Page 9 of Bratva and Betrayal: Kirill

The doctor smiles warmer this time. “Very good.”

I exhale slowly, resisting the urge to roll my eyes. I’m not a child. I know where I am. I am so over this.

“Scottsdale, to be exact,” I admit.

I only know that because my cousin Elodie takes me out once a week for lunch and to get my nails done. I see signs everywhere. Scottsdale Nails. Scottsdale Dry Cleaners. Scottsdale Diner, which has the best hamburgers. Okay, I don’t remember eating a hamburger before I got here. But I assume those are the best.

“And do you remember how long you were in the Chicago facilities?”

I shift in my seat, the answer rising easily despite the irritation simmering beneath it. “Almost five years.”

“Excellent.” Her approval is hollow, but she’s just doing her job.

Every day when I retain something and know something else, it earns me a flicker of satisfaction. But I shouldn’t need validation for knowing my own life.

“Do you remember what we discussed yesterday?” she asks, moving on and glancing at her tablet.

“We discussed a lot of things,” I cross my legs and smile.

“You caught me. About the case study, Jessica?”

Case study. The words stab my chest uncomfortably. I nod, remembering her telling me that she wants to present me to a group of medical students. Apparently, complete amnesia is rare. And to go five years with no breakthroughs is even rarer.

But the doctors in New York said that was because Lakeshore, the state-run place, didn’t have resources for amnesia therapy.

“Okay.” I shrug, not entirely convinced.

But again, what choice do I have?

“Can I bring them in?” she asks.

Them. Strangers.

The sudden intrusion by unknown people hits me and feels like a weight dropped on my head. The pain is unexpected and sharp. My fingers curl slightly against my knees, my breath catching before I can stop it.

I knew there would be several people. Didn’t I?

So why is a thin thread of panic flooding my veins? The extra meds, maybe? My chest tightens more with each passing second. The room feels just a little too small, the air just a little too thin.

Dr. Caroline studies me, then nods. “I’ll be right back with them.”

She didn’t notice. Good.

I breathe. In for four. Hold. Out for four. I like my meditation sessions. My favorite after painting. I love to paint, and the activity director says everything I create is beautiful. I don’t remember ever taking classes or holding a brush before the accident. But apparently, I have a natural talent.

I flex my fingers, noticing a faint tremor. It happens when I’m overwhelmed, when my brain decides it’s had enough for the moment. I press my palms flat against my thighs, and squeeze, or dig my fingernails into an arm to divert brainwaves and send endorphins to another part as a distraction.

I can do this. I’ve done harder things. Haven’t I? Who knows?

The door opens again, and I sit up straighter as Dr. Caroline returns with three students trailing behind her. One man and two women. They all look about my age. Mid-twenties, maybe. They look smart. But also exhausted. The dark circles under their eyes and slumped postures sharply contrast with their crisp white lab coats and shiny bronze nameplates.

They take their seats in the small gallery area behind Dr. Caroline, laptops and notebooks already in their eager hands.

“Good morning,” Dr. Caroline says, addressing them. “This is a live case study. Patient: Jessica Parker. Age twenty-four. History of traumatic brain injury when she was nineteen. Most significant symptom presentation includes complete retrograde amnesia.”

Retrograde amnesia.

A flash of being very cold and in a big house hits me. Then a sudden sensation of falling makes me grip the seat.