Burying Water (Burying Water #1)(3)
The nurse, who’s been busy replacing the various bags on the IV stand, stops to look at the doctor for a long second, her delicately drawn eyebrows pulled together. They have the same green eye color, I notice. In fact, they have the exact same almond-shaped eyes and straight-edged nose.
Or, maybe I’m just hallucinating, thanks to the drugs.
Kind fingers probe something unseen on my scalp and then, with the sound of the door clicking shut, the doctor asks, “How about we start with the basic questions. Can you please give me your name?”
I open my mouth to answer. It’s such a simple question. Everyone has a name. I have a name. And yet . . . “I don’t . . . I don’t know,” I stammer. How do I not know what my name is? I’m sure it’s the same name I’ve had all my life.
My life.
What do I remember about my life? Shouldn’t something about it be registering?
A wave of panic surges through me and the EKG’s telltale beep increases its cadence. Why can’t I seem to recall a single scrap of my life?
Not a face, not a name, not a childhood pet.
Nothing.
Dr. Alwood stops what she’s doing to meet my gaze. “You’ve had a significant head injury. Just try to relax.” Her words come slow and steady. “I’ll tell you what I know. Maybe that will jog your memory. Okay? Just take a few breaths first.” She’s quick to add, “Not too deep.”
I do as instructed, watching my chest lift and fall beneath my blue-and-white checkered gown, cringing with a sharp twinge of pain on my right side with each inhale. Finally, that incessant beeping begins to slow.
I turn my attention back to her. Waiting.
“You were found in the parking lot of an abandoned building nine days ago,” Dr. Alwood begins.
I’ve been here for nine days?
“You were brought into the emergency room by ambulance with extensive, life-threatening trauma to your body. Your injuries were consistent with a physical assault. You had several fractures—to your ribs, your left leg, your right arm, your skull. Your right lung collapsed. You required surgery for a hematoma, a ruptured spleen, and lacerations to . . .” Her calm voice drifts off into obscurity as she recites a laundry list of brutality that can’t possibly have my name at the top of it. “It will take some time to recover from all of these injuries. Do you feel any tightness in your chest now, when you inhale?”
I swallow the rising lump in my throat, not sure how to answer. I’m certainly having difficulty breathing, but I think it has more to do with panic than anything else.
“No,” I finally offer. “I think I’m okay.”
“Good.” She gingerly peels back pieces of gauze from my face—some over the bridge of my nose and another piece running along the right side of my face, from my temple all the way down to my chin. By the slight nod of approval, I’m guessing she’s happy with whatever is beneath. “And how is the air flow through your nose? Any stuffiness?”
I test my nostrils out. “A little.”
She stops her inspection to scribble something on the chart that’s sitting on the side table. “You were very fortunate that Dr. Gonzalez was in Bend on a ski trip. He’s one of the leading plastic surgeons in the country and a very good friend of mine. When I saw you come in, I called him right away. He offered us his skill, pro bono.”
A part of me knows that I should be concerned that I needed a plastic surgeon for my face, and yet I’m more concerned with the fact that I can’t even imagine what that face looks like.
“I removed the stitches two days ago to help minimize the scarring. You may need a secondary surgery on your nose, depending on how it heals. We won’t know until the swelling goes down.” Setting the clipboard down on the side table again, she asks, “Do you remember anything about what happened to you?”
“No.” Nothing.
The combination of her clenched jaw and the deep furrow across her forehead gives me the feeling that she’s about to deliver more bad news. “I’m sorry to tell you that we found evidence of sexual assault.”
I feel the blood drain from my face and the steady beeping spikes again as my heart begins to pound in my chest. “I don’t . . . I don’t understand.” She’s saying I was . . . raped? Somebody touched me like that? The urge to curl my arms around my body and squeeze my legs tight swarms me, but I’m too sore to act on it. How could I possibly not remember being raped?
“I need to examine the rest of your injuries.” Dr. Alwood waits for my reluctant nod and then slides the flannel sheet down and lifts my hospital gown. I’m temporarily distracted by the cast around my leg as she gently peels back the bandages around my ribs and the left side of my stomach.
“These look good. Now, just relax, I’ll make this quick,” she promises, nudging my free leg toward the edge of my bed. I distract myself from my discomfort with the tiled ceiling above as she gently inspects me. “You required some internal stitching, but everything should heal properly with time. We’re still running some tests and blood work, but we’ve ruled out the majority of sexually transmitted diseases. We also completed a rape kit on you.”
I close my eyes as a tear slips out from the corner of one eye, the salt from it burning my sensitive skin. Why did this happen to me? Who could have done such a thing?