Chapter 4
BEA
Awareness comes on a panicked gasp.
Dark, amorphous fragments of memory fall away before I can catch hold of them.
My heart is racing.
Dread presses down on my chest, making it hard to take a full breath.
Fractured thoughts race through my mind.
Something’s wrong.
I don’t feel right.
What happened?
And the most terrifying of all.
Why can’t I remember?
My lids feel weighted, almost too heavy to lift.
My limbs feel detached from my body.
I command my arm to move, but it resists.
What happened to me?
Frantic drumbeats speed up their staccato rhythm in my chest; a silent pulse I can feel but not hear.
A terrified thought slams into me.
I can’t hear anything.
Amid my panic, I’m tossed back to the past.
When I lived in a world of claustrophobic silence.
When all the things I used to hear—my mother humming in the kitchen while she cooked, my dad’s cheers whenever the Steelers got a touchdown, the birds chattering outside my bedroom window—were stolen from me.
When I first started to lose my hearing, I thought I was imagining things. But days later, after everything had dulled to an unintelligible buzz, I couldn’t ignore the reality of it anymore.
A rare complication of chickenpox, the doctor explained. In dual strokes of bad luck, I not only contracted chickenpox only weeks before I was due to be vaccinated, but I ended up with Ramsay Hunt Syndrome, a condition typically found in adults over sixty.
And, unfortunately, fourteen-year-old me.
Instead of enjoying my freshman year of high school, I had to divide my after school time between specialist appointments and working with a tutor to learn ASL. All the plans I had—drama club, the school newspaper, joining a sports team, making new friends—had to take a backseat to my recovery.
Except I couldn’t recover. All the other unpleasant side effects of Ramsay Hunt went away, like the embarrassing facial paralysis and the rash around my ear, but my hearing? That was gone for good.
Wait.
But it’s not, though, is it?
I have my implants. The devices that brought back a sense of normalcy when I was seventeen. The devices that allow me to talk to my patients, to have conversations with the cashier at the grocery store, to meet people without fear of judgement.
But if I have them, why can’t I hear?
Why does it feel like I’m trapped in a bubble insulated with thick walls of cotton?
Why don’t my muscles want to respond to my commands?
Panic blooms into full-blown terror. Clawing. Tearing. Snatching at my breath.
Something is wrong.
Something happened. Something bad.
Fear works its way up my throat, escaping in a low, frightened moan.
With the sound, relief surges, albeit briefly.
I can hear.
But as things come back into focus, I realize that doesn’t make sense.
If I was sleeping, my cochlear implants shouldn’t be on. They should be in the charger on my bedside table.
Did I go out for drinks with Jenna last night? Have one too many while commiserating about boyfriend troubles? Did I fall into bed with my implants still on, even though I haven’t done that since Fiona and Aidy got me drunk for my twenty-first birthday?
Jenna.
There’s a yawning blank with her name on it.
Did she break up with Greg? Did he cheat on her?
The dread builds.
Why can’t I remember?
I need to remember.
This time when I tell my arm to move, it does.
And I manage to pry my eyes open.
At first, all I see is a wash of white.
My heart nearly explodes with fear.
Am I blind now? Was there some fluke complication that’s been lurking in my body, waiting to strike until nearly twenty years later?
Another scared cry escapes.
Tears burn behind my eyes.
“Bea. It’s okay.”
The masculine rumble is foreign and familiar at the same time.
A warm hand touches mine. “Bea,” the man continues in a low, soothing tone, “You’re okay. You’re safe.”
I blink several times to clear my vision, hoping and praying it works.
“It’s okay,” he repeats. “I know this is scary. And you’re probably still disoriented right now. But it’ll come back. Just give it some time.”
As the blurriness fades, a man’s face comes into view.
Striking blue eyes meet mine.
They’re worried. Tired. But alert and assessing.
His wavy brown hair is messy, like it hasn’t been combed in days. A short beard covers strong, angular features, and as he leans forward, a tattoo peeks out from beneath the collar of his shirt.
“Bea,” he says. His brows pull into a deep V as he inspects my face. “Do you remember me?”
Even as I start to shake my head in an instinctive denial, my brain stops me.
Things are fuzzy. Confusing. Disconnected.
But this man?
He’s familiar.
Not just familiar. Somehow, reassuring.
I try to push myself up to look at him more closely. To look around, to figure out where I am and why I don’t feel like myself. But I’m too weak, and I only make it a couple of inches up before sagging back down.
“Here.” Another pillow appears from seemingly nowhere, and he carefully lifts the pillow I’m on to nudge the new one beneath it.
“Don’t try to move too quickly,” he says.
“You’ve been out for a while. And with your head—” He stops.
His features tighten with anger, but he quickly smooths his expression back into a concerned one.
“What—” My voice is little more than a croak. “What happened? Where—”
“Do you want some water?” He reaches off to the side and comes back with a glass of clear liquid. “It might help your throat.”
I stare at him for a few seconds, debating.
My throat does feel like the Sahara. And the very thought of cool water against it sounds wonderful.
But is it water? Or could it be drugged?
“It’s safe,” the man says. He takes a sip and swallows, then flashes me a smile. “See? Just water.”
The instant he smiles, recognition slams into me.
I only saw that smile a few times, but I’ve never forgotten it.
And with the memory of his smile, the rest comes rushing back, as well.
“You,” I breathe. “But. What—”
His smile drops. “Do you remember me, Bea? I know it’s been a while. And things must be confusing right now.”
Do I remember him?
Now that the puzzle pieces have slotted into place, I can’t believe I didn’t realize who he was immediately.
“Indy.” I stare at my former patient, one I was certain I’d never see again. “I—” My voice cracks. “I remember you.”
He exhales. “Okay. That’s good.”
I stare at him, searching his features. Comparing this Indy to the one I knew years ago.
Despite the storm of confusion I’m caught in, looking at him settles me.
He’s the same—but different.
His eyes are still the same brilliant blue, but they’re not sad, like they used to be.
His hair is shorter; not short, exactly, but no longer the unkempt waves that reached nearly to his shoulders.
He has color in his cheeks again.
He looks more relaxed. Happier.
A knot in my chest I didn’t realize was there releases.
He’s doing okay. Maybe better than okay. Even good.
I worried about him for months after his last therapy appointment. I even thought about looking up his address and stopping over to check on him. But I never did, partly because that wouldn’t have been professional, and partly because I didn’t want to push myself on him if he didn’t want me there.
“You look happy,” I blurt.
Indy’s face jolts. “What?”
“Happy.” As I struggle to a seated position, he slips his arm behind my back and helps me up, then arranges the pillows behind me. “You look happy.”
“Um.” He stops. “I guess I am.” Another pause. “But I’m not worried about me right now. How are you feeling?”
The question brings me up short.
It was easier to focus on Indy—a known factor in all of this—than the other things I don’t know.
Like, where am I? Because a glance around the room tells me I’m not at home. I’m in a bedroom, yes, but it’s decorated in warm greens and beiges, not the soft roses and grays back home.
And if I’m not at home, why aren’t I?
Why do I feel so strange?
Why does my head hurt?
And why is Indy here?
“Indy…” This time my voice quivers. Pressure builds behind my eyes. My nose prickles. “I don’t understand. What…” A lump lodges in my throat. “What…”
“Bea.” Indy perches on the edge of the mattress. He takes my wrist, cradling it gently, and rests his finger above my racing pulse. “I’m sorry. I know this is hard.”
“What’s hard? I don’t know what’s going on.” A tear sneaks free and trickles down my cheek. “Where am I? Why are you here? Why can’t I remember?”
Pain pinches his features. He draws in a deep breath, then lets it out slowly. “You were hurt. That’s why you’re having trouble remembering. But the doctors said it’ll come back. It just might take—”
“Hurt?” I touch my forehead instinctively, wincing at the contact. With the pain, a memory pokes at me. Not fully emerged, but wedged right below the surface.
“Be careful,” Indy scolds, catching my hand and lowering it to my lap. “You have a cut there. You don’t want to start it bleeding again.”
Hurt? Cut? Bleeding?
Another frustrated tear escapes. And another.
“Ah, Bea. Don’t cry.” Indy takes my hand again, stroking his thumb across the back of it. “It’s going to be okay. I promise. As soon as you remember, I’ll explain—”
Frustration shifts to anger as I snatch my hand away from his. “Remember what?” My voice pitches close to a shout. “Just tell me!”
The rise in volume makes my head throb. Pain slashes behind my eyes.
“Bea,” Indy starts. “I can’t—”
I slam my eyes shut.
Through the darkness, another image emerges.
And then.
I’m back there.
In the locker room.
In the silence.
Though my brain is screaming at me to turn around, my feet drag me forward.
The same dread I woke up with is back, only ten times worse.
A tang of copper hits my nose.
I hear myself calling, “Jenna?”
My footsteps echo in the empty locker room.
Except.
It’s not empty. Is it?
First it’s one puddle of crimson.
Then another.
And finally—
Horror explodes inside me.
“NO!”
The cry is ripped out of me.