Dash steps forward. “She’s in the morgue downstairs,” he says.
Unlike everyone else in the room, he meets my stare. He looks at me like I’m his last shred of hope of not drowning in a cruel and untamed ocean meant to pull every vessel of life to the murky depths where no sunlight exists. Maybe it’s because he and I have lost something important to the both of us. My sister.
“I need to see her. But first, I need a mirror,” I say to anyone who will get me what I’m asking for.
My parents’ stare finally meets mine in what seems to be equal parts shock and denial, and Hendrix is rubbing his jaw as Dash pulls out his phone. “This isn’t a mirror, but you can turn the camera on and use the forward-facing lens.”
He hands it to me, and the moment I take it from him, our fingers brush. A tingle shoots up my arm.
“I don’t know if this is the best idea, London,” Hendrix says.
“It’s clear that no one knows what’s right here. But at least Dash is trying to understand what I need,” I snap to the spectators gathered in my room.
Hendrix shakes his head and crosses his arms but wisely stays silent.
My hand trembles as I stare at the phone. Will I recognize my own face? What if I don’t?
I slowly lift the phone so it shows me what I look like. My left eye is purple, and there’s an impressive cut held together with butterfly bandages that spans from my eyebrow to my hairline. The entire left side of my face is swollen and bruised.
I see my face on the screen, but I’m still not sure I recognize it, especially this way. I close Dash’s camera, and his screensaver is a picture of us. Wait, no, a picture of him and Lennon. I see the same face in the picture that I saw in the camera screen seconds ago. But this face is not marred with bruises and cuts. It’s beautiful and happy.
“I need to see my sister,” I blurt out, determined to take back whatever small slivers of my memory I possibly can.
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible. You’re in no condition to move right now. You’ve been through two surgeries in the past four days, and you’ve been in a coma,” Hendrix says with the authority of his position as a doctor.
“I don’t care. Don’t you understand? I don’t care how I see her. Bring her to me here in this room if you have to, but don’t think for a moment I won’t find a way to get to her if you don’t,” I say to him. And I mean it.
“Fine. I’ll get someone to bring her to you. But you have five minutes with her. Then she goes back to the morgue. It’s against protocol. And I don’t want you to get hurt,” he says through gritted teeth like he thinks I’ll have a setback if I see my twin thatway. But I have to. I’m not sure how much worse things could get anyway.
“Look at me. Nothing could hurt me any more than I already am.”
With one last glance from me to my parents, he breezes out of the room.
“London, are you sure this is a good idea?” my mother asks, concern laced in her voice.
“I need to see her with my own eyes,” I answer. “Maybe seeing her will trigger a memory.”
“I can’t…” She trails off and waves her hand in the air.
My eyes fill with tears even though I can understand her reluctance. “Then leave. I know you’re supposed to be my mother, and I know how painful this must be for you. But I’ve lost everything. If you can’t stand to be in here when I see my sister, then I need you to leave now.”
“London, that’s not fair. We want to support you in whatever way you need, but this is a living nightmare for us as parents. We’ve lost a child and almost lost another all in the span of one night,” the man with the salt-and-pepper hair who I assume is my dad says.
I squeeze my eyes shut. “Don’t call me London. I know that might be my name, but I can’t remember it. Don’t force me to be someone I have no memory of being.”
He swallows hard but nods. Then, he and my mother exit the room together.
Dash is the last man standing.
“Aren’t you going to bolt too? I don’t need a babysitter.” I feel bad at how crass I sound.
“I mean, you don’t have to see her if it’s going to cause you more pain,” I say softly.
He holds my stare. “I won’t leave until you ask me to.”
“Why? Do you really think they got it wrong? You think I’m Lennon and it’s London who died instead?” I ask.
He shoves his hands in his pockets. “I know what the accident report said. But the way you were driving…” He falls silent.
