Chapter 35
Chapter Thirty-Five
Noah
Adeep, throbbing ache pulls me from the void.
My head feels like it’s being split in two, each pulse pounding louder than the last. Every inch of my body is screaming, but the pain feels distant, like it belongs to someone else.
I try to open my eyes, but the light is blinding, piercing straight through my skull.
I groan—or at least I think I do. My throat feels raw, like I’ve swallowed a handful of sandpaper. The antiseptic smell hits me next, sharp and sterile, making my stomach churn. Somewhere nearby, a machine beeps steadily, its rhythm both grounding and unnerving.
Where the hell am I?
I fight against the heaviness weighing me down, forcing my eyes open in short bursts. Everything is blurry, the white walls and harsh fluorescent lights blending together in a dizzying haze. Am I dreaming?
No, this feels too real. Too loud. Too painful.
I finally manage to keep my eyes open long enough to take in my surroundings. The sterile white walls, the linoleum floor, the IV hooked to my arm. It all screams hospital.
Why am I in a hospital?
I try to move, but my legs feel like they’re made of lead, unresponsive to even the smallest command. My right arm is trapped in a cast, a dull ache radiating from it with every attempt to shift.
I don’t remember anything.
My breathing quickens, panic bubbling up in my chest. What happened to me? The last thing I remember is…
I draw a blank.
Frustration mixes with fear as I struggle to piece together even a fragment of memory. My mouth is dry, and I turn my head slightly, searching for water, for anything. The motion sends a fresh wave of pain crashing through my skull, and I hiss through clenched teeth.
The room is empty. No familiar faces, no voices to reassure me. Just the beeping machines and the faint hum of fluorescent lights.
I stare at the ceiling, willing myself to stay calm. Someone has to come in eventually, right?
As I’m trying to make sense of everything, the door creaks open, and a nurse walks in. Her eyes are glued to the tablet in her hands, her fingers scrolling as she mutters something under her breath. She hasn’t noticed me yet.
I part my lips to say something, but my throat feels like a desert, and no sound comes out. Before I can try again, her head snaps up, and her gaze meets mine.
“Oh! You’re awake!” she exclaims, a bright smile spreading across her face as she steps closer. “Hi, I’m so glad to see you up. How are you feeling?”
I try to answer, but my throat rebels, the words caught somewhere between thought and sound. She must see the struggle on my face because her smile softens, and she leans closer.
“It’s okay. Don’t strain yourself,” she says, her voice calm and reassuring. She reaches over to the wall and presses a button. A soft beep follows, and then a voice crackles through the intercom.
“Yes?”
“Can you send Dr. Locke? Let him know that the patient on room 6 is awake,” she says into the speaker.
“Will do,” the voice replies.
The nurse nods, then turns back to me, her focus now entirely on my condition. “Let me check your vitals while we wait for the doctor,” she says, setting her tablet down on the small table beside my bed.
I motion toward my throat, trying to signal how dry it feels. She picks up on it instantly. “Your throat must feel pretty raw,” she says as she pours water into a small cup. “Here, take a few sips, just small ones for now.”
I take the cup with my good hand, the cool plastic pressing against my fingers. I bring it to my lips and let the first sip slide down my throat. The icy sensation feels like heaven, and I take another, slower this time, savoring the relief.
“Better?” she asks, watching me closely.
I nod, my voice still lost but the gratitude clear in my expression.
“Good. Now, just try to relax. The doctor will be here soon to assess everything,” she says, her tone encouraging but professional.
As she begins checking my blood pressure and jotting down notes, I find myself staring at her, hoping she’ll say more. Anything to help me piece together what’s happened. But she stays quiet, her focus on her tasks.
The quiet hum of the machines fills the room again, and I grip the cup of water tighter, wishing the answers would come as easily as the relief from those first few sips.
After a few minutes, a man in blue scrubs and a white lab coat walks into the room, a calm but focused expression on his face. He looks to be in his mid-fifties, with a professional air that exudes experience. In his hand, he holds a tablet, which he glances at briefly before looking at me.
“Welcome back,” he says with a reassuring smile. “I’m Dr. Locke, and I’ve been overseeing your care since you arrived on this floor. How are you feeling?”
I clear my throat, still slightly scratchy, but the water has helped. “I feel like I was hit by a truck,” I rasp, my voice hoarse but audible. “What happened?”
“You fell from a roof,” he explains, his tone gentle but matter-of-fact. “You’ve been here for the past week, recovering from the injuries you sustained.”
My eyes widen as his words sink in. Fell from a roof? Why the hell was I on a roof? The confusion swirls in my mind, but before I can ask, Dr. Locke steps closer, holding a small penlight.
“I need to check your eyes,” he says, leaning in. “Follow the light for me, please.”
He moves the light slowly, and I do my best to follow its movement, though my head feels heavy, and the effort makes my temples throb.
“You sustained a moderate traumatic brain injury,” he continues, his tone calm and professional.
“You have a concussion, a broken arm—which is why you’re in a cast—and some deep bruising across your body.
There’s also some swelling in your brain that we’ve been monitoring closely.
The good news is that the swelling has started to subside, and your vital signs have been stable for the past 48 hours. ”
“Can you tell me your name?” At his words, I try to think of my name, but I come up blank.
“I don’t know my name.”
“What about your birthday or what year it is? Do you have any memories at all?”
All these questions he’s asking have no answers. I don’t know how to respond to any of them, and a pit of unease grows in my stomach. “Why... why don’t I remember anything?” I manage to ask, my voice shaky.
Dr. Locke pauses, his gaze softening as he sets the penlight aside.
“Memory loss isn’t uncommon after a head injury, especially one of this severity.
It could be temporary, but it’s difficult to predict how long it might last. The type of memory loss you’re describing is called retrograde amnesia and can sometimes affect events leading up to the injury or, in some cases, larger periods of your life. ”
I stare at him, his words hitting me like a punch to the gut.
“What do you mean, temporary?” I ask, my voice rising slightly. “How long could it take for my memories to come back? Days? Weeks? Forever?”
Dr. Locke places a calming hand on the side of my bed.
“I know this is overwhelming, but let me reassure you that we’ve seen cases like this where memory improves over time, sometimes as the brain heals and swelling reduces.
It could take days or weeks. In rare cases, it might take longer.
For now, it’s important to focus on rest and allowing your body to recover.
We’ll continue to run tests and monitor your progress. ”
I nod numbly, my thoughts spinning. The doctor’s words seem both hopeful and terrifying.
“If you feel any sharp pains, dizziness, or confusion beyond what’s expected, let the nurses know immediately,” Dr. Locke adds.
“We’ll be doing regular cognitive tests to assess your memory and mental clarity.
You’ll also work with our physical therapists and neurologists as part of your recovery plan. ”
He straightens, giving me a moment to absorb everything before continuing. “Do you have any questions for me right now?”
I stare at him, the words forming in my mind, though they feel like a whisper in a storm. “How do I fix this?”
Dr. Locke’s expression softens further. “There’s no single fix for something like this, but you have a team of people here to help you, and it sounds like you’ve got people who care about you outside this hospital. Healing is a process, both physically and mentally. One step at a time.”
I nod again, though it feels more like an instinct than agreement. One step at a time. Right now, it feels like I’m at the bottom of a mountain I can’t even see.
The doctor and nurse leave the room, their words still echoing in my mind.
Retrograde amnesia.
Traumatic brain injury.
Temporary.
Maybe.
I stare after them, feeling hollow. They didn’t even tell me my name. Is it on the chart? Should I have asked? Or do I have to wait for someone—anyone—to come and fill in the blanks for me?
The silence in the room is deafening, broken only by the steady beep of the machines.
My body feels heavy and the exhaustion is unlike anything I’ve ever known.
I look around the sterile room, willing something to trigger a memory, but there’s nothing.
No flicker of recognition, no sense of familiarity. Just emptiness.
The door creaks open, and I turn my head, expecting a nurse or doctor. Instead, the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen steps inside.
She takes my breath away.
Her dark skin seems to glow despite the faint shadows under her eyes.
Her curls frame her face, soft and wild all at once.
She’s wearing a dress that hugs her frame, accentuating a prominent baby bump.
She looks tired, worn, like she hasn’t had a proper night’s sleep in weeks.
But even with the exhaustion etched into her features, she’s stunning.
She stops short, her hands flying to her mouth as her wide, tear-filled eyes lock on mine.
We stare at each other in silence, the air thick with an unspoken connection—or at least, I hope there’s a connection. I hope she’s mine. I hope that baby she’s carrying is mine.
God, please let them be mine.
I glance at her hands—no ring. My heart sinks for a moment until I glance down at my own hand. No ring there either.
My mouth feels dry again, and I struggle to find my voice. “Hi,” I manage, the word barely audible.
Her hands drop from her mouth, and she takes a step closer, her eyes never leaving mine. “Noah,” she whispers, her voice trembling.
Noah. That name. It feels familiar, like hearing a song you forgot you loved. It settles into my chest, and I know it must be mine.
But who is she? And why does the way she say my name make me feel like I’ve just been found?
Tears spill down her cheeks as she steps closer, and for the first time since waking up, I feel something other than fear.
Hope.