Chapter 2
Chapter Two
SIERRA
“Ma’am, wake up.”
Hm?
“Ma’am, can you hear me? You're at the Norfolk Naval Hospital. It’s time to wake up.”
I lick across my mouth and instantly regret it. Saltwater and bile taste horrible together.
“P-please stop yelling.”
A hand covers mine. It’s firm, warm, and covered with a layer of something rubbery. “I’m not yelling, sweetheart. Open your eyes.”
My voice grates through my battered vocal cords. “I don’t want to.”
A very rude thumb shoves my left eyelid up.
“Ouch!” I flinch away from the bright overhead light and repeat my grumble when the nurse does the same to the other eye.
“Let’s get you warm.”
I nod because that sounds like an amazing idea.
I try to place the woman’s accent, but my brain hurts too much. A heavy, warm weight settles over me. Acting on instinct, my body snuggles deeper into the heat. I let out a soft moan. “Thank you, God. I was freezing.”
“I’m not God. But you’re welcome. Freezing is an understatement. You’re as cold as a corpse. We’ll get you out of those wet clothes soon. Give me your arm.”
Still with my eyes squeezed shut, I let her draw my left arm out from beneath the warmth.
She wipes my inner forearm with something cold. “This is gonna sting.”
I don’t feel a thing. I’m too frozen. Or maybe disconnected.
“The I.V. fluid is heated, too. That will help give you some more warmth and the hydration will give you some pep.” With efficient motions, she tucks my heated blanket in and dims the lights.
Someone else enters the room. A man, I suspect, but I don’t know why. His soap is more woodsy than the nurse. “I’m Doctor Radcoff. Open your eyes, please. We need to talk.”
I groan and pray he’ll go away.
“Please open your eyes.”
It takes monumental effort to coax my lashes to part. Thankfully, the low light is much better. It still takes a moment for me to get the two blurry images of the man in front of me to merge into one.
Dr. Radcoff is handsome and surprisingly young. Almost child prodigy young, or maybe my vision is compromised and erases signs of aging.
That could be a handy trick. They should make mirrors like that.
He looks pleased. “That’s good. I have some questions for you.”
I think I’d rather not answer questions, but settle on asking for a drink. “Can I get some water?”
His forehead creases as he looks around the room. “No cups. I’ll have someone bring something.”
“Thanks. Whatever is in my mouth is awful.”
He nods as if he’s tasted it. “That would be swamp water. You’re a very lucky woman.”
I chuckle, and regret vibrating my vocal cords. “I don’t feel like a lucky woman.”
“What’s your name?” he asks as he lowers himself onto the stool next to the bed.
I open my mouth. Nothing comes out. Hm.
He looks up from his iPad. “Sorry, I didn’t catch that.”
“S…
Doctor Radcoff doesn’t look so happy anymore. “Are you having difficulty speaking?”
“No. I’m having a problem—”
I shiver. Why can’t I say my name?
His head tilts to the left, but he never takes his eyes from mine.
I clear my throat and try again. “My name is…”
Oh god. What is happening right now?
A wave of panic hits me. I shove the blanket down, catching my IV line on the fabric. “Ouch.”
He tugs the blanket back into place. “Lay still. What day is it?”
A calendar hangs on the bulletin board across the room. I squint at it. Damn. It’s too far away to read, so I make a guess. “Monday?”
He continues tapping on his iPad. The taps are getting faster. Matching the rise in my pulse. “What year were you born?”
Zoom. My heart really takes off. My palms get damp and itchy. The heated blanket now feels like a suffocating hug. “Nineteen. No, wait. Twenty?”
Dr. Radcoff balances his tablet on his knee and rolls the stool closer to the bed.
I don’t like the expression on his face. Doctors shouldn’t make faces like that.
“Let’s try your name again. Try to remember your first name only.”
“S…” I groan and mutter, “Shit.”
His lips twitch, but he doesn't let a grin form. “Not likely. What is your occupation?”
“I’m a…I think.” My fingers go numb as I twist the blanket between my clenched hands. Defeated, I whisper, “I don’t know.”
“Do you know what happened to you?”
“Sort of. I woke up choking on muddy water that was salty. I was cold. Then I was here.”
As he feels my head, his fingertips snag in the clumps of mud. He says, “Good. Let’s go back a little farther. Do you know what you were doing before you woke up alone on that beach?”
I flinch. “On a beach?”
“In the bay.” He moves from inspecting my head to press a stethoscope against my chest.
A tremble starts at my feet and works its way up to my throat. Fear slithers through my veins, firing off my fight-or-flight responses.
He says, “Focus on the feeling of the memory. See if it helps.”
“The last thing I remember is…. eating pancakes.”
“Hm.” He takes a step back, hooks his stethoscope around his neck, and drops his hands to his hips. “That’s really good. When?”
I lean back on my pillow, willing the memory to take shape. When it does, it steals my breath. The image is gauzy and I fight to keep it.
“It’s okay.” He grips my shoulder. “Take your time. But see if you can remember where or when you had pancakes.”
“It’s too hazy.”
His fingers slide across my brow and gently coax my lids down. “Close your eyes again. Sometimes it helps.”
I’m trembling all over as I squeeze my lashes together. A weak vision forms again, then ebbs. “There was a candle in my pancakes. One of those shaped ones. It’s the number five. People are singing happy birthday.”
The man’s fingers flex on my shoulder. “Enough for now. The military police found you. You didn’t have any identification.
It appears you’ve been in a serious accident.
The good news is your scans show only a mild concussion.
The bruises on your face, arms, back, and legs will heal.
But I’m concerned about the fact that your memory is… vague and not current.”
If his words didn’t terrify me, his expression would.
I curl into myself, pulling the blanket up again. “What do I do?”
While tapping something into his device, he says, “For now you’re Jane Doe, and you stay in the hospital. The MPs and local police are working on your case.”
Jane. Doe.
No. This is not my life. If only I could remember what my life is.
He stands up and slides his tablet into the large pocket on his pants. “Do you know anyone we can call?”
Panic drowns me all over again. “No. I can’t think. My brain feels wrong.”
“It’s called amnesia. A serious trauma can cause the part of the brain that processes memories to shut down or malfunction.”
“How long before it stops?”
He walks toward the door but turns back to look at me with his professional face firmly in place. “Hours. Days. Months. Years. Sometimes the patient never recovers.”
Ice water slides down through my veins, turning my fingertips numb. I muster up the courage to speak. “When can I go home?”
Dr. Radcoff looks at the floor, then at me. “Sorry, you can’t. Not without someone to assume round-the-clock care for you.”
Swallowing my tangled fear and frustration, I try to look pleasant. “I know it might not seem like it, but once I get warm and get some fluids, I will be completely capable of taking care of myself.”
I turn pleading eyes to a guy in a military uniform that showed up a few minutes ago.
He gives me a sympathetic, albeit uncomfortable, smile. “I understand your desire to get out of here, but without your memory at least partially intact, there’s no guarantee you’ll be able to do basic tasks and make rational decisions. This protocol is for your safety.”
The air rushes out of me. “Bu-but I can’t just stay here forever.”
There’s a weird tension around Dr. Radcoff’s eyes now. “We’ll get you a room here for a night, but then if we haven’t found anyone to claim you,” he clears his throat and chokes out, “we’ll transfer you to a mental health facility.”
Oh. My. God.
He really said that. A fact proven by his now green hue and pinched face.
My stomach rolls and I know I’m turning green, too. I close my eyes. “I think I might throw up now.”