Okay. The nurses are watching waaaay too much TV. Most likely I’m going to find credit card debt and a mountain of student loans the minute I figure out my social security number. I mean, I woke up in America. But still, they’ve planted a seed of hope. I’m hoping I’m a college graduate at least. Even if I’m not, I know I’m important because that’s what tiaras signify—importance (and glamour).
I look at the shiny black mirror that is my iPhone and click on the texts icon, but there are no texts. Not a single conversation is listed in the text message app. How could that be?
When I show the anomaly to the nurses, Cindy says, “Oh, you’re one of those.”
“One of what?”
“You must be super OCD about erasing all your messages.”
“Why would I do that?”
Cindy looks at me like she’s about to deliver one of those lines punctuated by adun dunonLaw & Orderand says, “I guess you have something to hide.” She follows up with a laugh. “Probably just sexts, unless you’re a princess. You wouldn’t want the paparazzi to get their hands on it and publish your private conversations in theDaily Mirror.”
I think I’m just efficient, not a lazy bum with old conversations using up all of the space on my phone, space I could use for other more important things like…
I pull up my contacts list. “Where should I start?”
“That’s easy. Check your contacts for ‘boyfriend’ ”—she seems to glance specifically at my haircut—“or ‘girlfriend’?”
“Boyfriend. I think.” Boyfriend—if I have a boyfriend, I probably listed him under his actual name, meaning he might as well not exist. If he does exist, I might have to break up with him anyway. I mean, where was he when I cracked my skull? Something tells me I don’t have a husband. (No ring.) Plus, the cocktail dress and Grey Goose don’t scream married.
Brenda, standing with her hands on her hips and clearly not expecting me to find out that I’m a doctor or rock star, speaks up. “Check for Dad and Mom. That’s who you need right now.”
Oh Brenda, the voice of reason. There’s no way I’m a princess or a doctor. If I were a doctor, I’d probably have a sham degree and dispense pills to anyone who asked. At least that’s what the look on Brenda’s face told me.
I scroll down to M.Mom—bingo! I take a deep breath and close my eyes. She’s probably worried. She probably even filed a missing person report. I wonder if she smells like apple pie, or if she hates to cook and lives off Lean Cuisine. I can’t picture her to save my life.
My pulse races as I wait for her to pick up. In one second I’ll find out if I’ve won the amnesia patient’s lottery. I silentlypray,Come on, Big Mary! (Or is it Big Money?)andDear God—please let my momma save me.Come to think of it—do I believe in God?
One, two, three, four rings. I start thinking of the message I’ll leave—“Mom, it’s me, Mia…I’m in the hospital, but I’m okay.” Hopefully she’ll fill in the rest: SAT score, favorite food, ex-boyfriends, and—dude, where’s my car.
An automated message cuts off my train of thought. “We’re sorry. The number you’re trying to reach has been disconnected.”
Fuck.
Brenda and Cindy look at me expectantly. I announce, “I don’t have the right phone number for my mom.” As if that isn’t a giant red flag. It’d be one thing if I didn’t have an entry for my mom at all, like we were estranged or she died. But to have the wrong number? That’s weird.
I say, “Siri, call home.”
An old lady with a quavery voice answers the phone. “You’ve reached the Nelsons. Hello.” I imagine Auntie Em and my home in Kansas perhaps. “It’s Mia.”
“Mary?”
“No, Mee-uh.”
“I’m sorry, dear, but I think you have the wrong number.”
Don’t I have any decent relationships? I’m a Millennial, clearly, but Millennials have mothers, too.
One more try. Someone from my contacts list must know me. I click on a recently dialed number—someone namedCrystal. Maybe she’s a friend or a sister or…literally anyone who knows me. She has to know me. I talked to her for three minutes and twenty-eight seconds a few days ago.
She answers on the first ring. “Hello?”
“Hi, this is…” I pause. My name is strange on my tongue, not because I don’t like it, which I don’t, but because it’s my name and it feels downright foreign. Like when it takes months before your cat really feels like a Marmalade instead of a Kit Kat, which in retrospect sounds like the more fitting name—not that I remember owning a cat or anything…(Am I a cat lady?) “I’m Mia.” Might as well be Kit Kat. “I don’t know if you remember me,” I say. A tear leaks out.
A half second later, she answers, “What are you calling me for? I told you, I’m done.”
The line goes dead. What. The. Fuck. I’m a disaster, a hot mess, exactly the kind of person you’d expect to land in the ER in a party dress on a Tuesday. I drop the phone in my lap and try not to look as straight-out-of-a-country-song desperate as I feel. I don’t need Brenda feeling like she has to be my only source of emotional support, even though she totally is.
