Chapter 3
Three days later, I’m forced to accept another sobering truth: My haircut is awful.
I stare at it in the mirror of my cramped hospital bathroom, frowning at the blunt cut that ends at my chin, the erratic angle of the bangs.
I’ve never had bangs before, and my body seems to be rejecting them, refusing to accept their appearance so they’re physically unable to lie flat against my forehead.
This feels like a tragedy on par with losing a year’s worth of memories.
My hair had always been the physical feature I was most proud of.
My blond locks had fallen halfway down my back for as long as I could remember.
And, yes, I had started needing highlights to maintain the color when I reached high school, but it hadn’t mattered—my grandmother would still gush about my hair, how it was exactly like my mother’s.
It was always the one thing about myself that I didn’t wish would change.
And now it was gone, replaced by the same haircut I gave my Barbies when I was five.
I’m doing my best to use the tap water to force my bangs into submission when I hear a knock on my hospital door.
“Ms. Stephens?” Dr. Buterman’s voice calls out.
For a moment I consider staying silent. Maybe if no one knows I’m in here I could buy myself a few more days, maybe even a week, before I’m forced to face whatever is waiting for me out there in the real world.
I close my eyes and try to manifest him leaving, the way my grandmother always told me to. If I just focus hard enough, maybe some innate magic will do the rest.
Then the knock is on the bathroom door. “Ms. Stephens?”
I never really mastered that whole manifesting thing, did I?
“I’ll be right there,” I call out, hastening my attempts to get my hair in order until I finally give up, forcing a smile onto my face as I emerge. “Hello, Doctor.”
Dr. Buterman looks just like he did the first time I met him, and in every subsequent visit to my room.
Same scrubs, same white coat, same perfectly combed hair.
I’m starting to wonder if he ever goes home, or if he just keeps wandering the halls until he runs out of batteries and someone plugs him back in again.
“Is now a good time?” he asks, eyeing my wet bangs.
“Sure,” I say, trying hard to maintain a smile, even though I have no idea what constitutes a good time anymore, let alone if this is one of them.
Dr. Buterman taps on his tablet while I make my way over to the bed.
“I have your latest scans here. Your injury is healing nicely. And your motor function seems to be fully intact, which is good. We’ll keep an eye on it, but for the moment, you don’t need physical therapy. I think you’re ready to go home.”
He looks up and nods, as if the silver lining to not remembering the last year is that I can walk right back into it unencumbered.
“But I still don’t remember anything,” I say.
“Yes, your memory.” His attention returns to the tablet. “We’ve scheduled you an appointment tomorrow with a neuropsychologist here. They have the results of your cognitive tests and will work out a plan for tackling all that.”
All that. Like my lack of memory is a sidenote, a minor inconvenience.
He continues talking, this time about something called pathophysiology and neuronal tissues, until he’s interrupted by another knock on the door.
“Hello!” A nurse I don’t recognize enters, pushing a wheelchair with a plastic bag full of clothing on its seat. “I’ve got your ride here when you’re ready.”
Dr. Buterman clears his throat, already turning toward the door.
“All right. Your discharge paperwork has all the recommendations for you to follow over the next few weeks. Reduce your screen time. Abstain from alcohol. Get plenty of sleep. That sort of thing. If you have any questions, give me a call.”
Is he serious? All I have are questions, and he just added about a dozen to the list. But he’s already out the door before I can ask even one.
“Do you want to change?” the nurse asks. “Your clothes and things from the ER are there on the seat.”
It’s only then that I fully register that the bag sitting on the seat of the wheelchair is for me.
Through the clear plastic I can see a blue sweater, a pair of jeans, something gray that could be a jacket.
I don’t recognize any of it, but that doesn’t matter, because I also see one thing that is familiar: my purple leather tote.
“Is my phone in there?” I ask, wide-eyed.
She just shrugs.
I grab the plastic bag and pull out the tote to empty its contents on the nearby bed.
My wallet is there, and when I open it I see my license staring back.
Except it’s not my California one. This one has MASSACHUSETTS emblazoned across the top.
The home address is unfamiliar, too: 41 Sheafe Street, Apt.
3A. The only reason I even know it’s mine is because of the picture.
Those are my wide, blue eyes, and my big, bright smile.
And there, tucked behind my ears, is my gloriously long blond hair.
I scowl down at her. Bangs? Really?
She only smiles back, blissfully unaware of what the future holds.
I move on to the other contents of the bag.
There’s the Last Toast on the Coast! key chain I got at Sara’s bachelorette party that I remember, but three brass keys are hanging from it that I definitely don’t.
I don’t recognize the two tubes of lip balm, either, or the pair of oversized black sunglasses.
I find my cell phone at the bottom of the bag.
The pink-and-red-striped case is the same one I had in California, but when I press the button on the side to light up the screen, the wallpaper is new.
The photo is too abstract to make out any details, but it looks like it could be a sunset, close-up and out of focus.
Regardless, I don’t have time to decipher it now.
The battery is at 7 percent, just enough to reveal that I have seventeen missed calls.
I don’t know enough people to have seventeen missed calls. I can’t even think of a reason why my limited number of contacts would call me seventeen times. Matt already knew I was here, and the only other person I talk to regularly is Sara.
My pulse jumps. Does Sara know I’m here? Did Matt call her? Garrett is his best friend, so it would make sense.
I quickly tap the screen and type in my passcode to find out but am immediately thwarted.
Incorrect Passcode
I try again.
Incorrect Passcode
Oh no. No no no no.
I try again, then again, so close to a breakdown that I don’t think to stop until the screen goes black and I’m greeted with a new message.
iPhone Unavailable
try again in 1 minute
Matt used to chide me about having the same passcode our entire relationship, reminding me I should be changing it at least every six months. Apparently, I had picked the worst possible time to start listening.
“Oh my God,” I mutter to myself.
The nurse is kneeling beside me, too busy getting the wheelchair footrests situated to notice my anxiety. “Everything okay?”
I hold up the darkened screen. “I can’t unlock my phone.”
“Oh, I’ve been there,” she says, shaking her head as she stands up. “My five-year-old hid in the bathroom with my phone and tried so many passcodes that the whole thing shut down and I had to take it to a store to get fixed.”
I can feel the tears forming in my eyes again as I run my hand through my hair the way I’ve always done when I’m stressed.
It’s a habit from childhood, and I don’t remember to stop myself until my bangs are back to their original jaunty angles, sticking out in every direction.
All my hard work erased without a trace.
The nurse smiles, oblivious, as she stands and comes around the back of the wheelchair to take hold of the handles. “What do you say we get you home?”
Ten minutes later, I’m sitting in a wheelchair parked outside the hospital’s main entrance, wearing the jeans and a light blue sweater from the plastic bag.
I still don’t recognize them but they fit perfectly, so I put them on along with a very nice but completely unfamiliar gray wool coat.
The blue polyester hospital socks peek out from the pair of red Crocs on my feet that are supposedly mine, too.
My tote bag is sitting on my lap, while I clutch my discharge papers in my hand.
I can see the nurse who brought me downstairs in the periphery, keeping an eye out for the car that is supposedly taking me home.
I can also see my bangs sticking out from my forehead toward the street, like they’re reaching for freedom.
So this is rock bottom, I think.
Thankfully, no one else seems to notice.
There is a steady stream of visitors and hospital staff coming in and out of the nearby revolving glass doors who are completely oblivious to my plight.
I hear snippets of conversations as they pass—test results, weekend plans, someone complaining about parking—but no one comments on the blond woman looking utterly dejected by the curb.
Which is probably for the best. I don’t think I can muster the smile required to make sure they don’t have to worry about me. Even if they probably should.
It’s not quite nine o’clock and the morning air is cool enough to send goose bumps over my skin despite the coat.
I’m used to brisk mornings—even while I was packing my and Matt’s apartment in the middle of July, the Pacific Ocean kept Los Angeles cool enough to need a sweatshirt—but here in Boston, the cold has a different bite, like it’s only hinting at its full potential.
Maybe because it’s autumn. At least, I think it’s autumn.
There are yellow and orange leaves falling from the nearby tree sprouting up from the sidewalk.
I watch them scatter across the pavement as my breath curls in the air in front of me.
Trust the universe, Marnie, my grandmother’s voice echoes through my head. The magic will find you if you just—
“Ah, here we go!” the nurse exclaims, making me jump.