And what she lacks in her hairstyle, she makes up for in her complexion. Her face is relatively wrinkle-free. Maybe never smiling is the trick to smooth skin.
“Does amnesia make you forget basic manners? Don’t stare at me, girl!”
My mouth drops open. Dr. Alwood told her about me? Why?
Noise at the door distracts us before I have a chance to speak. A tall male nurse pushes a gurney into the room. “Good morning, Miss Fitzgerald . . .” He lifts the chart from Ginny’s bed. “I see we’re taking your gallbladder from you today.”
“You most certainly are not!” she retorts, her eyes flashing as they size him up.
His brow spikes with surprise, but then he chuckles as he approaches the side of the bed. “Don’t worry. It’s just a routine—”
“Where are Amber and Meredith? Find them, now!” she barks.
The guy reaches for her, saying, “They’re waiting for you in the OR. We’ll see them in—”
She slaps his hand away and then wraps her arms around her chest, hugging herself tightly. “Don’t you dare touch me!”
I’m definitely staring now, and rather rudely. Is this all an act or is Ginny Fitzgerald crazy? But then I see the quilt square bunched tightly in her shaking fist. Crazy isn’t the right word. The woman is terrified.
The nurse appears wary now, but he has a job to do. He holds his hands up in a sign of surrender. “Okay, Miss Fitzgerald. I won’t help you get up on this gurney. But I’ll need you to climb up on—”
“I’m not going anywhere with you!” she manages to get out, her entire body trembling now.
I may not know a lot, but I know that this is not normal, nor is it good. Did Amber expect this reception when she gave her those drugs? Whatever they were, they don’t seem to be helping. “Excuse me. I think you should go find Nurse Welles and Dr. Alwood.”
The male nurse seems to notice me for the first time. His eyes automatically settle on the side of my face, on my scar. Heat flushes my cheeks and I instinctively turn my head so I’m not directly facing him. I imagine I’ll be doing that for the rest of my life.
Shoes pound against the tile floor somewhere in the hall and then a moment later, both Amber and Dr. Alwood round the corner, panting. “We’ll take it from here,” Dr. Alwood says, practically pushing the male nurse away to wedge herself in next to a shaking Ginny.
The confused nurse seems only too happy to spin on his heels and dart out.
“You . . . you promised me!” Ginny stutters, her pointed finger stabbing the air in front of Dr. Alwood.
“I know, Ginny. I’m sorry. We had to switch ORs and things got scrambled.” A pause. “Do you think you can still handle this surgery today?”
Ginny’s chest puffs out and deflates with several deep breaths as her eyes shift between the door and her doctor, and back again. And then she tosses the crumpled quilt material onto her side table and mutters, “I’m not coming back again, so let’s get this over with.”
Amber rolls the gurney next to Ginny’s bed. Before they can help their neighbor out of her bed and onto it, Ginny’s finger comes up again. “But if I see that man in there . . . ”
“It’s an all-female staff, just like I promised, Ginny.” Dr. Alwood’s eyes drift to mine. “Hi, Jane. How are you feeling today?”
I glance over at their patient, who’s scowling as Amber adjusts the bedsheet draped over her body and begins pushing her gurney toward the door. “Curious.”
Dr. Alwood laughs. “I’ll bet. Well, I suspect your roommate won’t be nearly as pleasant post-op.”
Now Ginny shoots a scathing glare at the back of Dr. Alwood’s head.
Great.
With that, they wheel the cantankerous woman into the hall, leaving me with plenty of questions.
And all alone. Again.
“You touched my stuff, girl.”
The groggy accusation cuts through the darkness, startling me. Ginny hasn’t spoken since Amber wheeled her back into our room several hours ago.
“I thought maybe if I stuck that square in a heavy book, it’d flatten the pattern for you,” I explain, clearing my throat several times, suddenly nervous. I wait, staring at the parking lot light outside my window. I never draw my bed curtains fully at night. The space feels too small, too confining, and, with each creak of the door, a part of me fears the person who might enter my room.
Finally, I hear a low mutter of, “I don’t like people touching my stuff. You can’t be doing that.”
“I’m sorry. I was just trying to help.” I dare add in a light tone, “It looks like it’s going to be a beautiful quilt when it’s done.” Okay, I could be lying about that. I have no idea what that square was. All I could see were patches of red and orange and yellow. But her needlework is tidy and precise.
The sound of metal rings scraping across a rod fills the dark hospital room, revealing the old woman from the chest up, her eyes narrowed to slits. “Is this an act?”
“Excuse me?”
“This memory thing of yours. Are you lying?” I can’t tell if she’s asking or accusing.
“I wish I were,” I answer honestly.
“Don’t wish that, silly girl,” she snaps. “You should be happy.”
“Happy?” I burst out in shock. People have given me a lot of pieces of advice over these past few months. This has not been one of them.
The way I must be glaring at her now doesn’t seem to dissuade her. “Yes, happy. Happy that you can spend the rest of your life in ignorant bliss. That you don’t have to lie in bed with your memories—the smell of his breath, the feel of his weight on you, the sound of his voice when he yells at you to stop crying. Because those memories are like demons. They’ll chase you, and when they grab on, they hold on tight. They break you. You get to relive them over and over and”—her voice drops to a hiss—“over again.”
“But what about . . .” My voice trails off. She’s not talking about forgetting my entire life.
Just a very specific part of it.
My stomach drops as understanding slams into me. It would explain her reaction to the male nurse today. “You were . . . it happened to you, too,” I stammer.
“And I’ve spent almost fifty years wishing I could forget it. So be happy, girl, because if you ever wake up to your reality, I promise you’ll be wishin’ you could forget all over again.”
The curtain abruptly closes. Clearly, our conversation is over.
The first hints of blue appear in the sky when I finally manage to drift off, the old woman’s words a dark shawl of unease hanging over me.
Wondering what kind of demons may be lying in wait for me.
NINE
Jesse
then
“You changed your mind awfully quick.”
“I’m allowed.” That repetitive, irritating thrum of music hits me as we step around a group of guys in suits.
“If you’re gonna make this a habit, you’d better go buy some new shirts. Guys aren’t supposed to swap clothes like this. It’s weird.” Boone flicks the collar of a black button-down that I borrowed from him.
“It won’t be a habit. I just feel like hanging out with you tonight is all.”
He snorts. “Bullshit.” I trail him to the bar, where he waves down Priscilla. “Two of the usual, babe,” Boone orders, flashing her a suggestive smile. I caught him practicing that smile in the mirror once.
When she lays them on the counter, I throw down cash to cover it. I don’t want Alexandria’s husband paying for my drinks tonight.
Alexandria.
Since she climbed into a Hummer with her husband this afternoon, her name’s been dancing through my head, followed quickly by her smile. And then a strange tingle skitters down the back of my neck and through my body.
The only reason I came tonight is because I’m hoping she’s here.
With a salute toward Priscilla—promising myself that this is the only drink I’m having—I head with Boone to the same alcove at the back of the lounge. The way Boone walks toward it, I know that Viktor and his friends own this table.
Sure enough, they’re already here.
And so is Alexandria.
My heart jumps when I see her. She’s sitting next to Viktor, her hands folded on the table, the relaxed air she had earlier today traded in for the hard mask. Instead of a blue sparkly dress, this time she’s wearing red, to match her bright lips, and her long, white-blond hair has smooth waves in it.
She definitely doesn’t look cheap now.
She looks like a damn movie star.
And her husband has his back turned to her, in deep conversation with the same big blond guy as last time.
“Rust!” Boone dispenses with the pleasantries as I stand slightly back, watching Alexandria’s eyes lift to meet the newcomers.
They find me.
And the veil drops for just a second, long enough to reveal a glimmer of surprise.
I smile at her and she dips her head. I have enough common sense to pull my attention away from her and move it to Rust before anyone notices the exchange. If they did and they asked me what it meant, I’d have no idea what to say because I don’t understand it myself yet. All I keep thinking is that she made a point of finding out my name.
“Good seeing you here again, Jesse. How’re the guys treating you?” Rust asks.
“They haven’t mistaken me for a nurse yet, so there’s that.”
That earns loud laughter from Rust as he slaps his nephew on the back. “Here, sit.” He gestures at the same chairs as last time. I get the impression that we need the invitation. Not just anyone walks up to this table.
I take my seat.
Viktor breaks free from his conversation to regard me with an even look. “Jesse. I missed you at the garage earlier, when I was picking up Alexandria. I was hoping we could talk.”
“Sorry. I was probably on break.” I wasn’t. I was lurking in the window, avoiding conversation with him while I could study her.
Viktor snorts and then mutters something in Russian before saying, “I should have bought this woman a farm truck, the way she drives.” Alexandria’s lips purse together but she says nothing. “Do you know how many women would love to have that car?”
“I didn’t ask for it, Viktor,” she answers in a low, cautious voice, her eyes on her hands in front of her. “I would have been happy with a farm truck.”
I’m somehow not surprised to see Viktor’s jaw tense. “You seem happy spending all of my money, too. Maybe I should stop giving you cash to spend?” Reaching out, he grabs her chin and forces her face up to meet his. “See how happy you are then.”
Well, that escalated quickly.
I glance around the table to see everyone busy with their own conversations. Are they truly oblivious to this? Or am I just too in tune?
Viktor lets go of her chin, the simmering storm in his eyes dissipating as fast as it came. He drifts back into his private conversation with the guy next to him as if nothing happened at all, leaving Alexandria to sit like a statue, doing her best to keep her eyes on the tall glass of water in front of her. I can’t help but suck back the vodka Boone and Rust keep pouring from the bottle in the middle of the table.
Finally, she slides out of the booth without a word to her husband, her eyes grazing me as she goes. I fight the urge to watch her glide toward the restroom. The urge to get up and chase after her is even stronger. But that would be too obvious. So, I pull my phone out and pretend to go through my messages, when I’m really just watching the clock. I decide six minutes and twelve seconds is long enough and then I slip away. I need to hit the can and grab a water anyway so I’m not an idiot at work tomorrow.
My timing couldn’t be more perfect. Alexandria is gliding down the long, narrow hall from the restrooms, her long red dress flowing around her legs, the material parting dangerously high up her thigh. I struggle not to stare as it spreads open with each step. Damn, Viktor’s a lucky son of a bitch.
Her eyes lock on me immediately and they don’t let go as we close the distance between us.
And then I realize that she’s not going to stop.
I react without thinking, reaching out to slip my hand around the far side of her waist. “Hey.” I’ve never been shy, but I’m usually smarter than this. Must be the alcohol.
“Jesse.” My name sounds breathless on her lips. I like it. Her eyes dart behind me for a split second before returning to mine, her hand reaching up to gently retrieve my hand from her body. She’s radiating that same nervousness that poured off her the last time I was here, when she was late and Viktor was pissed. It’s so palpable, it’s making me nervous.
“Are you all right?”
“I’ll be fine. I just . . .” Her brow furrows as something that looks a lot like recognition swirls behind those beautiful irises.
I asked her that exact same question the flat-tire night. “What?”
“Does amnesia make you forget basic manners? Don’t stare at me, girl!”
My mouth drops open. Dr. Alwood told her about me? Why?
Noise at the door distracts us before I have a chance to speak. A tall male nurse pushes a gurney into the room. “Good morning, Miss Fitzgerald . . .” He lifts the chart from Ginny’s bed. “I see we’re taking your gallbladder from you today.”
“You most certainly are not!” she retorts, her eyes flashing as they size him up.
His brow spikes with surprise, but then he chuckles as he approaches the side of the bed. “Don’t worry. It’s just a routine—”
“Where are Amber and Meredith? Find them, now!” she barks.
The guy reaches for her, saying, “They’re waiting for you in the OR. We’ll see them in—”
She slaps his hand away and then wraps her arms around her chest, hugging herself tightly. “Don’t you dare touch me!”
I’m definitely staring now, and rather rudely. Is this all an act or is Ginny Fitzgerald crazy? But then I see the quilt square bunched tightly in her shaking fist. Crazy isn’t the right word. The woman is terrified.
The nurse appears wary now, but he has a job to do. He holds his hands up in a sign of surrender. “Okay, Miss Fitzgerald. I won’t help you get up on this gurney. But I’ll need you to climb up on—”
“I’m not going anywhere with you!” she manages to get out, her entire body trembling now.
I may not know a lot, but I know that this is not normal, nor is it good. Did Amber expect this reception when she gave her those drugs? Whatever they were, they don’t seem to be helping. “Excuse me. I think you should go find Nurse Welles and Dr. Alwood.”
The male nurse seems to notice me for the first time. His eyes automatically settle on the side of my face, on my scar. Heat flushes my cheeks and I instinctively turn my head so I’m not directly facing him. I imagine I’ll be doing that for the rest of my life.
Shoes pound against the tile floor somewhere in the hall and then a moment later, both Amber and Dr. Alwood round the corner, panting. “We’ll take it from here,” Dr. Alwood says, practically pushing the male nurse away to wedge herself in next to a shaking Ginny.
The confused nurse seems only too happy to spin on his heels and dart out.
“You . . . you promised me!” Ginny stutters, her pointed finger stabbing the air in front of Dr. Alwood.
“I know, Ginny. I’m sorry. We had to switch ORs and things got scrambled.” A pause. “Do you think you can still handle this surgery today?”
Ginny’s chest puffs out and deflates with several deep breaths as her eyes shift between the door and her doctor, and back again. And then she tosses the crumpled quilt material onto her side table and mutters, “I’m not coming back again, so let’s get this over with.”
Amber rolls the gurney next to Ginny’s bed. Before they can help their neighbor out of her bed and onto it, Ginny’s finger comes up again. “But if I see that man in there . . . ”
“It’s an all-female staff, just like I promised, Ginny.” Dr. Alwood’s eyes drift to mine. “Hi, Jane. How are you feeling today?”
I glance over at their patient, who’s scowling as Amber adjusts the bedsheet draped over her body and begins pushing her gurney toward the door. “Curious.”
Dr. Alwood laughs. “I’ll bet. Well, I suspect your roommate won’t be nearly as pleasant post-op.”
Now Ginny shoots a scathing glare at the back of Dr. Alwood’s head.
Great.
With that, they wheel the cantankerous woman into the hall, leaving me with plenty of questions.
And all alone. Again.
“You touched my stuff, girl.”
The groggy accusation cuts through the darkness, startling me. Ginny hasn’t spoken since Amber wheeled her back into our room several hours ago.
“I thought maybe if I stuck that square in a heavy book, it’d flatten the pattern for you,” I explain, clearing my throat several times, suddenly nervous. I wait, staring at the parking lot light outside my window. I never draw my bed curtains fully at night. The space feels too small, too confining, and, with each creak of the door, a part of me fears the person who might enter my room.
Finally, I hear a low mutter of, “I don’t like people touching my stuff. You can’t be doing that.”
“I’m sorry. I was just trying to help.” I dare add in a light tone, “It looks like it’s going to be a beautiful quilt when it’s done.” Okay, I could be lying about that. I have no idea what that square was. All I could see were patches of red and orange and yellow. But her needlework is tidy and precise.
The sound of metal rings scraping across a rod fills the dark hospital room, revealing the old woman from the chest up, her eyes narrowed to slits. “Is this an act?”
“Excuse me?”
“This memory thing of yours. Are you lying?” I can’t tell if she’s asking or accusing.
“I wish I were,” I answer honestly.
“Don’t wish that, silly girl,” she snaps. “You should be happy.”
“Happy?” I burst out in shock. People have given me a lot of pieces of advice over these past few months. This has not been one of them.
The way I must be glaring at her now doesn’t seem to dissuade her. “Yes, happy. Happy that you can spend the rest of your life in ignorant bliss. That you don’t have to lie in bed with your memories—the smell of his breath, the feel of his weight on you, the sound of his voice when he yells at you to stop crying. Because those memories are like demons. They’ll chase you, and when they grab on, they hold on tight. They break you. You get to relive them over and over and”—her voice drops to a hiss—“over again.”
“But what about . . .” My voice trails off. She’s not talking about forgetting my entire life.
Just a very specific part of it.
My stomach drops as understanding slams into me. It would explain her reaction to the male nurse today. “You were . . . it happened to you, too,” I stammer.
“And I’ve spent almost fifty years wishing I could forget it. So be happy, girl, because if you ever wake up to your reality, I promise you’ll be wishin’ you could forget all over again.”
The curtain abruptly closes. Clearly, our conversation is over.
The first hints of blue appear in the sky when I finally manage to drift off, the old woman’s words a dark shawl of unease hanging over me.
Wondering what kind of demons may be lying in wait for me.
NINE
Jesse
then
“You changed your mind awfully quick.”
“I’m allowed.” That repetitive, irritating thrum of music hits me as we step around a group of guys in suits.
“If you’re gonna make this a habit, you’d better go buy some new shirts. Guys aren’t supposed to swap clothes like this. It’s weird.” Boone flicks the collar of a black button-down that I borrowed from him.
“It won’t be a habit. I just feel like hanging out with you tonight is all.”
He snorts. “Bullshit.” I trail him to the bar, where he waves down Priscilla. “Two of the usual, babe,” Boone orders, flashing her a suggestive smile. I caught him practicing that smile in the mirror once.
When she lays them on the counter, I throw down cash to cover it. I don’t want Alexandria’s husband paying for my drinks tonight.
Alexandria.
Since she climbed into a Hummer with her husband this afternoon, her name’s been dancing through my head, followed quickly by her smile. And then a strange tingle skitters down the back of my neck and through my body.
The only reason I came tonight is because I’m hoping she’s here.
With a salute toward Priscilla—promising myself that this is the only drink I’m having—I head with Boone to the same alcove at the back of the lounge. The way Boone walks toward it, I know that Viktor and his friends own this table.
Sure enough, they’re already here.
And so is Alexandria.
My heart jumps when I see her. She’s sitting next to Viktor, her hands folded on the table, the relaxed air she had earlier today traded in for the hard mask. Instead of a blue sparkly dress, this time she’s wearing red, to match her bright lips, and her long, white-blond hair has smooth waves in it.
She definitely doesn’t look cheap now.
She looks like a damn movie star.
And her husband has his back turned to her, in deep conversation with the same big blond guy as last time.
“Rust!” Boone dispenses with the pleasantries as I stand slightly back, watching Alexandria’s eyes lift to meet the newcomers.
They find me.
And the veil drops for just a second, long enough to reveal a glimmer of surprise.
I smile at her and she dips her head. I have enough common sense to pull my attention away from her and move it to Rust before anyone notices the exchange. If they did and they asked me what it meant, I’d have no idea what to say because I don’t understand it myself yet. All I keep thinking is that she made a point of finding out my name.
“Good seeing you here again, Jesse. How’re the guys treating you?” Rust asks.
“They haven’t mistaken me for a nurse yet, so there’s that.”
That earns loud laughter from Rust as he slaps his nephew on the back. “Here, sit.” He gestures at the same chairs as last time. I get the impression that we need the invitation. Not just anyone walks up to this table.
I take my seat.
Viktor breaks free from his conversation to regard me with an even look. “Jesse. I missed you at the garage earlier, when I was picking up Alexandria. I was hoping we could talk.”
“Sorry. I was probably on break.” I wasn’t. I was lurking in the window, avoiding conversation with him while I could study her.
Viktor snorts and then mutters something in Russian before saying, “I should have bought this woman a farm truck, the way she drives.” Alexandria’s lips purse together but she says nothing. “Do you know how many women would love to have that car?”
“I didn’t ask for it, Viktor,” she answers in a low, cautious voice, her eyes on her hands in front of her. “I would have been happy with a farm truck.”
I’m somehow not surprised to see Viktor’s jaw tense. “You seem happy spending all of my money, too. Maybe I should stop giving you cash to spend?” Reaching out, he grabs her chin and forces her face up to meet his. “See how happy you are then.”
Well, that escalated quickly.
I glance around the table to see everyone busy with their own conversations. Are they truly oblivious to this? Or am I just too in tune?
Viktor lets go of her chin, the simmering storm in his eyes dissipating as fast as it came. He drifts back into his private conversation with the guy next to him as if nothing happened at all, leaving Alexandria to sit like a statue, doing her best to keep her eyes on the tall glass of water in front of her. I can’t help but suck back the vodka Boone and Rust keep pouring from the bottle in the middle of the table.
Finally, she slides out of the booth without a word to her husband, her eyes grazing me as she goes. I fight the urge to watch her glide toward the restroom. The urge to get up and chase after her is even stronger. But that would be too obvious. So, I pull my phone out and pretend to go through my messages, when I’m really just watching the clock. I decide six minutes and twelve seconds is long enough and then I slip away. I need to hit the can and grab a water anyway so I’m not an idiot at work tomorrow.
My timing couldn’t be more perfect. Alexandria is gliding down the long, narrow hall from the restrooms, her long red dress flowing around her legs, the material parting dangerously high up her thigh. I struggle not to stare as it spreads open with each step. Damn, Viktor’s a lucky son of a bitch.
Her eyes lock on me immediately and they don’t let go as we close the distance between us.
And then I realize that she’s not going to stop.
I react without thinking, reaching out to slip my hand around the far side of her waist. “Hey.” I’ve never been shy, but I’m usually smarter than this. Must be the alcohol.
“Jesse.” My name sounds breathless on her lips. I like it. Her eyes dart behind me for a split second before returning to mine, her hand reaching up to gently retrieve my hand from her body. She’s radiating that same nervousness that poured off her the last time I was here, when she was late and Viktor was pissed. It’s so palpable, it’s making me nervous.
“Are you all right?”
“I’ll be fine. I just . . .” Her brow furrows as something that looks a lot like recognition swirls behind those beautiful irises.
I asked her that exact same question the flat-tire night. “What?”
