“Sometimes things we don’t completely understand,” the doctor confessed. “Personality changes are common. Habits and mannerisms are sometimes different. The emotions can be volatile or, conversely, bland. You may find yourself getting confused at times, even after your memory returns, and panic attacks are more likely than not.”
She swallowed. “Great.”
Dr. Burnett smiled. “On the other hand, you may suffer no aftereffects whatsoever. You’re perfectly lucid, and we’ve done our best to reduce muscle atrophy and other potential problems. Physical therapy should be minimal, I’d say. Once your memory returns, you may well find yourself as good as ever.”
He sounded so confident that Faith let herself believe him, because the alternative was unbearable.
Trying not to think about that, she asked, “What about family? Do I have any family?”
“Miss Leighton told us you have no family in Atlanta. There was a sister, I understand, but I believe both she and your parents were killed some years ago.”
Faith wished she felt something about that. “And I’m single. Do I—Is there—”
“I’m sure you must have dated,” he said kindly, “but evidently there was no one special, at least not in the last few months. You’ve had no male visitors, no cards or letters, and only Miss Leighton sent flowers, as far as I’m aware.”
So she was alone, but for this remarkably good friend.
She felt alone, and considerably frightened.
He saw it. “Everything seems overwhelming right now, I know. It’s too much to process, too much to deal with. But you have time, Faith. There’s no need to push yourself, and no reason to worry. Take it step by step.”
She drew a breath. “All right. What’s the first step?”
“We get you up on your feet and moving.” He smiled and rose from the chair. “But not too fast. Today, we’ll have you gradually sit up, maybe try standing, and monitor your reaction to that. We’ll see how your stomach reacts to a bit of solid food. How’s that to start?”
She managed a smile. “Okay.”
“Good.” He squeezed her hand and released it, then hesitated.
Seeing his face, she said warily, “What?”
“Well, since you might want to read the newspapers or watch television to catch up on things, I think I should warn you about something.”
“About what?”
“Your friend Miss Leighton. She’s been missing for about two weeks.”
“Missing? You mean she—she stopped coming to visit me?”
There was sympathy in his dark eyes. “I mean she disappeared. She was reported missing, and though her car was found abandoned some time later, she hasn’t been seen since.”
Faith was surprised by the rush of emotions she felt. Confusion. Shock. Disappointment. Regret. And, finally, a terrible pain at the knowledge that she was now completely alone.
Dr. Burnett patted her hand, but seemed to realize that no soothing words would make her feel better. He didn’t offer any, just went away quietly.
She lay there staring up at the white, blank ceiling, which was as empty as her mind.
He laughed at her, the sound rich with amusement.
“Well, how was I to know you couldn’t boil water without ruining the pot?”
“I just forgot,” she defended herself with spirit. “I had more important things on my mind.”
He shook his head, fair hair gleaming like spun gold and a wry expression on his handsome face. “To be honest, I’m glad there are a few things you don’t do well. If you were perfect, I wouldn’t know how to cope.”
She reached out a hand and touched his face, the backs of her fingers stroking downward in a quick caress. Her hands were strong and beautiful, well kept, the neat oval nails polished a vivid red. She felt the slight bristle of his evening beard, a scratchiness that was familiar and pleasant, even erotic. It made her breath catch at the back of her throat, and her voice emerged more husky than she had expected. “I may not be perfect, but I’m starving. And since I ruined dinner, I thought maybe we could go out.”
“Only if you’re buying,” he said, still humorous even though his eyes darkened in response to what he heard in her voice. “I refuse to buy dinner for a woman who ruined three pots and really stunk up my kitchen.”
“You needed new pots anyway,” she said, and danced away, laughing, when he lunged at her.
But she didn’t try too hard to escape, and when his hands were on her, strong and sure and exciting, she let herself melt against him. Their bodies fit together as though they’d been designed to, and his mouth on hers was still a shock of wild, overwhelming pleasure, instantly seductive. But as always, the warning voice in her head told her not to yield completely, to hold back something of herself because she knew how this would end, she knew it. And as always, she ignored the warning and reached eagerly for what he offered.
A burst of heat raced through her and her heart began to pound, and when his hands slid down her back to curve over her bottom and hold her even tighter against him—
Faith woke with a start, shaken yet also exultant.
There was a man in her life. Or had been.
She closed her eyes and tried to recapture the image of his face, pleased when it rose easily and vividly in her mind. That gleaming, spun-gold hair, a little longer than the current fashion, even a bit shaggy—and decidedly sexy. Gray eyes steady and intelligent, going silvery with laughter. Firm, humorous mouth, determined jaw. Deep, strong voice.
And the way he’d looked at her …
Faith shivered and opened her eyes, realizing that her cheeks were hot and she was smiling helplessly, that the quiver deep inside her was something other than fear and panic. She swore she could smell the cologne he used, that pleasant scent mixed with the sharper, clean fragrance of soap.
Then that sensory memory abandoned her, leaving only his face distinct in her mind. She held on to it—fiercely.
Her room was quiet but for the murmur of the television, tuned to CNN. She was almost sitting up, the head of the bed raised because she’d been looking through magazines before she’d suddenly fallen asleep. She still did that sometimes, even though it had been almost a week since she’d come out of the coma. Days of painful transition, of moving from a patient who was bedridden and totally dependent on the nursing staff to one slowly and cautiously reclaiming independence.
Small movements had required a great effort at first, and walking even more so. Her muscles were weak and slow to obey her, though daily physical therapy was gradually changing that. Her blood pressure had stabilized, but her stomach still had trouble with solid foods.
The removal of the feeding tube had been surprisingly painless and would leave only a tiny scar, but having the catheter taken out had not been pleasant.
Three days ago she had actually made it into the bathroom on her own, and had spent long minutes staring into the mirror at a face she didn’t know. A thin, pale face, framed by mostly straight, dull red hair that fell just below her shoulders. Her green eyes were very clear and strong, but the remainder of her features struck her as less than memorable. Straight nose, generous mouth, determined chin.
Some might call her pretty, perhaps.
She had discovered that she was only a few inches over five feet, very slender, and fine boned. She had small breasts and virtually no hips—minimal curves at best. She thought her legs were okay, or would be once they began to hold her up for more than a few minutes at a time.
Yesterday morning she had taken a long, luxurious bath, and though a nurse had had to help her dry her hair afterward because she’d used up all her strength, the results had been worth it. She felt much better. As for her hair, the dull red had become a rich auburn, which made her pale face look luminous.
It was a face, she thought now, that might attract a handsome man with gleaming blond hair. A man with intelligent gray eyes and a way of leveling them when he spoke that said he was accustomed to getting wh
at he wanted.
What was his name? And if they were so involved that physical intimacy had been very much a part of the relationship, why had he never come to visit her?
That bothered her. A lot.
But the flowers from Dinah Leighton continued to arrive once a week, even after her own disappearance. Faith had gotten up the nerve to call the florist and had found that the order had been paid ahead for another week.
Obviously, no one else cared enough even to acknowledge Faith’s presence in the hospital—or her absence from the life she had led before the accident.
Where was that blond man?
How could he be so vivid in her mind—her only real memory—if he had not been a recent part of her life?
A nurse came in carrying a stack of magazines. “I brought you a few more, honey.” She was a motherly woman with a warm voice and gentle hands, and over the last few days she had been the most helpful and encouraging of the nurses.
“Thanks, Kathy.” She eyed the short, neat, unpolished nails of the nurse, then looked at her own still-ragged ones. “Kathy, do you happen to have a nail file?”
“I’ll get one for you.” Kathy put the magazines on the bed and smiled at her with genuine pleasure. “You’re looking much better today, honey. And obviously feeling better.”
Faith smiled at her. “I am, thanks.”
“Dr. Burnett will be pleased. You’re one of his favorites, you know.”
Faith had to laugh. “Because he wants to write that paper on me, and we both know it. Not too many long-term-coma patients wake up.”
“That’s true,” Kathy said soberly. “And those who do tend to be in much worse shape than you are, honey. With you, it’s almost like you were just sleeping.”
Faith didn’t feel as though she had just been sleeping, but said only, “I know how lucky I am, believe me. And you and the other nurses have been terrific. That makes a difference.”
Kathy patted Faith’s shoulder, said, “I’ll go get that nail file,” and left the room.
It was easy enough to say the right words. Faith had been doing that for days now. She had been positive and upbeat. She had listened closely to the psychiatrist on staff and obediently followed her advice to take things one step at a time. She had agreed with the nurses’ cheerful predictions that her life would get back on track sooner rather than later. She had read newspapers and magazines and watched television to catch up on current events. She had made herself smile at Dr. Burnett when he visited and had not mentioned the devastating panic that was always with her and how she often woke in the night terrified by the blankness inside herself.
She had some knowledge now, but almost all of it dated from the moment she’d opened her eyes in the hospital. The nurses’ faces were familiar, as were the doctors’. The layout of her floor and that of the physical therapy rooms two stories above.
These things she knew.
And there was, absent from her mind until someone asked her a direct question, the sort of knowledge that came from a normal education. She had completed several crossword puzzles, and a game show she had found on television had shown her that she had some awareness of history and science. Facts. Dates. Occurrences.
Fairly useless trivia, for the most part.
But of memories, all she had, all she could claim as her own dating from that otherwise blank part of her life, were the dreams of a blond man she thought she had loved.
There had been two other dreams before today, and they were brief and very similar; just scenes from a relationship, casual and intimate. Each time, the scene had erupted into laughter and ended in lovemaking.
But she still didn’t remember his name.
She hadn’t mentioned the dreams to anyone. They were something all her own, a piece of herself not given to her by someone else, and she held on to them as to an anchor.
“Here you go, Faith.” Kathy returned to the room and handed her the nail file. “Before you start working on those nails, how about a trip around the floor? Doctor’s orders.”
Faith was more than ready to move. Painful as it still was, at least it allowed her to concentrate on muscles and bones and balance, instead of having to keep thinking and wondering.
“You bet,” she said, and threw back the covers.
On November fourteenth, three weeks after waking up from her coma and nine weeks after the accident, Faith went home.
She was not fully recovered. She still got tired very easily, her sleep was erratic and disturbed by dreams she remembered and nightmares she didn’t, and her emotional state was, to say the least, fragile.
Dr. Burnett drove her to her apartment, claiming it was on his way home but fooling nobody. He had several times shown himself more than a little protective of Faith.
Faith was more than happy to accept his escort. She was nervous and panicky, afraid the place where she lived would jar memories. Terrified it would not.
She wore her own clothes, thanks to Dinah Leighton’s foresight in packing a bag for her and taking it to the hospital just a week after the accident, but though the slacks and sweater fit fairly well, she was uncomfortable in them. Perhaps it was because she had spent so much time in a nightgown.
Her apartment was on the sixth floor of a nice but ordinary building in a suburb of Atlanta. No doorman or guard greeted them, but everything looked clean and in good repair, and the elevator worked smoothly.
Dr. Burnett came in with her, carrying her small overnight bag, which he set down by the door. “Why don’t we take a look around?” he suggested, watching her. “I don’t want to leave you until you’re comfortable here.”
Faith accepted the suggestion because she didn’t want to be alone.
The apartment was … nice. Ordinary. There was one bedroom; the queen-size brass bed had a floral, ruffled comforter set, with lots of pillows tossed against the shams. Curtains at the single window matched the comforter. There was a nightstand and a chair, both white wicker and a white laminated dresser with an oval wicker-framed mirror hanging above it. The color scheme was white and pink.
Faith thought it an odd choice for a redhead, and rather girlish.
The one bathroom was small and standard, with white tiles and plain fixtures. The rugs, towels, and curtains on the window and shower bore another floral pattern, this one with pink and purple predominating.
The kitchen was also standard, white cabinets and a neutral countertop blending perfectly with the vinyl floor. There was a small breakfast table, again of white wicker and glass, with a cheap area rug underneath it. Little attempt had been made to personalize the space as far as Faith could see. There were no place mats on the table, and except for a coffeemaker, nothing cluttered the countertops.
The living room struck her as having been recently decorated, and she had the feeling—certainly not a memory—that some picture in a magazine had been the inspiration. The intended style might have been shabby chic, with distressed wood, lots of texture in materials, and antique-looking accessories.
It didn’t quite work, though she couldn’t have explained why.
“Nice place,” Burnett said.
She nodded, even as she wondered why the little apartment felt stifling to her. Was it the several locks on the door, an indication of someone who had shut the world out—or herself in? Faith didn’t know, but it disturbed her.
She shrugged out of her jacket and left it over a chair, then returned to the kitchen and checked the cabinets and the refrigerator. “Sloan was as good as his word,” she noted, seeing the stock of foods.
The lawyer had come to see her several days ago, after being notified by Dr. Burnett that she was up to having visitors. He had explained the financial situation, including Dinah Leighton’s arrangements to pay the hospital bill and the trust fund she had set up for Faith’s use. Her disappearance, he had explained without emotion, changed none of that. In addition, Faith’s regular monthly bills had been paid, including recently incurred debts. She wasn’t to worry
, everything had been taken care of.
Then he had promised to have her apartment cleaned and stocked with food, ready for her return. All per Dinah’s careful arrangements.
Faith had been given a generous amount of cash, and her checking account, he told her, had been credited with even more. In addition to that, her rent had been paid for the next six months.
It had been too overwhelming for Faith to think about then, and now she felt a prickle of uneasiness. All this from a friend? Why?
“My advice,” Burnett said cheerfully, “is to fix yourself something simple for dinner or order in a pizza, and have an early night. Familiarize yourself with where everything is. Make yourself comfortable here.” He smiled at her perceptively. “Stop thinking so much, Faith. Give yourself time.”
She knew he was right. And she was even able to say goodbye to him calmly, promising to return to the hospital as scheduled in a few days for a checkup and another session with the physical therapist.
Then she was alone.
She locked the door, turned on the television in the living room for company and background noise, and wandered again through the apartment. This time, she looked more closely.
Her initial puzzlement took on a chill of unease.
There was no history here. No photographs, either displayed or tucked away in drawers. And very little to indicate her interests. A few books, mostly recent best-sellers that ran the gamut of genres, and many of those apparently unread.
She found plenty of clothes in the drawers and closet, and the bathroom held the usual supplies of soap and shampoo, moisturizers and bubble bath and disposable razors, and a small toiletry bag of makeup containing the basics, all new or nearly so. A blow dryer and a curling iron were stowed in the cabinet below the sink.
What there was not was evidence that a woman had lived here for more than a few weeks or months. No old lipsticks or dried-up mascaras in the drawers. No unused foundation compacts that had turned out to be the wrong shade. No nearly empty tubes of moisturizer or hand lotion. No fingernail polish or remover. No samples given out at cosmetics counters in practically every store in the world.