Chapter 5
Chapter Five
Wynter
“ D rake.”
I look at the brown-haired man standing next to my bed and realize he’s holding my hand. Jerking it from his grasp, I say, “Where’s Drake?”
He stares at me with pleading eyes, and I can’t put my finger on who he is.
“Drake went to get the Bojangles you asked me to pick up,” he says with hurt cracking through his voice.
Now it’s me who doesn’t understand what this man is talking about. Why would he bring me Bojangles? I don’t even know him.
“Are you hungry?” he asks.
Just then, someone bursts into the room. “She’s awake.” The nurse calms as she checks the monitors. “My name is Nancy, and I’ll be your nurse while you’re in ICU. Can you tell us what happened?”
Glancing around the room, I realize I’m in a hospital. “I don’t know,” I say as I admire the pink cast on my leg.
“It’s okay. It mig ht take some time for you to remember. You hit your head.” Nancy motions for the man to follow her out the door. All I can hear her say is, “It’s normal for patients with head trauma to be confused.”
My eyes flit around the room and my body. Why am I here? It’s obvious I need to be in the hospital, but I can’t remember why or how I got here. I strain to hear their faint whispers, but it’s no use. I’m so tired, I can’t hold my eyes open and fade back into the black hole.
I slowly open my eyes again without the concept of how much time has passed. The room is dark, with monitors beeping quietly in red, green, and yellow as I attempt to clear my throat. I see a tray with a Styrofoam cup but when I go to grab it, the tube in my arm stops me, like it won’t stretch that far. “Water.”
Maybe I’m dreaming. A combination of antiseptic and fried chicken blankets the room.
I feel a heavy weight on my hand and as I turn my head, it’s the man I don’t recognize surrounding my hand with an intimacy I can’t comprehend. His eyes are closed with his chin in his chest. I inch my hand from his, a millimeter at a time, but he squeezes, then his eyes flare open. When he sees me looking at him, a broad smile creeps up his cheeks.
My heart races as I battle to figure out how I know this man. Or maybe he’s a volunteer from the hospital who sits with people who don’t have family.
“Do you need anything?” he asks in a gentle tone.
“Water,” I scratch out.
He releases my hand, strides to the other side of me, and pours water into the cup. “You’re a little banged up, so I’ll hold the cup for you. Is that okay?”
I nod, and he brings t he white cup to my lips. Oh, the cold, crisp water feels good coating my mouth and throat. He brings the cup down and silently asks if I want another drink with just a head movement. Taking another sip, I sigh in relief as it goes down.
His eyes are tethered to mine, and the scrutiny makes me squirm in the bed. When I do, I cry out in pain. My head throbs, and sharp pain travels up my spine. Immediately, he grabs my head and strokes the hair from my face.
When the pain lets go of me, I manage to ask, “Who are you?”
His cheek ticks under his eye, and a pained expression washes over his face. Tears well in his lids, threatening to spill over. Guilt weighs heavy in my soul, although I don’t know why. It’s not my intention to hurt him. It’s clear he’s a nice person and handsome as a movie star—at least in a room cloaked in darkness and shadows.
“Scott.”
“What happened to me? Do you know?”
His head moves slightly from left to right. “When I found you, you were pretty banged up.”
I don’t remember how I got hurt. Could this be my boyfriend, and he beat me up? No, I wouldn’t stand for that. I’m—Oh God, I can’t remember my name. The monitor beeps louder and faster, and a nurse runs into the room.
“It’s okay. Deep breaths.” She stares at the man beside me. “Did something scare you?”
When I’m calm, I tell her, “I can’t remember my name, but I see it on the board. My name is Wynter.” But the name doesn’t mean anything to me. Wanting a distraction, I ask, “I’m hungry. May I eat?”
“I think your friend brought you Bojangles, or I can get you cafeteria food,” she says, cracking a smile. She must be an expert at putting people at ease.
“Bojangles is good. I thought I smelled fried chicken but thought I was imagining it.”
“I’ll go heat it up,” Scott says, hesitating before he leaves the room like he’s forgetting something.
Typing on the computer, the nurse asks some questions and says, “Okay, the doctor will be here in a few minutes. Eat, you’re going to need your strength to recover.”
As she’s walking out, Scott returns with a paper plate with a chicken biscuit which I love more than any other breakfast food, remembering that little nugget puts me a little more at ease. He arranges my tray and raises the bed so I can eat without choking. When he does, I notice my stomach bulging. What’s this?
Before I can ask, he says in a soft tone, but it comes out scratchy, “Take small bites. I added mayonnaise.”
“I hate mayo.”
His eyes widen like he’s surprised. He tries to joke. “Everyone loves mayo. It makes everything creamier and better.” I love the way his lip tips up on one side—panty melting.
The moment I raise my hand to my mouth with a biscuit in hand, I see my wedding ring. Out of desperation and confusion, I ask, impulsive and shaky: "Where’s my husband?"
Any sparkle he had in his eyes is snuffed out, leaving only a flicker of disappointment. The sharpness of his reaction intensifies my guilt, even as I struggle with the emptiness and the tension between us.
Just th en, the doctor comes in and says, “Glad to see you’re awake. Do you remember waking up earlier?”
Nodding, I admit, “Barely.”
“Well, you’re making progress. By what your friend told the nursing staff, you’ve been awake for nearly a half hour.” He checks the readings on the machines, as I watch, wondering how long I’ve been here and why. “Describe how you feel.”
He’s wearing dark-blue scrubs and has medium-blond hair. His skin is tan and when the short sleeve of his shirt creeps up his bicep, his defined muscles show. My kind of guy. Which makes me think of Drake.
“Okay, but I want my husband here. Is he here? Oh God, does he know where I am?” Anxiety pricks at my nervous system, and I teeter on the edge of what feels like a panic attack.
The doctor glances at Scott, who says, “He knows you’re here. He loves you more than anything in the world.”
“Can you get him?
“Drake?” Scott asks, but if he knows my husband loves me, why would he ask? I shake my head, and he continues, “I’ll go get him. He’s in the waiting room.”
A deep exhale escapes my chest, knowing that at least I remember my husband. The doctor says, “We’ll wait until you get back.”
Scott stops at the door, glancing over his slightly slumped shoulder. “Okay.”
I sense tension bubbling beneath the surface. The doctor introduces himself, a friendly smile softening his clinical disposition. “I’m Dr. Tutt, a neurosurgeon here at Elizabethtown General.”
It’s comforting to k now where I am since the nurse or Scott didn’t clue me in, but my focus is drawn to my husband who walks in behind Scott. "Drake," I exclaim, warmth flooding my voice, as he’s the first person I recognize, and I hope he’ll be the one to help fill the gaps in my memory. But Drake takes a reluctant step with a shadow of apprehension in his eyes.
As the nurse opens the blinds, sunlight can’t hide the bruises on my arms, and an unsettling feeling takes hold of my mind. Did Drake cause this? Is that why he approaches with such caution?
He stands by my bed.
Doesn’t hold my hand.
Doesn’t lean down to kiss me.
His refusal to touch or reassure me with a kiss seems like a betrayal. Why wouldn’t my husband want to comfort me?
“I’m fine. Come here.” I stick out my palm, wiggling my fingers.
"We’re all relieved you’re awake. You scared us," Drake's words falter, lacking the conviction I crave. Scott watches, arms crossed, grinding his teeth, which would drive me freaking crazy.
Dr. Tutt begins his questions, and the nurse waits with her short but painted fingernails on the keyboard of the computer.
“First, can you tell us what happened?”
Searching my mind for any fragment of a memory, my brows pinch together. “I’m not sure.”
“Okay, I’m going to ask you some questions. What’s your name?”
“Wynter.” Should I tell him that I read it on the board? I’m going with no.
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-nine.”
“Where do you live?”
“Kissing Springs.”
He’s checking things on his chart. Does that mean I’m answering correctly?
“Good. Are you married?”
I look at my ring, admiring what good taste my husband has. “Yes.”
“To whom?”
“Drake… Wilson?” The whiteboard says Wynter Wilson. “Drake Wilson.”
Dr. Tutt scribbles on his pad, but out of my peripheral vision, I see Scott’s chest rise and his jaw tighten.
“Are you pregnant with a boy or girl?”
My hands instinctively roam over the baby bump that I’m sure was bloating. To stop the room from spinning, I close my eyes, letting the doctor’s words sink in. A flurry of emotions try to suffocate my heart—shocked, perplexed, yet a warmth creeps up my body like I’m being wrapped in a weighted blanket.
“I don’t know. Is my baby okay?”
“Yes. The heartbeat is strong. Who’s your OB/GYN?”
Scott chimes in, “Dr. Breadwell.” Drake agrees then they appear to have a staring competition like a pre-teen.
How can I be carrying a life when I’ve forgotten my own? I realize this tiny heartbeat might be the only fragment of my past I truly possess.
“What’s the last thing you remember?”
My brain works frantic ally for answers until recognition sparks—a lunch with my husband, Drake, returning home with a sandwich. “My husband came home for a late lunch and brought me a sandwich.” I smile, satisfied that I remember something.
"And now she's craving cheese," Drake murmurs hollowly, a private joke lost in translation.
Scott inhales sharply, his chest rising as his jaw clenches. "I can't do this," he erupts, storming out, unable to control his outburst. The list of things I need to remember is longer than my honey-do list, so I can’t worry about Scott. My family is what’s important right now. I want to remember the day I found out I was pregnant, and the day Drake and I married.