I take a breath as I cower in the dry corner of the shower, trying to figure out what to do. The computerized display now reads sixty degrees. Is that the temperature of the water? Whatever it is, it’s too damn cold.
I carefully venture back into the water as goosebumps spring up on my arms. I tap on the up arrow, and to my relief, the temperature display goes up. The water warms up and my teeth stop chattering. I start to feel more comfortable when the temperature gets close to a hundred, then I crank it up higher, all the way up to one hundred ten degrees. It’s pretty hot now, but it feels good. The tight muscles in my shoulder and back melt under the spicules of hot water. And the headache in my right temple gradually subsides.
I let the water run over my hair. It’s strange for my hair to be so short. I’m used to it running all the way down my back, but I suppose it will be easier to wash this way. I already see a bottle of My Home Spa shampoo in the corner of the shower. It’s vanilla scented, but not that fake vanilla you get in cheap shampoos. This is a real, rich vanilla aroma. Like in a real spa.
As I run my fingers through my hair, I freeze. There’s something on my scalp.
I feel it on the right side of my skull, under the strands of my hair. There’s a patch on my scalp where no hair is growing—a line of thick raised skin that feels strange when I touch it, like the skin doesn’t quite belong to me. I follow the line with my fingers, noticing that it forms a C shape.
It’s a scar.
You had a brain injury during the accident. You had a lot of bleeding in your brain and the doctors did what they could.
I stand there in the shower, my body shaking despite the burning hot water. It’s true. What I wrote in that letter is all true. There’s a scar on my scalp to prove it. I was in a terrible accident, and I had surgery, but it wasn’t enough.
I drop my head, trying to control my breathing as my legs wobble beneath me. You’re okay. Trust the letter. Just accept that this is your life now and go with it.
I blink away the droplets of water in my eyes. And that’s when I notice something on my upper left thigh. It looks like a message written in black pen.
“What the…?”
I step out of the range of the water droplets, but it’s too late. There was something written on my thigh, but the hot running water has already obscured the message. It looks like it was two words. I stare down at the message—I can only barely make out the first word:
Find.
That’s sort of strange. Considering the location of this message, I have to assume I wrote it to myself. I wrote myself a message, maybe last night, knowing that I might not remember anything when I woke up the next morning. The message was obviously important, but it’s interesting that I wrote it in a place where only I would see it. Graham clearly didn’t know about it.
Find. Find what? What is that second word? I can’t even begin to make it out.
Well, great. Whatever message I was trying to leave for myself, I was unsuccessful. Hopefully, it wasn’t too important.
I finish soaping myself up, and by the time I finish my shower, I feel a lot more relaxed. I’ve almost forgotten about the strange message on my leg and whatever I’m supposed to find. My whole brain feels hazy, like I’ve just woken up from a long sleep, and as long as I don’t try to fight it, the sensation is almost soothing. I recall the last words of the letter I had written to myself:
If you relax and try to have a good day, you will be much happier. Just remember that the people around you care about you very much and only want you to be safe. Do what they say.
You are in good hands. Trust me.
I suppose if there’s one person I can trust, it’s myself.
Can’t I?
Chapter 4
When I come downstairs, I feel much better than I did when I woke up this morning. I still have that slight headache, but it’s barely noticeable. Just a twinge. I feel like a different person now that I’ve had a hot shower and put on some clean clothing. My drawers and closet were filled with outfits that were unfamiliar to me. But that wasn’t a bad thing. It was like getting an entirely new wardrobe.
A wardrobe of incredibly expensive clothing. I checked some of the tags—Gucci, Fendi, Louis Vuitton. How could I afford any of this stuff? Graham must be loaded.
Most of the clothing seemed ridiculously fancy for a day at home, so I picked out a pair of designer skinny jeans and a fitted T-shirt. I may be older than I remember, but thankfully, I seem to be in good physical shape. My waist is still slim, my muscles toned. The only part of me that’s messed up is my brain, apparently.
As I reach the bottom of the stairwell, I see a flash of gold and brown, and then something nearly knocks me off my feet. For a split second, I’m terrified, until I hear the frantic and happy barks.
It’s a dog. We have a dog.
“Sorry to startle you.” Graham wanders out of the kitchen, wiping his hands on a dish towel. “I try to keep him out of the second floor during the night so you won’t be startled when you wake up.”
I notice now that there is an open gate in front of the bottom of the staircase. He must close it at night to keep the dog out. The dog looks up at me with those puppy dog brown eyes and licks my hand. Now my hand is covered in dog saliva, but I can’t be mad. I just met this dog thirty seconds ago, but I’m already in love with him. My first genuine smile of the day tugs at my lips.
Then again, I didn’t really meet this dog thirty seconds ago. This is my dog. I’ve probably had him for months, maybe even years. It’s like my heart has a memory of loving this dog.
Except why don’t I have any memory of loving Graham?
“What’s his name?” I ask.
Graham smiles. “His name is Ziggy.”
My own smile freezes on my lips. Ziggy. I named the dog Ziggy.
Harry and I always wanted a dog, but there was no room for it in our tiny apartment. And then when we moved here, the place was still such a disaster and Harry wanted to put up a fence around the backyard before we got the dog.