“Oh.” Another flash of guilt. It must be hard for him to not know who I’m going to be and what I’m going to like on any given day. “I’m sorry.”
I look up at Graham, who is watching me with a concerned expression on his handsome features. He’s wringing his hands together. “You’re having a bad day today,” he acknowledges. “You’re not yourself.”
No kidding. I don’t even know who myself is anymore. “I’m okay.”
But that worried expression is still there. “Maybe we should go see the doctor. After the accident, they said that there’s a possibility the blood could re-accumulate in your brain. Maybe you need to have a CAT scan or…”
“No. No.” I swallow a bubble of fear in my chest. “I don’t want that.”
I hate doctors. So much.
When I was a kid, my mother was diagnosed with breast cancer. It was stage three when they caught it. I still remember her sitting me down on the sofa while I clutched my favorite doll, and she explained to me what cancer was. I was eight years old.
Soon after, she had surgery to remove the cancer, followed by chemotherapy and radiation. Lots of hospital visits, lots of doctors’ appointments. She spent months at the hospital with tubes coming out of every part of her and oxygen prongs in her nose. Whenever I asked about it, she would explain that the doctors were making her better.
But it didn’t seem like she was getting better. Every time I saw her, she was skinnier and the circles under her eyes were darker. It got to the point where I was scared to even visit her, because she didn’t look like my mother anymore. I figured I would wait until she was better—until she was her old self again.
Then when I was ten years old, while I was trying to think of an excuse to get out of our daily visit to the hospital, my father told me she had died that morning.
You might say I’m scarred from the experience. I’ve got a terrible phobia about doctors and hospitals. And especially tests. Whenever I used to go for my annual OB/GYN visit, I would make Harry come with me and hold my trembling hand in the waiting room until the nurse called my name.
“Let me give your doctor a call,” Graham says. “I just want to know what they think.”
“Please don’t. I’m okay.”
“But—”
“Please, Graham!” I snap at him. He jerks his head back like I slapped him, and I feel guilty yet again. I soften my voice. “Sorry. I just don’t want to go to the doctor. I’m fine, I promise.”
Graham studies my face for a moment. I smile and do my best to look as perfectly healthy as possible. At least, as healthy as a woman who had a massive brain trauma could possibly look. If I say I don’t want to go to the doctor, will he force me? Could he? Has he?
“Okay,” he finally says. “But if anything changes…”
I place a hand over my heart. “I promise I’ll tell you.”
I definitely won’t.
“Also…” Graham reaches into his pocket and pulls out a little black rectangular object. He places it down on the kitchen island, right in front of me. “This is for you.”
I stare down at the object. What now?
“That’s your phone,” he explains.
“My… phone?” This looks about a hundred times fancier than my phone. I have a little silver flip phone. Harry and I are on the same account. We recently got unlimited texting and were super excited about it.
“It’s an iPhone,” he says. “You should hang onto it.”
I have an iPhone? Wow, we must be pretty wealthy. “How does it work?”
One corner of Graham’s lips quirks up. “You usually figure it out on your own.”
I’m about to ask him what the hell he’s talking about, because I’ll never figure out how to use this fancy phone in a million years. It’s even more confusing than the shower. But then I pick it up and almost instinctively, my thumb goes to the little button at the bottom of the screen, and the screen jumps to life. I don’t know how, but it’s like I already know how to use this phone, even though I’ve never seen it before. Obviously, I learned how to use it at some point and the memory never left me. Sort of like riding a bike.
I bring up the list of phone numbers programmed into the phone. Graham’s name is listed first. Then there’s a listing for “Dad”—thank God it seems like my father is still alive and well. And then there’s Lucy. I feel a rush of relief at the sight of her name. Lucy has been my best friend since the first day of college, even before I knew Harry. It’s a comfort to know that with just one click, I can hear her voice. I’m tempted to call her now, but with Graham right next to me, it seems rude.
There’s only one other name on the favorites list. And it’s one I don’t recognize.
“Who is Camila?” I ask.
Before Graham can answer me, the doorbell rings. He swivels his head in the direction of the sound. “Actually,” he says, “you’re about to meet her.”
Chapter 5
Graham disappears into the living room to open the door and greet Camila. I stay behind, pushing the eggs around my plate. They don’t taste much better than the overcooked bacon, but at least they’re edible. Barely.
Ziggy has gone to the back door, and he’s yapping at it, eager to go outside. I wonder if I could take him out into the backyard. I assume the backyard must be fenced in. I’d love to sit outside with him while he plays. It will be nice to get some fresh air.
But then when I go to the back door and try to open the lock, I realize there’s a problem. You can’t simply turn the lock to open the door. There’s a keyhole.
The back door requires a key to open it from the inside.
A sick feeling washes over me as I jiggle the door knob, wondering if this is some kind of mistake. I’m not locked inside here, am I? Why would the door lock this way? What’s going on?