“It was the Mighty Ducks movie,” she rasps. But in my peripherals, she shakes her head. “I don’t remember seeing it before. The Breakfast Club was on the night before.” Again, she shakes her head. “Don’t remember seeing that one either.”
“Don’t beat yourself up. I haven’t seen it either.” I slide the second sock on, and, dragging the duffel to the floor, I pull out a pair of too-expensive boots. “These are size sevens. If they’re too tight, we’ll take them off again, and I’ll go find you something else.”
“Where’d you get this stuff?” She reaches over and grabs the sides of the first boot, a process she hasn’t forgotten, despite all the rest. Pulling the suede up, she releases a heady breath and tries on a shaky, hopeful smile. “Fits.”
“Good.” I pull the second out and hold it in place so she can dip her toes in. “These are my sister’s things. She caught me ransacking her closet and nearly beat me up for it. I’m not gonna lie—” I relinquish control of the boot and let her pull it up the rest of the way, and while she does that, I straighten out and drop my hands into my coat pockets. “—She’s small, but she’s pretty terrifying. She’s got this feral-ness that leaves me lying awake at night sometimes.”
She rolls her eyes.
“I’m not lying! She’s way younger than me and Raquel, which means we picked on her a lot when we were kids. Now she’s all grown and knows how to flatten a guy. Every night I go to bed, I wonder if this is the night she’ll sneak in and exact revenge for the things we did a decade ago.”
“A decade ago, you were…? How old?”
“Twenty-two ish.”
She presses her lips together. “And she was?”
“Twelve. She’s always had a bad attitude, though, so don’t let the age difference fool you. She had it coming.”
“Mmhm.” She lowers gingerly to her feet, trying the boots out and staring down at the image she presents: maroon coat, gray pants, brown shoes. “This is… a look.”
“And the fact you say so gives us insight into who you are.” I leave the bag and the Dora dental kit behind. “You know you look a bit silly, whichimplies a sharp sense of fashion. And I notice the way you speak to me sometimes.”
“How do I speak to you?”
“Like you’re fancy and you know it, and I’m the pauper boy approaching your throne, begging for a scrap of your attention.” I offer my arm, wiggling it to goad her closer. “Grab on, or I’m putting you in a wheelchair.” I flash a wide smile. “Your choice.”
She exhales an exasperated sigh and loops her arm in mine. “Now tell me the thing.”
Smug, I lead her out of her room and into the long, wide hall I’ve walked a million times in my years here at a shitty, understaffed, under-funded hospital in the ass crack of nowhere. We barely have enough doctors to keep the place functional, and when Doctor Dawes—my eighty-seven-year-old general surgeon counterpart—retires, we’ll have to find someone else, or close our doors permanently.
I mean, who wouldn’t want to work in a place that boasts absolutelynowork/life balance, no retirement plan—since we work ‘em till they’re ninety—and you get to memorize the lumps, bumps, and blemishes of every single resident before the end of your first year on staff.
Including Barbara…
Shudder.
I lead Jane past a line of rooms exactly like hers, though four out of five are vacant, then into another hall as we make our way toward something I know will please her.
Maybe.
Hopefully.
“The thing, Ollie? I don’t like anticipation.”
“Right! Okay. So, your lack of a rap sheet tells us you’ve been a good girl all your life, right? No fingerprints in the system. No wanted posters. Not even a candy bar has gone missing while you were around. This has,evidently, made things much more difficult for Billy and Ramone.”
“Are you suggesting I should apologize for my law-abiding ways?”
Chuckling, I drop my gaze and study our feet. “No. But I’m suggesting we need a new plan. We’re more than a week in now, still have no clue who you are, and that dirty glass wall in your mind? The one shielding your memories? It’s still there. So…” I bring my focus up again and stop on her eyes…kaleidoscopes. That’s what they are. A thousand small shards of colored glass all blended into one small space. “I thought we could invite the media in. Let them see you, let them interview you. They can put you on the news and, if we’re lucky, maybe someone will recognize you.”
Her brows wrinkle and fold, tugging on the healing wounds along the left side of her face. “Oh… okay.”
“Good idea? Bad idea?” I lick my lips, nervous about her response. “What do you think?”
“I-I don’t know.” She leans heavier against my side and exhales a long breath. Not because she wants to be nearer. But because she’s tired, she’s injured, and she’s trying hardnotto limp. “What doyouthink?”
“I think…”It’s not okay to tell you you’re the reason I come to the hospital every single day with a smile. And I sure as hell can’t tell you I’m not ready to face a world where you’re not the first patient I check on at the start of every shift.But keeping her here, locked in her isolation and memory loss, is cruel. “I think you deserve to know who you are. To know your name, becauseJaneandma’amisn’t it. I think you deserve to learn about the twenty-something-years that came before all this. The relationships you’ve cultivated, the friends you’ve left behind, and the Ficus dying in your living room because you haven’t been home to water it.”
