“What do you remember?” the doctor asks.
The unknown man watches with confusion, but when he opens his mouth to answer my question, he notices the doctor is staring at me, patiently awaiting my answer.
“That I hate people who answer a question with a question,” I say, finding strength in my voice.
The doctor indulgently smiles at me. “Okay, can you tell me how old you are?”
“I just turned twenty-four,” I answer and both men exchange a look.
They run me through several more questions; my doctor is able to keep his face passive, but the strange man flinches at a few of my answers. During all this questioning, a nurse has been taking my vitals, her mouth tipping downward with each answer.
I get tired after a dozen questions and I snap. “Can someone please tell me what is going on?” I ask, looking from one man to the other.
The mystery man steps further away so he can lean against the windowsill.
“Elia, there was a car accident last week that you were involved in,” the doctor says gently. “You tore ligaments in your knee, broke your tibia and fibula, and broke your wrist. You also had a minor brain bleed, which I think led to your amnesia. Based on how old you think you are, you’ve lost a few years.” The doctor is trying to not overload my system with too much information at once. One injury at a time, but it feels like high school all over again; sitting on the outside of an inside joke everyone else knows.
I scoff at the insinuation. It’s easier to hold on to the thought of having amnesia instead of that I was in a car accident and unconscious for a week. It’s easier to think about that than the giant gap in my memory.
“Amnesia? What is this?Days of Our Lives?” I look over at the guy, my voice shaking just a little when I talk. “Who are you, even?”
“Charles Breckenridge. I was in the car that hit you.” Charles sounds uncertain about revealing this information.
“You hit me with a car?” I sputter, turning on him.
Charles straightens up, running his hand down his chest. I track the movement, my mind picking this asinine detail to focus on as he explains further.
“Technically it was my PickMeUp! car, but I am still so sorry for this.” He keeps talking, but his words turn into static.
I’ve lost years of my life because of the carelessness of some car.
Years.
I look away from him, thinking about healing and growing that I would have done as a person in those years, and it’s all gone, the board wiped clean of the person I became. I want to get out of this bed and go to Viv or call her and find out what the hell is going on. Before I can take the next logical step, I give into my anger.
I consider the cup in my hand then I hurl it at him with my insignificant strength. Even doing that exhausts me. Charles catches the cup with ease, some water falling to the floor.
“Charles isn’t all to blame. Car versus bike often ends poorly for the bike. He has been here since your accident,” the doctor says.
“Whose side are you on anyway?” I scowl. I’m suddenly so exhausted and I just want to go back to sleep even though I just woke up. I fight the urge to slip back into unconsciousness, but I can’t hold off forever.
The next time I wake up, Charles is there, but it’s dark in the room. His face is only illuminated by his computer screen. Above him, the muted TV is showing the late night news reports from the day. A segment on hurricane clean up in North Carolina is airing, and I try to dredge up a memory of it, a warning on the news or on social media, but all I get is a headache for my efforts. I can remember Sandy, but that was ages ago and not when I was living in the city.
I realize that Charles is talking quietly on the phone while his hands breeze across his keyboard. The cellphone is tucked against his ear and he’s talking so low, I think I might be imagining it. He must be talking about me, because his eyes flick up to me while he is talking.
“I gotta go, Jack.” Charles doesn’t wait for the person on the other end of the phone to answer before he lets it slide off his shoulder into his hand, ending the call.
“Busy man,” I say, just to make conversation.
“Yes well, I’ve been sitting in a hospital room for a week now. I do have to do my job.” He’s surprisingly not angry, even after my sarcastic tone and my throwing a cup at him.
I want to find it in me to be grateful for this stranger being here with me, but when I look, all I find is pain and anger and hurt. Where are my friends? Why am I stuck depending on a strange man to be here so I’m not alone?
“Job.” I roll the word over in my mouth for a minute, trying to remember where I work. I’m a receptionist at a law firm, mostly doing some menial tasks like filing correspondence and answering phones. Do I still work there? Am I fired for missing work? I remember the conversation from earlier and the way that amnesia was thrown around. Each grasp I make for information comes away without results, making me grind my teeth. Everyone had subtle frowns on their faces, even the nurse, when I gave my answers. “How much amnesia do I have?”
“I think amnesia is more of a lack of something.”
I don’t give Charles a smile for his comment.