Jennifer Armentrout: Don’t Look Back

He asked the same questions everyone else had. Did I remember my name? Did I know how I’d gotten on the road or what I’d been doing before the deputy picked me up? The answer to all his questions was the same: no.

But when he moved on to other questions, I had answers. “Have you ever read To Kill a Mockingbird ?”

My dry lips cracked when I smiled. I knew that answer! “Yeah, it’s about racial injustice and different kinds of courage.”

Dr. Weston nodded approvingly. “Good. Do you know what year it is?”

I arched an eyebrow. “It’s 2014.”

“Do you know what month it is?” When I didn’t answer immediately, his smile slipped.

“It’s March.” I moistened my lips, starting to get nervous. “But I don’t know what day.”

“Today is March twelfth. It’s Wednesday. What is the last day you remember?”

I picked at the edge of the blanket and took a guess. “Tuesday?”

Dr. Weston’s lips once more curved into a smile. “It had to be longer than that. You were dehydrated when they brought you in. Can you try again?”

I could, but what would be the point? “I don’t know.”

He asked some more questions, and when an orderly brought in lunch, I discovered I hated mashed potatoes. Dragging the IV behind me like baggage, I stared at a stranger in the bathroom mirror.

I’d never seen her face before.

But it was mine. I leaned forward, inspecting the reflection. Coppery hair hung in clumps around a slightly sharp chin. My cheekbones were high, and my eyes were a cross between brown and green. I had a small nose. That was good news. And I guessed I’d be pretty if it weren’t for the purplish bruise spreading from my hairline and covering my entire right eye. The skin was scuffed on my chin. Like a giant raspberry stain.

I pushed away from the sink, pulling my IV back into the tiny room. Raised voices outside the closed door halted my attempts to get into the bed.

“What do you mean, she has no memory of anything?” a woman’s thin voice demanded.

“She has a complex concussion, which has affected her memory,” Dr. Weston explained patiently. “The memory loss should be temporary, but—”

“But what, Doctor?” asked a man.

At the sound of the stranger’s voice, a conversation floated out of the cloudy recesses of my thoughts, like a distant television show you could hear but not see.

“I really wish you wouldn’t spend so much time with that girl. She’s nothing but trouble, and I don’t like the way you act around her.”

It was his voice—the man outside—but I didn’t recognize the tenor and there was nothing else associated with it.

“The memory loss could be permanent. These things are hard to predict. Right now, we just don’t know.” Dr. Weston cleared his throat. “The good news is that the rest of her injuries are superficial. And from what we can gather from additional exams, she wasn’t assaulted.”

“Oh my god,” cried the woman. “Assaulted? Like in—”

“Joanna, the doctor said she wasn’t assaulted. You need to calm down.”

“I have a right to be upset,” she snapped. “Steven, she’s been missing for four days.”

“The county boys picked her up outside Michaux State Forest.” Dr. Weston paused. “Do you know why she’d be there?”

“We have a summer home there, but it hasn’t been opened since September. And we checked there. Right, Steven?”

“But she’s okay, right?” asked the man. “It’s just her memory that’s a problem?”

“Yes, but it’s not a simple case of amnesia,” the doctor said.

I backed away from the door and climbed into the bed. My heart was pounding again. Who were these people, and why were they here? I pulled the blanket up to my shoulders. I caught bits and pieces of what the doctor was saying. Something about suffering an extreme shock combined with dehydration and the concussion—a medical perfect storm, where my brain had dissociated from my personal identity. Sounded complicated.

“I don’t understand,” I heard the woman say.

“It’s like writing something on your computer and then you save the file, but you can’t remember where you saved it,” the doctor explained. “The file is in there, but you just have to find it. She still has her personal memories. They’re in there, but she can’t access them. She may never find them.”

I sat back, dismayed. Where did I put the file?

Then the door swung open, and I shrank back as this woman—this force to be reckoned with—stormed into my room. Her deep russet–colored hair was pulled into an elegant twist, exposing an angular but beautiful face.

She came to a complete stop, her eyes darting all over me. “Oh, Samantha …”

I stared. Samantha? The name didn’t do anything for me. I glanced at the doctor. He nodded reassuringly. Sa-man-tha … Nope, still nothing.

The woman came closer. There wasn’t a single wrinkle in her linen pants or her white blouse. Golden bangles hung from each of her slender wrists, and she reached out, wrapping her arms around me. She smelled like freesia.

“Baby girl,” she said, her hand smoothing my hair as she looked me in the eyes. “God, I’m so happy you’re okay.”

I pulled back, clamping my arms to my sides.

The woman glanced over her shoulder. The strange man looked pale, shaken. His dark hair was a mess. Thick stubble covered his handsome face. Compared to this woman, he was a barely contained disaster. I stared until he turned away, rubbing a shaky hand down his cheek.

Dr. Weston came to the bedside. “This is Joanna Franco—your mother. And this is Steven Franco, your father.”

A pressure started building in my chest. “My … my name is Samantha?”

“Yes,” the woman answered. “Samantha Jo Franco.”

My middle name was Jo ? Seriously? My gaze darted between the people. I took a deep breath, but it got stuck.

Joanna— my mom —whoever she was—placed a hand over her mouth as she glanced at the messy man, who was apparently my dad. Then her gaze settled on me. “You really don’t recognize us?”

I shook my head. “No. I’m … I’m sorry.”

She stood, backing away from the bed as she looked at Dr. Weston. “How can she not know us?”

“Mrs. Franco, you just need to give her some time.” Then to me, “You’re doing great.”

It didn’t seem that way.

He’d turned back to them—my parents. “We want to keep her under observation for an extra day. Right now, she needs to get a lot of rest and reassurance.”

I looked at the man again. He was staring at me, sort of dazed-looking. Dad. Father. Complete stranger.

“Do you really think this could be permanent?” the man asked, rubbing his chin.

“It’s too soon to tell,” Dr. Weston responded. “But she’s young and otherwise healthy, so the outlook is great.” He started out of the room, stopping by the door. “Remember, she needs to take it easy.”

My mom turned back to the bed, visibly pulling herself together as she sat down on the edge and took my hand. She turned it over, brushing her fingers over my wrist. “I remember the first and last time we had to take you to the hospital. You were ten. See this?”

I looked down at my wrist. There was a faint white scar running right under the palm of my hand. Huh. I hadn’t noticed that before.

“You broke your wrist during gymnastics practice.” She swallowed, looking up. Nothing about her hazel eyes, which were so much like my own, or the perfectly painted lips triggered anything inside me. There was just a vast, empty hole where all my memories, my emotions should’ve been. “It was a pretty bad break. You had to have surgery. Scared the living daylights out of us.”