The Year Worth Remembering

Chapter 1

I don’t know what time it is when I wake up in the hospital, only that Goldie Hawn is standing at the foot of my bed.

Wait. That can’t be right.

“Andrew?” Goldie calls out. “Are you going to bring me my lemon, or do I have to squeeze it from my hat?”

Huh.

I don’t know why I’m in a hospital bed. Right now, it doesn’t even seem like the most pressing concern.

I’m much too focused on how dry my mouth is, like I swallowed a handful of sand and cotton, and why my pajamas are so ridiculously itchy.

Oh God, are they polyester? Did someone give me polyester pajamas?

My grandmother is going to be so disappointed in me, I think.

That was one of her rules for life: Never wear synthetic materials; they disrupt your divine energy.

But that concern is quickly usurped by a new thought: Do hospital pajamas count as disruptive?

Then another: I should ask her. And then another: Wait… I can’t ask her. She’s dead.

That’s right. My grandmother died two years ago.

And honestly, the fact I didn’t immediately recall this should be more worrying than the polyester.

But my brain is too foggy to hold firmly on to any one thought, especially when my half-open eyes find the television again.

It’s an old unit and the colors are dull, but I don’t care.

Right now, the hospital bed and the polyester and my grandmother take a back seat to Goldie Hawn as she glides across the television screen in a stunning red swimsuit, her blond hair swept up in a high bun.

She’s that perfect shade of blond, really—buttery without being too yellow, bright without being too platinum. The color I’ve been chasing for years.

I’m so riveted by the movie I almost miss the sound of someone sighing nearby, low and gravelly.

The sound thrums through my body, finally dragging my attention away from the movie.

I try to loll my head to the side to see where it came from, but the motion takes effort, like I’m operating my body underwater.

When I finally manage it, I’m rewarded with the view of a man.

A doctor. At least, I think he’s a doctor.

Why else would he be standing a few feet away from my bed, glasses perched on his nose and his brow furrowed as he studies the nearby beeping machine?

Except he’s not wearing a white coat like doctors do on TV.

Instead, he has on a thick navy sweater that’s fraying along the neckline, and there’s about a week’s worth of stubble along his jaw.

His dark hair is too long for a doctor, too, like he’s missed about a year’s worth of haircuts.

Shouldn’t he be wearing a hairnet? Or am I thinking of food workers?

Regardless, this question isn’t nearly as pressing as the one currently sitting at the forefront of my mind.

“Excuse me,” I croak, only slightly aware that my voice sounds like I spent the night gargling shards of glass.

He stills, then turns enough to look at me over the rim of his tortoiseshell glasses, a serious brow and serious eyes and a mouth that should be serious, too, except his lips are so full, it almost looks like he’s pouting.

“Do you think Goldie Hawn uses purple shampoo?” I ask.

His expression skews with confusion and something else, something I can’t pinpoint. “I’m sorry?”

Oh, his voice is lovely. Deep and rumbly in a way that I love.

But there’s also a slight tinge to it. Not annoyance, exactly…

maybe concern? I don’t know. I would ask him, but I can’t because Kurt Russell is on-screen now, and the only thing I can focus on is the circumference of Kurt’s biceps.

Have I always found sleeveless T-shirts on men sexy?

“Do you need something?” Doctor Sweater asks, his deep voice breaking through my blurry consciousness.

What were we talking about? Oh, that’s right.

Goldie’s hair. I flop my head to the side again, ready to swing my own long blond locks over my shoulder to explain the importance of a good toner.

But when I finally manage to lift my hand up to my head, ready to comb my fingers through the tangles and knots that inevitably extend down past my shoulders, there’s…

nothing. Just a blunt straight edge at my chin where the rest of my hair should be.

I try to find it again. And again. Then I run both hands through what I can only imagine is a blunt bob, clumsily grasping at the ends as if pulling at them will somehow make the missing eight inches reappear.

“Where’s my hair?” I ask, eyes wide, my brain finally connecting all the disparate dots around me.

If my hair is gone, and I’m wearing polyester in a hospital bed with an IV line connected to my wrist, then something must be very, very wrong.

“What’s going on? Why am I in the hospital?

Am I dying?” Then I see something out of the corner of my eye, a piece of hair sticking out from my forehead. “Are these bangs? Do I have bangs?”

The beeping machine begins to sound manic, but before Doctor Sweater can answer, the door to the room opens and a nurse appears, her expression calm as her gaze slides from the machine to me.

“Good afternoon,” she says, stopping beside my bed. “I’m Brenda. Glad to see you’re finally awake. How are you feeling?”

“Someone cut my hair,” I say, hoping Brenda will grasp the severity of the situation.

“It looks really cute.” Then she offers me the smile of someone who knows they’re placating you and doesn’t care if it’s obvious that they’re placating you.

Another nurse enters and I loll my head to the side to watch as she starts to fuss with the mess of tubes and wires on the other side of my bed.

A moment later, the beeping machine falls silent and I turn back to Brenda to see that she’s busy pushing buttons on its front panel.

I also notice that Doctor Sweater is gone.

“Where’s the doctor?” I ask.

“He’ll be by in a few minutes. Right now, I just need to check your vitals and make sure—”

“What about Matt?”

She doesn’t take her gaze away from the machine as she asks, “Who?”

“Matt Amos. My boyfriend.” I’m trying to keep my voice steady but it’s starting to waver the way it always does when I’m panicked. “Has anyone called him?”

“If you give me his number, I can have one of the nurses contact him. Visiting hours end at nine, so if he can get here in the next few hours—”

I try to shake my head but fail miserably. “He can’t. He’s not here. I mean, I know he’s not here here. But he’s not even here in LA. He left for Boston two weeks ago.”

The nurse toying with my IV pauses before sharing a confused look with Brenda.

“Boston is three hours ahead of us, right?” I ask. “I always mess that up. But it doesn’t matter, you can still call him, even if it’s early. He won’t mind.”

I don’t know why I add that, because of course he will mind.

Over our two years together, I’ve learned there’s nothing Matt minds more than being woken up early, especially if he’s been stuck working late the night before.

But I’m making an executive decision. I may not have any idea what’s happening right now, but I’m sure whatever it is trumps Matt’s sleep schedule.

“Okay,” Brenda responds carefully. “Why don’t you give me his number, and I’ll give him a call myself.”

I recite Matt’s phone number, and Brenda notes it on the nearby computer.

“Is there anyone else we need to call, Margaret?” she asks. “Any family?”

No, I almost say. There’s only me.

Instead I reply, “It’s Marnie.”

“Sorry?”

“I go by Marnie.”

Brenda offers an overly sympathetic smile. “Okay, Marnie. Just hold tight and the doctor will be here soon.”

By the time Overboard cuts to commercial, there are more nurses scurrying around my bed like they each have their own important task, though I have no idea what they’re doing.

Then the door to the room swings open again and a middle-aged man enters.

Unlike Doctor Sweater, he looks the part with a white coat over his blue scrubs.

He has a classic doctor haircut, too, gray hair that’s thin and meticulously combed back, and a pair of wire reading glasses perched on his nose.

“Hello, Ms. Stephens,” he says flatly, his attention on the tablet in his hands. “I’m Dr. Buterman, one of the critical care neurologists here at Mass General. How are you feeling today?”

“Okay?” I answer, only slightly aware that it comes out like a question. My foggy brain is too busy trying to place the hospital. Mass General… is that in Ventura? Or Burbank?

“Do you remember why you’re here?” he asks.

No. I don’t even know where here is. Or why no one has turned off the television yet.

When I don’t reply, Dr. Buterman notes something on his tablet before he continues. “You were brought to the ER yesterday evening after you were found unconscious and unresponsive. The initial CT scan showed a cerebral contusion on your medial temporal lobe, causing an acute subdural hematoma…”

Dr. Buterman keeps talking, a steady drone of words and medical jargon I didn’t even know existed.

Syllables and letters strung together like they’re significant.

I try to follow along, or at least look like I am, but I can’t keep up the ruse.

Everything becomes a jumble in my mind, so when he’s done, all I can say is: “I don’t know what any of that means. ”

He sighs as he gives me a look over the rim of his glasses. And I hate how, out of everything I’ve been confronted by in the past few minutes, that look is the only thing that’s familiar. Another person who sees a blonde from Malibu and assumes every stereotype is true.

I’m not dumb, I want to say. I’m just terrified and confused and so so itchy.

But I can’t admit that because even though my mind still feels muddled, I know enough to not be difficult. Not even a brain injury can derail thirty years of people-pleasing tendencies.

“Sorry,” I say. “It’s just… could you explain that again in layman’s terms?”