Jarod

„Dr. Dorian?“

I still very much liked the allusion to the TV-series “Scrubs”, which, during a pretty eventless pretend, had become my favourite pastime. I had also dicovered that I shared that with a variety of people who had taken great pleasure in telling me their favourite scenes while I treated them in the ER.

The nurse who had called for me, pointed towards the entrance where the medical staff had just welcomed an ambulance. A stretcher was rolled towards me.

“What is it?” I demanded, pulling fresh medical gloves over my hands.

“Trauma from a severe car crash”, one of the EMTs told me calmly. The man looked tired which was not surprising at four o’clock in the morning. Tonight’s shift had been uneventful until now so I had been able to catch up on some sleep and had actually been about to do some paperwork.

I ran towards the stretcher and helped lift the woman onto the examination table. She was unconscious and her head had rolled to the side, face obscured by a mass of blond hair.

I checked her pulse which was low but steady.

“What happened?” I called to the EMT.

“Her car crashed into a rock”, he reported. “The air bag was useless so she banged her head on the stirring-wheel. She’s been unconscious all the way to the hospital. Hasn’t surfaced even once. Poor thing”, he added, sadly looking down onto the slender frame of the woman.

He was obviously in the mood to talk since he now shrugged.

“Reckless driver, though”, he said in a chatty voice. “There was a guy who’s witnessed the whole thing. Says she lost control over her car which didn’t come as a surprise. That girl was way beyond the speed limit.”

I nodded, picturing the scene in my head.

He then fell silent while I carefully began to smooth the woman’s hair back from her face. There was blood that caused the blond streaks to stick to her face. The nurse handed me a wet cloth so I could wash it away in order to get a closer look at the wound.

It was the blond hair that had kept me from recognizing her right away but as I saw her now, I could not prevent myself from jumping slightly.

“You okay, Dr. Dorian?” the nurse asked, frowning slightly. People told me that she had been in the hospital long before anyone else around here had. As a new doctor you had to earn her respect, and as it seemed, I hadn’t yet.

“Um… It’s fine,” I replied, my eyes still fixed onto the face in front of me.

It was Miss Parker without a doubt. The high cheekbones and the rather prominent nose were unconfusably hers.

The most sensible thing to do would have been to hand her over to somebody else and run, but I couldn’t. She was not much of a threat to me in that state, I told myself but still it felt odd to be treating her, to touch her skin, to examine her injuries…

The head wound was minor. It would probably not even leave a scar.

“This will need stitches”, I told the nurse. “We need to stop the bleeding. And order a CT.”

Half an hour later I had filled out the paperwork, diagnosing her with a concussion. She had been very lucky indeed. Or, as you could also put it: Cats have nine lives.

Cat-like as she was I did not know how many of those she had already lost.

I cast another look at the monitors that showed stable vital signs. She just had to wake up now.

I had to run. I knew it. She would never know I had been there, I tried to tell myself.

But still I stayed, watching her motionless face, softened by unconsciousness. I tried to imagine the usual sneer but failed. She looked almost peaceful now, although the wound across her forehead disturbed the picture.

Why had she driven into that rock? Miss Parker was everything but a careful driver, but she also exerted perfect control about whatever vehicle she was driving. I had been an awed witness to that many times.

There hadn’t been rain that night, the street had been reported to be clear. What had it been that had made her lose control? As ridiculous as it sounded, I had lived up until now with the notion that Miss Parker never lost control. Why had she now?

And what had she been here for? Had she known my location? That was highly unlikeable since I had not sent a lead. Plus I had been very careful in selecting my new job. For once I was not here on a pretend. My wish had been to have a normal job for a few weeks to get a little more distance between me and all the Centre business. All that added up to the conclusion that she could not actually have known.

But here she was.

And the hair. I could not get used to the hair. Where there had once been black hair in a harsh business style, there were now stylishly dishevelled blond streaks that curled around her face and resulted in somehow making it look softer.

The clothes she had worn were also different from her usual attire. Blue jeans, suede boots and a simple black top along with a suede jacket. Not her at all.

I am a genius, you understand, so not being able to make sense of something bothers the hell out of me. Thus staying at her bedside, waiting for her to open her eyes and look at me had nothing to do with any obligation I might have felt towards her.

It was sheer curiosity.

It took her hours to wake up but when she finally did, I instantly wished that she never had. Watching her in her helpless state had made me drop my guard and so I reached out for her hand before I knew it.

The second my skin made contact with hers I drew my hand back as if it had touched hot coals. This woman was to be considered a hazard even in her dazed state.

I brought some physical distance between us although I knew that she was far too weak to do me bodily harm right now.

“Welcome back, Miss Parker”, I greeted her in the icy voice I usually reserve for when I make bad people confess their deeds. I folded my arms over my chest and raised an eyebrow.

“How did you find me?”

She blinked again, obviously unable to answer right away. Her eyelids fluttered several times before she managed to keep them open. Her gaze slowly focused on me and a look of sorrow manifested itself on her features.

I had to lean forward to be able to understand the single question she whispered.

“Who are you?”

Since this did not make any sense to me, I reacted in the only way one can possibly react to anything coming from Miss Parker. I got angry.

“Quit the nonsense, Miss Parker. How did you do it?”

My usual amusement was strangely absent, replaced with irritation about my leave of absense being disturbed.

“Do what?” she slurred, much as she had when I had sent her home from the bar she’d got drunk in after Thomas had died. The picture was vivid in my mind. Her, bent over a table, clutching a glass of whiskey, close to tears. Looking as helpless as she did now.

I wondered briefly whether she was putting up an act, but in fact she looked as if she did not. Her face was unreadable for a second, then the emotion that I had least expected showed: Utter horror.

She ran her hands through her hair, then suddenly sat up straight in bed. When she moaned in agony, my hands had flewn forward to support her before I could stop myself.

She now turned her head towards me and inhaled deeply before she spoke:
”I… I don’t know…” Her voice broke and she ran one hand over her eyes to fight back tears. I could hear from her tone of voice that she was trying to sound firm and professional beside herself.

“I do not know who I am”, she finally stated.

I could almost feel the fear that seemed to radiate from her like light shining from a torch. Was she that good an actress? Had she dyed her hair, bought a set of new clothes and now put up an act to lure me into a sense of false security?

But her injuries were real and very much looked as if they could cause memory loss. Temporary or not, in that case she would not pose a threat to me. If she had no clue who she was, she couldn’t have a clue who she was chasing.

“You don’t remember your name?” I asked although I knew better. I should have run and just assumed that she was staging whatever she was doing.

But my natural curiosity hadn’t ceased. Would she, deprived of her memory, once again be like the little girl I had known? There is a theory that our education and certain events in our lives shape our character. Would Miss Parker be the woman I had always wished she would have stayed? The girl I had loved?

I could still run. I had always outsmarted her and if I needed to, I would do it again this time.

“I don’t remember anything…” she whispered. “Do I know you?”

She looked at me with pleading eyes, as if she desperately hoped for me to present her with her name and her family, to give her back her life.

I hesitated for a moment, then shrugged.

“We’ve met before”, I said carefully. No need to already tell her the fact that she’d been chasing me for the past four years.

She still looked groggy and slightly disoriented. She finally sank back into her pillow and slowly took in the cheerful yellow walls of the hospital room, the linoleum floor, the hospital bed, the wardrobe and the tiny sink in the corner.

She swallowed.

“I’m in a hospital”, she stated quietly. “What happened?”

I decided that it would do no harm to tell her what had happened to her.

“You have a mild concussion since you banged your head on your stirring wheel. Car accident.”

She didn’t seem to really listen to me and as she closed her eyes I was almost sure that she had slipped back into unconsciousness. But then she reopened her eyes like she had before, just sans the fluttering of her eyelids. This movement was very much controlled and much more like the Miss Parker I knew.

“Did I harm anybody else?” she asked, immediatley assuming that the accident had been her fault.

“No. The rock you crashed into seems to be unharmed”, I answered, suddenly desperate to cheer her up and make the gloomy look disappear from her face.

It was that moment that I realized that I had never really seen her without make-up during the last –what?- twenty years?

Her face was pale and the natural color of her lips was closer to a light red than to the deep burgundy lipstick she usually wore. She looked almost vulnerable. But just almost. There still was the way she carried herself as she sat up against the pillows. She was still a fighter, even if she had forgotten why she had become one.

“So you do not remember anything about your past life?” I asked again.

She frowned and shook her head which she regretted immediatley, touching her forehead lightly to ease the pain. Her fingertips brushed the wound I had stitched up and she sighed.

“Do I have to expect a scar?”

Her question almost made me laugh. There she was, suffering from amnesia and her biggest worry was whether there was anything that could possibly diminish her beauty.

I suddenly wondered how much she remembered. She knew what a hospital looked like and she seemed to very vaguely remember that she was one hell of a driver. Did she also know she was beautiful?

“Don’t worry”, I told her. “I was a cosmetic surgeon once. I know how to do things like that without leaving a trace.”

“Good”, she replied and I could feel that I was under scrutiny from the way she looked me up and down.

“You said we’ve met before. Do you know my name?”

Her voice was still hoarse, but I could hear the determination. She would not let me off without a liable explanation. But what was I to tell her?

“We met on business in another state, so I was quite surprised to see you here.”

She sighed. “So I don’t live here? There’s no family waiting?”

“No.”

I didn’t have the heart to tell her, that there wouldn’t be a family waiting if she was in her hometown. Her father would probably have called in, asking about her condition but he would not have bothered to come over to watch over her until she woke up.

“Do you know my name?”

I could see that she sensed that something was wrong, that I was withholding something from her.

“Your name is Michelle”, I answered, feeling the name leave my lips more easily than I would have imagined. It had been such a well kept secret for all these years that I would have never spoken it aloud. It was one of her few wishes I respected although I frequently interrupted her night’s sleep and had done things such as carry a giant rubber troll into her house and disable her car.

To my utter surprise she looked irritated rather than relieved to learn her first name.

“I wasn’t asking for that”, she said impatiently. “I want to know my last name.”
It was amazing how little amnesia –or alleged amnesia in her case, since I still didn’t trust it- hadn’t affected her preferences.

“You would like to be called by your last name?” I asked, just to make sure I hadn’t misunderstood her.

Irritation began to show on her face. “Of course”, she said as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Miss Parker”, I said through gritted teeth, not sure whether to laugh or to get angry at her arrogant ways that obviously persisted through amnesia.

“I’m sorry”, she suddenly said. “I didn’t mean to sound harsh, it just sort of left my mouth like that… I don’t feel comfortable being called by my first name.”

She frowned again. “That is unusual…” she murmered to herself, as if she was trying to understand a stranger’s character instead of her own.

While she was trying to get to terms with herself, I realized that I already trusted her too much. I was almost convinced that she had really lost her memory. Why was I so sure? Did I once again fall for the old bond that existed between us without a doubt? Did she use it against me? Had she realized that the soft spot I’d had for her had never gone away?

“Do you know my family? Can you call them for me?” she asked and I saw the need for support in her eyes.

“No”, I said. “I don’t know them.”

A lie, but for some weird reason, maybe just a hunch, I decided to not tell her about where she came from and what she was, just yet.

Maybe it was still curiosity, maybe it was sheer vigilance, but I wanted her to stay the way she was. Absolutely clueless.

She looked defeated. The hope that had been shining in her eyes was gone and replaced with poorly disguised fear. She was still trying to be strong but losing your identity is not one of the things that anybody can handle well.

She turned back to me and looked into my eyes until I had the sincere wish to just look away. Her blue eyes seemed to look inside me and read my thoughts, seemed to see that I had been telling lies.

“Are we close?” she now asked, more softly than I had actually ever heard her talk. I could sense that she desperately wanted us to have been close before. That she wanted me to be someone who cared for her. Someone to provide the closeness she desired.

I knew by instinct that I had already made the mistake. I should have never stayed. I should have gone away and left her here. But I also knew about Centre policy. Driver’s licenses and identity cards of all sorts did include fotos and names but all the addresses were made up, leading everywhere but to Blue Cove. Miss Parker would have been lost with no chance to make her way home.

But regarding the fact that her home was the Centre, I would probably have done better if I had just prevented her from ever going back.

But now there was no way to escape this. All I was left to do was picking up the pieces.

Her question still rang in my ears. Are we close?

I looked at her and smiled, suddenly wishing her face would light up, starving for one of her rare but dazzling smiles.

“Well…” I said, wondering when my throat had gone this dry. “Sort of.”