The doctor entered. “How’s the patient this morning?” he asked in a voice too cheerful pre-coffee.
“Coffee.” I latched on to the idea. I liked coffee — more, I needed it to be social. “May I have a cup?”
“Of course. I believe breakfast is on the way. And that’s something we need to talk about, anyway. You’ll need to limit that caffeine intake for a while, in light of your bloodwork.” He watched me closely, trying, I guessed, to ascertain my understanding.
“Is caffeine bad for amnesiacs?”
He sighed. “Only when they’re pregnant.”
I laughed. “Sorry, I thought you said I was…” When his expression didn’t change my laughter trailed away. The room grew dark around the edges and I sucked in a sharp breath. “What?”
Another sigh. “I’m not sure, of course, whether this was something you knew prior to the accident, or if you’re just finding out now for the first time. Either way, I understand it’s a shock. I took the liberty of contacting our women’s health offices here in town to see if you had any appointments scheduled, and you didn’t, so I’m guessing this is brand new news. We’ve gone ahead and gotten you set up for your preliminary visit.”
“I d-don’t understand.” My fingers were at my temples, as if I could pull the memories loose with the contact. A baby?
“Pregnant?” Hayes’s voice came from behind the doctor. His eyes were wide with shock. Welcome to the club, TD and H.
I couldn’t reply.
The doctor murmured something and left the room, and Hayes came to sit on the edge of my bed. “God, Birdie. A baby?”
I burst into tears. It was too much. “I-I’m a virgin! I c-can’t be p-pregnant!”
Without hesitation, Hayes scooped me up into his lap, turning and resituating us on the bed. “Well, you were a virgin. Until several months ago. Before graduation, to be exact.”
I cried harder, my head beginning to pound. How could I not remember losing my virginity? From the time I knew what sex was, I’d been saving it for someone special.
“It’s going to be okay, Birdie. I know it’s scary, but I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”
“I d-don’t even know if I wanted kids.”
“You did. A house full of them. We both did. Granted, this is a little sooner than we anticipated, but we can adjust.”
Mom poured herself a glass of milk and sat down across from me at the table and the memory drifted away like morning fog. “You always did like your nighttime snack,” she mused. “I guess some kind of memory drew you in here.”
“I don’t think so. I was hungry.”
Her face tightened. It was infinitesimal, and if I hadn’t been looking closely at her, I’d have missed it.
Standing, I carried my dishes to the sink. Behind me, her manicured nails tapped on her glass.
I was rinsing my dishes when the nausea hit. I stilled as I felt that crawly sensation creeping over my skin, trying to will it away. I hated puking more than anything. Give me a head cold or bronchitis for a month, but I could do without the vomiting.
It came, anyway. I leaned over the sink, water running, and retched. I emptied the contents of my stomach until my eyes streamed and my nose burned. When I finished, Mom led me to the table and pressed a cool washrag into my hand and set a glass of fizzing ginger ale down in front of me. Quickly and efficiently, she rinsed and sanitized the sink.
“Thanks,” I said, only a bit grudgingly. Maybe she’d changed during the years I couldn’t remember. Maybe me being pregnant had raised her dormant maternal instincts.
“This too shall pass,” she murmured in an uncharacteristic show of compassion as I sat and sipped. “I was sick with you a good six months. And none of that morning crap, either. I was sick twenty-four-seven.”
Please, no. I wanted to lower my head to the table and cry, but I’d learned that position tended to exacerbate the nausea. I contented myself with a groan.
“God, Mom. What am I going to do?”
She turned and leaned against the sink. “Right now, you’re going to go to bed and get some rest.”
“You know that’s not what I mean. I’m having a baby.” I pressed my hands to my stomach, still flat and giving no suggestion of the secret it concealed. “And I don’t remember the father. I don’t remember conceiving this baby, or anything that came before. How am I supposed to —”
“You stop stressing about it, that’s what you do. Hayes is the daddy. Don’t doubt that.”
“Easier said than done.”
“Don’t sass me, Birdie Mae. You may be a grown woman, but I’m still your Mom.”
“Sorry, Mom.” My reply was automatic, as if it was a common exchange for the two of us. Part of me rejoiced that some small part of my brain still held those memories.
After a moment she continued. “So, you’re going to take each day as it comes. Trust your gut when it comes to things and people you don’t remember. And concentrate on giving that baby a peaceful spot to grow for these next few months.”
Ever practical, my mother.
Mom walked behind me and squeezed my shoulder. “Get to bed now. I’ll put some saltines on your dresser. When you wake up tomorrow, do not move until you eat a few of them to settle your tummy.”
“Thank you, Mom.”
She left the kitchen and the sounds of her slippered feet retreated down the hall.
Tired all at once, I rose and left the kitchen, making my way with ease into the foyer and then up the stairs toward my room. I could walk through this house blindfolded and never stub my toe. Despite that awareness, most of the people in the photos that lined the wall on one side of the steps were strangers to me.
I moved slowly, taking the time to study their features one at a time, hoping for some flare of recognition to surface, or a memory. I recognized Dad. The dog, Lucky, in a photo of twelve-year-old me hugging him. But most may as well have been the flimsy paper photos that come with the frames for all of the familiarity they evoked. I guessed that meant I hadn’t seen these people very often. I’d have to get Mom to tell me who my family was.
With one last glance at the picture of my father, I continued into my bedroom.
Here, I felt at ease. While I was still struggling to process that I’d awakened in a hospital bed several days ago with amnesia, I had this room. It was a testament to the fact that I existed, that I’d had a life at one time, that I was loved. One wall was covered in scraps of paper with poems and quotations, photographs of more people I didn’t remember, medals and certificates for everything from sportsmanship to perfect attendance, all of the memorabilia of my teenage years on display. A soft, faded quilt made of tee shirts was on my bed, logos of track meets and vacation spots nudging at my ability to recall.
There were little clues everywhere, hints of the person I’d been before the accident had wiped that person clean away.
I stretched out on top of the quilt and clicked off the lamp beside the bed. Hands folded across my belly, I stared up at the dark ceiling and released my breath in a sigh.
The accident.
It was shrouded in the same blankness as every other essential bit of information. I had been told it was a car accident, that I’d hydroplaned on a wet, twisty road and careened into a tree. I’d been driving fast, though, a fact which I cringed away from, feeling instinctively that it was out of character.