Stranger in my Bed Read online

  “Were you with me?”

  One of his eyelids twitches. Ellison just stares at me, his mouth slowly opening to answer.

  “Were you in the car?” I demand this time. My voice is getting stronger.

  “Oh.” He crosses his arms but immediately drops them. “No. I’m sorry I wasn’t. I wish I could go back and trade places with you.” Ellison reaches toward my face, as if to brush my hair away, but I move my head away from his hand. He’s stung.

  “What about family?” I ask, and my insides freeze. Goosebumps pop up on my arms. What if we have kids?

  “You grew up in foster care,” he says, on such a different topic that I have to roll the sentence around for a few minutes to understand it. Oh. I don’t have parents coming to see me.

  “Siblings? Kids? Anyone?”

  He gives me a quick but sad look before shaking his head.

  “I don’t have anyone?”

  “You left the system and, as far as I know, never called any of your foster parents.”

  It doesn’t sound like I had a great life before this, but at the same time, his explanation is rather convenient for him. My suspicions take off at full force. Of course it makes more sense that we don’t have any children. They would be very young, and it wouldn’t be easy to get them to play along with this.

  “Your family?” I ask. Is he going to tell me that we don’t have any family on either side?

  “My mom has come by every few days, but she went to Vancouver for a week. She sends her love, though. She wanted to come home early to see you, but I said to give us a bit to settle you in.”

  I try to picture this woman and come up blank.

  “So we just have your mother?”

  “We were two loners.” He looks away. “I think that partly added to our attraction to each other. We understand where the other came from.”

  The emotion in his voice is so strong I wonder how he could fake it. One second I’m sure he’s lying; the next I wonder if my condition is affecting my thinking. Would he tell me if something was wrong with my brain or my mental health?

  “You really know me?” I ask in a hoarse whisper.

  “Meg, of course I do. Why would you even say that?” He holds up a hand to stop my response. “I get it. This is hard for you, and I’m trying to be understanding, even if it hurts. But look. It’ll get better. I’ll fill in the gaps for you and we’ll put our life back together.”

  I shake my head, fighting tears. “I don’t remember anything about us or you…”

  “Dr. Harris said you can learn about your past. We have each other. We’ll just go from here.” He soothes me, rubbing my arm, and I let him touch me, needing that connection even though I don’t trust it.

  “This feels wrong.” My voice completely breaks.

  His face hardens for a split second.

  “Meg.” Authority fills his voice. “We… belong… together. I’m here for you.” He reaches out to me again, firmly, laying his hand on the side of my face. “Stop fighting it. Just be open and trust me.”

  His gaze pins me down, making me almost afraid to look away. Trust him? Why should I trust a complete stranger?

  Chapter Three

  Ellison must have been exhausted. I can’t see much in the darkness, except that his head is thrown back on the chair. I hear quiet snoring so I lift myself up and try to study him in the dark.

  Be open and trust me.

  I don’t trust him or the doctor. It’s just a gut feeling, but my gut also tells me I have to follow my hunches a lot, which makes me wonder what I did before all this happened.

  I can’t remember being close with that man. Not only that, but I can’t imagine it as a possibility. The way he holds himself and talks pegs him as someone who likes to be in control. I’m pretty sure we would butt heads whether we were working together or trying to have a relationship. I just can’t see it happening between us.

  Logic tells me maybe we were madly in love, got married, and then things changed between us, but I’m not sure I can rely on my logic right now. Earlier, after he said to trust him, I blinked and lost another hour. He was right in front of me one second, talking, and gone the next. I’m not sure what’s going on, but it must be related to the brain trauma I suffered.

  I’m restless, wanting to roll around, get up, take a walk. I make a plan to do just that as soon as I’m able. My mind spins for hours, so when I start to fall down into oblivion, it’s not surprising that strange dreams meet me.

  It’s too quiet. I listen, and then proceed silently around the corner…

  There’s a hallway. Another corner. Then another. I’ll never get out of here. My foot bumps into something that wasn’t there before.

  I crouch next to something—no, someone. It’s too dark to see much but I make out a suit. Diagonal stripes on the tie. I rest a hand on his chest and find it wet. I flip my hand over and see red. Bright red. Brighter than it should be in this black fog.

  I jerk awake with a gasp, then look at both of my palms in the semi darkness. I don’t see blood. I rub them together. They’re dry. Had I been holding a gun in the dream? The sensation is still there, so real that I stare at my empty hand to reassure myself. Why would I have a gun?

  I hear my ragged breathing and collect my thoughts enough to hold my breath and listen. At first I think I’m alone, but as my eyes adjust and see more details, I realize Ellison is still in the chair. Holding his breath too.

  There’s tiny points of soft light coming from plug-ins and the machines. It’s not nearly enough to see if his eyes are open.

  “Ellison?”

  No answer.

  “Ellison? Are you awake?” I panic, wondering what he’s thinking. What he’s doing.

  “Yeah?” He rubs his face and slowly lifts up from the chair to come over, sitting down on the bed. His rear is touching my leg through the rough hospital blankets.

  “I need a laptop.”

  “Why? It’s…” He lifts his wrist. “after two in the morning. You need to rest. Besides, the laptop’s in the car.”

  “You said I’ve been resting for weeks. I need information.” I wish I could see his expression. The weak light from different outlets and medical devices only illuminates his cheekbones, not his eyes.

  “You can talk to the doctor tomorrow.”

  I huff in exasperation. “He wasn’t that helpful. I want to research about this condition. I want to read about the accident—”

  “It’s not a case to solve, Meg.”

  I bite my lip hard so I won’t tell him not to call me that.

  “Then I want to go on Facebook and tell my friends I’m okay.” I look around in the dark, which isn’t useful. “I could do that on your phone, I guess.” That left him no excuses.

  It takes him a long minute to say anything. Before he does, he slides his hand around until he finds mine and wraps his on top.

  “Listen,” he starts and speaks slowly, “there’s things about your life I didn’t want to have to tell you. I think you wanted to get away from them. So in a weird way, this is a huge blessing.”

  This is a blessing? I mull over his words and feel even angrier.

  “What the hell? I want to know about my life. Let me see your phone.”

  I glare at him in the dark. He stands and goes back to the chair like he’s done talking, so I’m surprised when his screen lights up the room.

  “What do you want to see? Do you want me to google amnesia care? Oh… wait. Sorry. I guess the reception isn’t working here, at least not for internet. I can’t pull up any web pages.”

  I sigh and rake a hand through my hair, stopping when I feel a line on my skull.

  “What did you mean about my life?” I ask, bracing myself. I don’t like giving into my fear. I have to fight past it so I can figure this out. “And why is that connected to contacting my friends?”

  “You mean about Facebook?” He sits on my bed again. “You deleted your account. Meg, y
ou cut ties to everyone back East and said you wanted to start fresh. Remember how I said it was your idea to move here? You begged me. You said you needed it. I thought it would help to move…”

  But then the accident happened? Is he suggesting something? I shiver hard and lean away from him.

  “Can I at least see some photos of us?”

  A pause.

  “This is a new phone, so I don’t have anything on it yet.”

  So he’s telling me I cut ties with everyone and everything, moved here, and purposefully crashed my car? Oh, and he doesn’t have any pictures of us.

  I’m so suspicious I can’t even form any questions. I actually start to shake. His hand comes down to rest on my arm.

  “Listen, you really do need to rest. I’m dead tired, too. I need to sleep or I won’t be able to function tomorrow, but I promise we’ll go over all of this then. I’ll answer anything you want.”

  It’s clear pushing him won’t get me the information I need. Will he really tell me more tomorrow? I could share the odd thoughts and questions I’ve had about this place, but then I think of the times I seemed to skip a few hours. I’m not sure how to explain all of this.

  “Okay.” I slide back down into the bed before I realize he handled me. Or my fear did.

  Tomorrow, I decide. It’ll be better tomorrow and I can get some answers.

  ***

  I wake the next morning with that hair-raising feeling that someone is watching me. I work my eyelids open and his face comes into focus, just two feet away from mine. He gives me a small smile, just one side of his mouth lifting. Those brown eyes… there’s stories and secrets swirling around in them. My past, I guess.

  It’s a pretty sorry past if he’s telling the truth: I grew up in foster care, cut all ties, and later cut all ties to my friends. He doesn’t even have a picture of us together. I don’t believe him, but why the hell would he say I’m his wife if I’m not?

  That’s the oddball thought that I’ve been ignoring—why would anyone make all this up? Why am I questioning everything?

  His chair is pulled right next to the bed, and we watch each other the way some people do when they’re close and don’t need words. His face looks different today, more familiar. With a strange tingle in my chest, I realize he’s looking at me with love glowing in his eyes.

  “Morning.” His voice is low like we’re sharing a moment, like two star-crossed lovers that just spent their first night together. “I’m sorry things got tense last night.”

  He takes my hand, intertwining our fingers, and kissing my knuckles. Before I can find anything to say to him, the same blonde nurse comes in.

  “Hello!”

  I’m learning that she’s a very chipper person.

  “Morning, Bethany,” Ellison says, getting up. Today he wears a long sleeve, faded blue shirt. His voice had taken on just the slightest hint of a Southern accent, a thing guys do when they’re flirting. I glance between them but he’s looking at me. I dismiss my initial reaction, but the interesting thing is my reaction. If I think he’s not my husband, why would I get jealous?

  “Good morning, Megan,” Bethany chirps.

  Suddenly the day is about my health: helping me to the bathroom, checking vitals, taking the brace off my arm, removing the feeding tube, eating bland soup, wheeling me in my bed for scans, talking to Dr. Harris, and on and on and on. It exhausts me.

  Ellison is patient, always there to help, always listening to the doctor and nurses.

  I’ve stood a few times but I haven’t tried to walk yet. Bethany helps me into the bathroom now, and it feels strange to move. I’m making progress on the physical front. Mentally, I’m not sure. Maybe I’m going backwards, deciding one thing and then doubting it.

  When I’m back in my room, sometime after lunch, I lie in bed and try to look at it from all angles. My tired body is making it difficult to think straight, but the questions fire away at me all the same. Maybe someone tricked Ellison too? He seems to truly believe everything he tells me, so maybe I was somehow switched with his real wife. But I have to admit it’s even crazier to think he had a wife who looks exactly like me. None of it makes sense.

  “What are you thinking about?”

  Ellison’s voice makes me jump. He’d walked into the room so quietly I didn’t hear him. I don’t want to tell him the truth so I search around for something else.

  “What did I do for work?” I’ve been trying to remember our domestic life, but maybe I was more dedicated to my job. Maybe that will spark some kind of recognition.

  “Lots of things,” he says, grabbing the chair and coming to sit down next to me. “You were an event planner back in Maine, but we…” He loses steam and deflates. I can tell he wants to drop it right there.

  “But what?”

  “We decided together that you wouldn’t look for a new job here. You were helping with the house, and we wanted—we were ready to start a family.”

  That hits me hard. I’ve lost my identity so I can’t even think about a future like that. And I wasn’t working? I try to recall any duties as an event planner. I must have coordinated things and people. Decorating maybe?

  “What else did I do?”

  He blows out his cheeks. “When I met you, you were a hostess at a nightclub and you had a small resell business, like selling on eBay.”

  I’m let down by all of this. I imagined myself having a career and doing something meaningful.

  “We can make new plans, Meg. You can do whatever you want, like go to college, get a new job, start a business.”

  His voice floats over me. A minute later I register his words and meaning. I look at him, at those warm brown eyes and the way he lifts one eyebrow when he’s trying to be optimistic. Even in the long sleeve shirt, his biceps stretch the sleeves. I bet women give him double takes all the time. I guess I’ve assumed I’m pretty, if I’m married to him, but I also haven’t wondered about it as much as you’d imagine. I didn’t know what I looked like, outside of his description and feeling my face like a blind person. When Bethany helped me step to the toilet, I was looking down to keep my balance.

  “I haven’t looked the mirror yet.”

  “I could find a mirror to bring you, I think.”

  “No, I want to walk over to the one in the bathroom.” I sit up as the doctor comes in. Ellison explains what’s going on, and Dr. Harris actually smiles and clasps his hands in front of him to wait for me. I have no idea how I’m doing so well after a six week coma. I could ask Dr. Harris, but something stops me—maybe I don’t want him to put me on bed rest.

  “Ready?” Ellison offers his hand to me. I ignore it and gently push off the bed, steadying myself on my feet.

  Vertigo hits and my stomach tries to come up, but I fight it. My balance holds. My head clears. I get my bearings and straighten.

  I resist the urge to look at Ellison and share a smile. I’ve decided not to encourage him. Maybe I can’t outright disagree with him but I won’t accept all of this.

  Once I feel more confident, I take a small step and then another. My legs are weak and the effort makes them burn. On my third step, I falter. Ellison steps close and I have to grab his arm. As soon as I can, I let go and take the last step to stand in front of the mirror, bracing myself mentally before looking into it.

  Relief—I wasn’t maimed from the accident. But my face isn’t what I expected, either.

  A warning bell goes off in the back of my mind because, oddly enough, I somehow know that an amnesia patient should remember things like their name and what they look like. The actual condition is very different than what’s portrayed in books and movies.

  I have to ignore this for now and take in my stats:

  First, chocolate brown eyes that stand out against my skin tone and light hair. It’s a pretty mix. (Brown like Ellison’s, I note.)

  Soft, shoulder length blond hair. Could use a trim, some leave-in conditioner and maybe some highlights or coloring to brigh
ten me up.

  An average face, I’d say, nice and symmetrical.

  Nicely defined eyebrows, not too big and dark, or overly plucked, but I have been out for almost two months.

  Normal, straight nose.

  Pink lips, slightly on the full side. Nice.

  I’m at least pretty, maybe attractive even.

  But not familiar. On that thought, I remember the two men watching me and try not to let all my thoughts and emotions play out on my face.

  There’s something I didn’t notice before, another mark besides the one on my neck.

  “What is this from?” I run my finger down a scar by my hairline. It’s still pink, but very light, and almost hidden by my hair.

  “We had to fix…”

  I glance at Dr. Harris in the mirror in time to see him look at Ellison. He continues, “Your face and neck were both injured. You had second degree burns and a cut that ran from above your ear there down to your collarbone. You’ve had minor reconstructive surgery—”

  “Reconstructive?”

  “Like plastic surgery. With very nice results, I might add. Even on your throat, it’s becoming hard to notice anything. You might find some scars here and there, but we diminished their appearance. You’ve received the best of care.”

  Ellison comes to me, standing by my side and giving me a smile.

  “You used to say we looked like the perfect couple,” he says, meeting my gaze in the mirror. “Perfectly matched. Perfectly happy.”

  Perfectly matched? I study us and decide he’s actually better looking than I am, granted that I’m tired, have dark circles and I’m not wearing makeup. He’s also a good six inches taller than me. Added to his muscular build, I look very slim and fragile next to him. That unsettles me. We’re both in good shape, although I probably lost muscle over the last few weeks. A funny thought crosses my mind: we’d make beautiful babies together. I drop my gaze.

  “Okay…” I’m not sure if I’m speaking to myself or them. “Maybe we could get out of this room soon? I might remember something.”

  “You’re making fantastic progress, Megan,” Dr. Harris says carefully. “But let’s not rush things, okay?” It’s not a question.