1
“Hold my hand.”A whisper floats through the recesses of my mind. Is it real? Is someone telling me to hold their hand right now? Am I dreaming? My chest feels heavy. Where am I?
Opening my eyes and then blinking several times, I find the room is dark, but I hear a steady beeping coming from somewhere, indicating I’m hooked up to monitors in a hospital. But why? What happened?
I wiggle the fingers on my right hand, and it feels empty. My left hand has wires and tubes adorning it—and that’s painting a much prettier picture than what I see.
Something was pulled from my grasp. I can’t shake the feeling of loss. But what did I lose? I wiggle the fingers on my right hand again and it’s still empty but I don’t think it’s supposed to be. The heavy feeling in my chest doesn’t let up. It’s telling me what my hand already has. I’m missing something. And it’s important.
Glancing around the darkened room, I see a woman in a chair beside my bed curled in on herself. That’s strange. I’m not sure who it is. I try to sit up but my head hurts. My chest is onfire and my left arm seems to be pinned to me. My other limbs feel heavy and sore at the same time.
How long have I been out of it? I glance back at the form of the woman beside my bed and again wonder who she is.
Confusion and frustration fill my mind.Why can’t I remember anything?
The beeping gets a little louder and faster, so I glance at the monitor off to the side of my head to see my heart rate is spiking. I try to take a deep breath but cry out at the pain it causes.
“London?” The woman in the chair shoots up and darts toward me. Tears swim in her eyes as she starts to touch my hand, but I pull it back despite the pain that shoots up to my shoulder making me grimace.
She pulls back. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I didn’t mean to startle you.”
I blink at her a few times.London? Sweetheart? That’s not right.
“Who’s London? And who are you?” I ask.
Her lower lip trembles as tears drip from her chin. “It’s me, London. I’m your mother. Don’t you remember?”
“I don’t have a clue who you are, or where I am. And my name is not London,” I tell her firmly.
Her eyes are wide as she speaks but there’s something behind her gaze. Pain maybe?
“What do you think your name is, sweetheart?” she asks like she’s babying me.
“I’m not your sweetheart. And my name is…” I trail off. What is my name?
She takes a deep breath and squeezes her eyes shut.
“I’ll call Hendrix,” she says as she reaches for her back pocket but stops when I speak again.
“Who the hell is Hendrix? Don’t call anyone except a doctor. I need to know what happened to me.”
“Heisa doctor, London. But he’s also your boyfriend. You’ve been dating for almost two years,” she says sadly with her brow furrowed.
She reaches behind her again and pulls a phone out of her pocket. This time, she makes a call as I tune her out. My mind is spinning, and my heart is racing. Panic fills my chest like a heavy weight. I can’t even remember my name.
Moments later, two men and a nurse come inside my hospital room. One is older and he’s wearing a white shirt with a navy button-up over it. His salt-and-pepper hair looks as if he’s raked his fingers through it more than a few dozen times. But what stills my heart is his haunted, red-rimmed eyes.
“London,” he says hoarsely as if he can’t believe what he’s seeing is real.
The woman claiming to be my mother puts her arm out in front of him, blocking him from getting any closer to my bed. She shakes her head the slightest bit and his shoulders drop as he pulls her into his side in a one-armed hug. He turns away from my gaze and rests his chin on her head and sniffles. I think he’s crying, and it would seem he already has been if his red-rimmed eyes are any indication.
The other man in the white coat is hovering next to my bed. He’s checking all the monitors but not letting his gaze meet mine directly. I notice the dark circles under his eyes. When he finally looks at me, I feel nothing. Even if I don’t remember anything, wouldn’t I remember someone I’m supposed to be in love with? Wouldn’t the mere sight of him trigger something? A small flicker?
“How are you feeling, London?” he asks in a deep voice I wish I could say I recognize.
“I’m not London. And I don’t know her,” I say pointing to the woman who claims to be my mother. “I don’t know him either,” Isay as I nod to the man consoling her. My gaze lands back firmly on this doctor. “And I don’t know you.”
Something flickers in his eyes as his jaw clenches tight. I can see the muscle ticcing.
