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‘That’s right. You hit your head and you’ve got a few bumps and bruises. You’re going to be fine, though. Are you in pain?’
I pat the bandage.
‘Let me get onto that for you,’ says Bea. She leaves the room and Dr Cleave moves closer. He fiddles with the stethoscope around his neck.
‘By any chance, do you remember anything about the accident?’ he asks casually.
I frown, trying to summon my past, but it’s like reaching into a vast crater. There’s nothing to remember.
‘No. Nothing,’ I reply.
‘That’s okay,’ he says in a voice so reassuring, I almost believe him. He pulls a torch from his coat pocket and shines it into my eyes. I wish he wouldn’t do that. ‘Now, I’m sure you’re wondering about Blake. He was pretty lucky to come out of the accident with only a few stitches and contusions.’ He clicks off the light and tucks it away. I blink, trying to regain focus.
There’s a knock on the door and a woman enters the room. I can tell she’s not a nurse because she’s wearing a tailored red coat, a felted wool beret and is carrying an umbrella. Her bow-shaped lips form a smile when she sees me.
‘Gracie,’ she says, relief in her voice. She hovers in the doorway, seemingly unsure of whether to stay or go.
‘Come in,’ says Dr Cleave.
‘I’m Scarlett,’ she introduces herself to him. ‘Did she just wake up?’ She removes the beret from her head, letting a mass of caramel-coloured curls fall around her shoulders.
Dr Cleave nods. ‘I need to ask her a few questions.’
‘Should I come back later?’ She points to the door.
‘No need, I’ll be done soon,’ says Dr Cleave, glancing over my chart.
I can’t stop staring at the woman—Scarlett, who is now sitting beside the bed and holding my hand. I think I am supposed to know who she is. She obviously knows me. Why don’t I know her?
Dr Cleave slides out a pencil from behind his ear. ‘I’m going to ask you a few more questions, but I don’t want you to worry if you can’t answer them all, okay?’
I swallow nervously and nod, feeling the colour drain from my face.
‘Can you tell me when your birthday is?’
December? No. March. September? I look up at the ceiling, my eyes darting left and right. Surely I must know the answer. Why don’t I know the answer?
‘Gracie?’ says Dr Cleave, trying to grab my attention.
‘I … uh, I don’t know.’
How can I not know my birthday? What month are we even in now?It’s raining outside. Scarlett is wearing a coat. Okay, it must be winter. I was in a car accident. I hit my head. I’m in the hospital. My name is … Gracie.
‘How about your address?’
Oh God, I don’t know my address, either.
I stare blankly at him. I want to tell him but can’t. It’s on the tip of my tongue, and then … it’s not. And I can’t tell if it’s slipped away or if it was never there in the first place. I glance at Scarlett, who is in the chair near my bed, her mouth ajar. She closes it when her eyes meet mine and resumes fumbling with the hat on her lap.
Dr Cleave continues. ‘Favourite colour?’
I shrug. ‘Purple?’ My voice is barely audible.
He looks at me over his glasses before pushing them up his nose. ‘Really?’
‘Pink?’ I say, feeling hopeless.
I squeeze my eyes closed for a second as I draw a long, deep breath. My mind starts to scramble, attempting to search for a recollection of the past, but it’s as if my life is like an empty container. I shake it, turn it upside down, except nothing comes out.
Dr Cleave pats my leg. ‘I think that’s enough for now. I don’t want you to worry,’ he says, but I can’t help noticing the way he’s scribbling down notes. ‘It’s normal for you to feel a bit disorientated like this. I’m going to order a few more tests.’
‘Tests?’
‘I’m going to order a neuropsych assessment and maybe a couple of scans. You had a significant blow to the head, and while I don’t think we have anything to be too concerned about, I’d still like to double-check things, just to be sure.’
‘Okay,’ I reply quietly.
‘I’m going to have a word with Scarlett, and I’ll be back a little later. I want you to rest up for now. Do you have any questions in the meantime?’
‘I don’t think so.’ I allow my eyes to momentarily drift shut before opening them again.
‘I should let Blake know she’s awake,’ says Scarlett, who is still sitting beside me. She’s stroking the back of my hand with her thumb. I pull away and ball my hand into a fist.
‘What’s wrong?’ she says, her deep-blue eyes trying to meet mine. I don’t know how to tell her that I have no idea who she is. I look the other way, avoiding eye contact with her.
Dr Cleave peers over his clipboard, and glances at the hand I’ve pulled away from Scarlett. He clicks his pen, tucks it in his coat pocket and turns around to leave the room.
Scarlett stands up to follow him.
‘Actually … I do have a question,’ I say, directing my words to Dr Cleave. My voice wobbles. ‘Who’s Blake?’
Scarlett lets out a noise, like a whimper, only louder.
Dr Cleave flips back around, failing to hide the look of disquiet on his face.
‘You don’t know who Blake is?’ he asks, tilting his head.
‘Should I?’
Dr Cleave glances at Scarlett, who interjects, ‘Gracie, Blake’s your fiancé.’
‘That’s … impossible,’ I reply.
Isn’t it?
‘You’re supposed to be getting married in three months. You’ve known each other for …’ She looks at the ceiling, as if she’s trying to work it out. ‘Fourteen years,’ she says finally.
‘That can’t be … I’m not …’
Engaged?
‘It’s okay,’ says Dr Cleave, trying to reassure me. ‘We’ll get Blake in and I’m sure that’ll help—’
‘I can’t … I don’t … just wait,’ I say, trying to make sense of all this. I press my hand against my forehead. Think, Gracie. Think. Maybe if they give me a chance to think about it all, I’ll be able to remember.
Scarlett places a hand on my wrist.
‘Gracie,’ she says. ‘Look at me.’
I swallow past the lump that’s formed in my throat.
‘I know you’re scared, and I know you’re freaking out, but we’ll help you to remember.’
My heart starts to hammer.
But what if I never do?
When Scarlett returns to my room after chatting with Dr Cleave, she’s carrying a fresh arrangement of flowers. They’re not just any flowers. They’re tulips. Rembrandts. Like the painter. Butter-coloured petals variegated with bright-red flames.
‘The perfect way to brighten up your hospital room,’ she says, her lips forming a smile as she carries them over to the round table in the corner. She starts arranging them into a vase that’s much too small. She needs to cut the stems shorter.
‘It’s too early for tulips,’ I whisper. ‘Tulips don’t bloom in winter.’
Scarlett pauses with a stem in her hand. ‘What did you say?’ she asks, narrowing her gaze.
‘Neither do dahlias. They must be imported,’ I murmur.
Why do I know this? How can I know this but nothing else, like my birthday? Or my favourite colour? Or Blake?
My fiancé. The fiancé who, according to Scarlett, I am supposed to be marrying in three months’ time. The fiancé I am supposed to be spending the rest of my life with but can’t remember.
‘Dr Cleave said he’s going to run those extra tests as soon as possible. We’re just waiting for Blake to arrive.’ She wrings her hands together. ‘I told him you’re having some trouble recalling things, but I didn’t exactly tell him you couldn’t remember who he is.’ She scrunches her face. ‘I think it’s better if Dr Cleave tells him, don’t you?’
I bite down on my lip but don’t answer her.
‘Anyway, he left with Noah and went home this morning for a shower and change of clothes. We practically had to force him out of here. He didn’t leave your side for days and then the moment he leaves, you wake up …’
Scarlett continues rambling on, which appears to be more out of nervousness than anything else. ‘Noah will pop in after work. Oh, I called Ava from your office to let her know what happened, but I need the number for—’
‘Where are my parents?’ I cut into her blather.
Scarlett almost knocks over the flowers. She tilts her head and blinks at me as if she hasn’t heard me properly. Her brow creases but she stands there, frozen, her fingers gripping the vase.
‘My mum? Dad? Brother? Sister?’ I press.
Scarlett’s eyes widen with each passing second until she regains her composure and sucks in a breath as she approaches the bed. She speaks softly, the way a mother might break bad news to a child in the most honest and gentle way possible. ‘You never knew your dad. You’re an only child and your mum … well …’
I search her eyes for answers, holding my breath, waiting for her to explain.
‘Your mum passed away twelve months ago. Her name was Lainey and she … it was her heart. It was sudden and she hadn’t been diagnosed before it happened.’
This can’t be true. None of it can be true. How can I not know any of this? I don’t even remember my own mother? Scarlett reaches for my hand, but I pull it away before she can touch me.
‘Why do you keep doing that?’ She raises a hand to her lips as understanding dawns. ‘Oh my God. You don’t know me either, do you? You have no idea who I am.’ She takes a step back. ‘Gracie,’ she says, her voice fractured, filled with disbelief. ‘We’ve known each other for years. You don’t remember anything about me … us … the past?’
I’m scared to answer her, scared about what this all means.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say, my voice hoarse.
She cups her mouth, tears forming in her eyes—eyes that are blinking at me in shock. ‘I don’t believe it.’ She snivels. She takes a tissue from the bedside table and blows her nose, turning her back to me. She stands in front of the window, staring out to the carpark. Raindrops slide down the glass pane, the focal point of Scarlett’s attention as she takes the time to process this. Finally, she glances over her shoulder at me. I register the crestfallen expression on her face and wince. I don’t mean to hurt her like this and I don’t know how to make this easier for her.
She starts tearing the tissue she’s holding into tiny pieces.
‘What if my memory never comes back?’ I say quietly.
She approaches the bed. ‘You don’t have to worry about a thing. We’ll tell you everything you forgot. Everything that made you who you are, and everything you would have never wanted to forget.’ She sits down and cups my face. ‘Okay?’ she says, smiling through her tears.
‘Um, okay,’ I say, agreeing. My head feels full.
Scarlett rubs the moisture from under her eyes and inhales sharply, as if she’s hitting a reset button.
She scrunches the pieces of tissue into one hand and tosses them into the bin beside the bed. ‘Okay so, where to start?’ she says, sitting up straighter. ‘Do you know where you were going before you had the accident?’
I look blankly at her. I don’t really want to hear this. I want some time alone. To sleep. To think.
‘Of course you don’t,’ she says before I have a chance to answer her. ‘It was my birthday, and we were going out for dinner. There were about twenty of us. You baked my cake for me,’ she says, smiling. I can tell she’s trying to inject some lightness into our conversation to downplay the seriousness of all this, but it doesn’t work. She pauses, and I’m almost sure she’s waiting for me to nod or show some kind of sign that I recognise what she’s telling me; I simply stare back at her.
‘You and Blake were running late. You’re never late, which is sort of weird,’ she says, wrinkling her nose. ‘Never mind. Chrissie and Tom were there, Mel and Jack, Erin, Maddie …’ Her words trail off and fizzle into the air as her gaze meets mine. ‘You don’t remember any of these people, do you?’ she says finally.
‘Um, no.’
‘Okay, well, what if I tell you about—’
‘My mother,’ I interject.
‘Gracie,’ she says softly. ‘Are you saying you don’t remember anything about your mum, either?’
I don’t need to answer her because my expression says it all.
‘Oh, love,’ she says, closing her eyes momentarily. When she opens them she inhales deeply. ‘You were very close, more like sisters than mother and daughter. You used to talk on the phone all the time, at least once a day. And you used to visit her every weekend. You know that much, don’t you?’ she says hopefully.
‘No, I don’t. Do I … miss her?’ After I ask this question, I realise what a silly one it is. Naturally I must miss her, only I can’t seem to tap into any feelings that resemble the heartache of missing someone you love.
‘Of course you do,’ says Scarlett. ‘It’s been a difficult year, but you’re strong and you’re doing okay—slowly coming to peace with things. Nothing could have prepared you for it. She was only fifty-six … no … fifty-eight …’ She places a finger on her lips. ‘Sorry, I can’t remember exactly.’
‘What did I love most about her?’ I whisper.
She smiles. ‘Well, I’d say you probably loved everything about her. She was kind and generous and loving, and she knew how to make you feel better when you were feeling down.’
