With a shake of her head and aIf you have to ask, you’ll never understandlook, she says, “I charged your phone. The intake nurse thought it was broken but I gave it a little check-up. It’s cracked, but it works.” She holds it out to me.
An iPhone, cracked to hell and splintered. I won’t be able to click on anything in the upper third of the screen, but only my banking and weather apps are up there. The important stuff is all at the bottom, within thumb’s reach.
My desktop background is a picture of myself. I’ve got good hair in it, at least. Gwen Stefani blond, all sirens-of-the-silver-screen glamour on one side and a buzz cut on the other, but salon quality; it doesn’t have thatI buzzed it myselfin a dimly lit bathroomvibe—I don’t think. I hold out the phone to Brenda. “Does this hairstyle seem like a weird choice to you, or is it just me?”
Brenda lets out a startled laugh. “Little weird. Can’t say I’m surprised.”
“Whatever, Brenda. You love me.”
She raises an eyebrow. “And you love quinoa.”
“Take me out to lunch and we’ll find out.” I look at the screen. It’s a lifeline to all of my friends and family—everything that matters. I mean, it’s one thing to lose your memory but another thing altogether to lose your phone. Email, texts, Facebook, Twitter, Instagram…Does it even matter that my memories aren’t in my brain? Everything that counts is on my phone. Hard data and digital evidence.
Including my name…
1Am I a lawyer?
2Except for “Jolene.”
3I might be a fashion expert.
4Or is he just reciting this off of WebMD?!
CHAPTER
TWO
As soon as the facial recognition software locks on my features, my phone’s screen unlocks. (Someone finally fucking remembers me!) “Siri, what’s my name?”
“Hello, gorgeous. Your name is Mia.”
“Siri, did you mean Elizabeth?” I feel more sophisticated than a Mia. Mia sounds like someone who plays the flute or volleyball. A girl who earns two hundred fifty dollars every summer babysitting. Someone who likes strawberry ice cream and always has her hair in a ponytail. Elizabeth—she sounds like someone with potential, like a chick who could run for Congress or become a doctor. I must be important if I had somewhere to go in a cocktail dress on a Tuesday.
“No, gorgeous, your name is Mia.”
I frown at the phone. “Mia…Mia,” I repeat to myself. “What do you think?” I look up at Brenda hopefully.
Brenda pats my hand. Her peppermint Altoid barely covers the smell of her coffee breath. “It’s the first day of the rest of your life, Mia.”
Maybe she really will let me sleep on her couch.
“Siri, what’s my last name?”
“I don’t know, gorgeous.”
“Why does she keep calling me gorgeous?”
Brenda smirks. “You must have nicknamed yourself that,gorgeous.”
I seem to have a healthy self-image.
Another nurse, Cindy, wanders into the room, apparently aware of the memory upload currently going on. I’m the major plotline on this week’s episode of fourth-floor hospital gossip. “Just think, you could be anyone. Maybe you’re a doctor or a lawyer or an actress or…” After an up-and-down look, she says, “I don’t know why but I kind of think you might work for an airline.”
“Uh, thank you…?” Was that a compliment? Not to mention, these nurses don’t understand memory loss at all. “Ladies,” I explain, “it’s not like I’m getting a chance to start over or something.”
“Well, sort of. If I passed out for two days and woke up to find out I was a rocket scientist or a supermodel, I mean…” Cindy raises her hands in the air, as if that would obviously be the best thing that had ever happened to her. No wonder no one thinks my situation is a crisis. They all probably want to forget who they are, too.
“You could be royal. Like a princess who was visiting and got separated from her royal entourage. I mean, you were wearing a tiara when they admitted you. An understated one, like something Meghan Markle might wear to a polo-match afterparty, but still.”
