she asks, recalling what the nurse said.
“I’m your brother-in-law.”
Her mind works it over, slow like molasses. “I’m married?”
He nods. “To Luke. My brother.”
Sal’s slapped silly. Holy shit. She’s married. To someone other than Roy.
Acrid bile warms Sal’s throat, slops into her stomach. She’s seasick, dizzy with revelation. There’s no more close-ups. The camera’s pulling back on her life like the final reveal of a horror movie. A slow and sickening montage. The memory loss, the plane crash, it makes sense. But Roy. If she’s married to someone else, then that means—
Tears of frustration blur her eyes. “I don’t remember Luke either. I don’t remember any of that ...”
“It’s okay,” Seth soothes. He shifts his body to scoot closer. His warmth is palpable, and Sal shivers. “You don’t have to remember right now.” Seth draws the blanket up over her legs. His action so tender, so genuine, Sal could weep. “You’re safe, you’re alive. That’s all that matters.”