Remember Me? (4 page)

“That’s the latest book,” Garth, the other trainee, says. “It came out ages ago.”

I can’t help gasping. “There’s a sixth Harry Potter?”

“There’s a seventh out soon!” Diana steps forward eagerly. “And
guess
what happens at the end of book six—”

“Shh!” exclaims Nicole, the other nurse. “Don’t tell her!”

They continue bickering, but I don’t hear them anymore. I stare at the newspaper print until it jumps about in front of my eyes. That’s why nothing made sense. It’s not Mum who’s confused—it’s me.

“So I’ve been lying here in a coma”—I swallow hard—“for three years?”

I can’t believe it. I’ve been Coma Girl. Everyone’s been waiting for me to wake up for three whole years. The world’s been going on without me. My family and friends have probably made me tapes, kept vigils, sung songs, and everything….

But Dr. Harman is shaking his head. “No, that’s not it. Lexi, you were only admitted five days ago.”

What?

Enough. I can’t cope with this anymore. I came into hospital five days ago in 2004—but now magically it’s 2007? Where are we, bloody Narnia?

“I don’t understand!” I say helplessly, thrusting the paper aside. “Am I hallucinating? Have I gone
crazy
?”

“No!” Dr. Harman says emphatically. “Lexi, I think you’re suffering from what we call retrograde amnesia. It’s a condition which normally arises following head injuries, but it seems that yours might be quite lengthy.”

He carries on speaking, but his words aren’t fixing properly in my brain. As I look around at the staff, I suddenly feel suspicion. They look fake. These aren’t real medical professionals, are they? Is this a real hospital?

“Have you stolen my kidney?” My voice erupts in a panicky growl. “What have you done to me? You can’t keep me here. I’m calling the police….” I try to struggle out of bed.

“Lexi.” Nicole holds me by the shoulders. “No one’s trying to hurt you. Dr. Harman’s speaking the truth. You’ve lost your memory and you’re confused.”

“It’s natural for you to panic, to believe that there’s some kind of conspiracy. But we’re telling you the truth.” Dr. Harman looks me firmly in the eyes. “You’ve forgotten a chunk of your life, Lexi. You’ve
forgotten
. That’s all.”

I want to cry. I can’t tell if they’re lying, if this is all some massive trick, whether I should trust them or make a run for it…. My head’s whirling with confusion—

Then suddenly I freeze. My hospital-gown sleeve got hitched up as I was struggling and I’ve just spotted a small, distinctive V-shaped scar near my elbow. A scar I’ve never seen before. A scar I don’t recognize.

It’s not new, either. It must be months old.

“Lexi, are you all right?” asks Dr. Harman.

I can’t reply. My eyes are riveted on the unfamiliar scar.

Heart thumping, I slowly move my gaze down to my hands. These nails aren’t acrylics, are they? Acrylics aren’t that good. These are my real, genuine nails. And there’s no way they could have grown this long in five days.

I feel like I’ve swum out of the shallows and found myself in mile-deep gray water.

“You’re saying”—I clear my hoarse throat—“I’ve lost three years of my memory.”

“Well, it’s difficult to be precise, but that’s what it looks like at the moment.” Dr. Harman nods.

“Can I see the newspaper again, please?” My hands are trembling as I take it from Diana. I turn over the pages and every single one has the same dateline.
May 6, 2007. May 6, 2007.

It really is the year 2007. Which means I must be…

Oh my God. I’m twenty-eight.

I’m
old.

Chapter 3

They’ve made me a nice strong cup of tea. Because that cures amnesia, doesn’t it, a cup of tea?

No, stop it. Don’t be so sarky. I’m grateful for the tea. At least it’s something to hold on to. At least it’s something
real.

As Dr. Harman talks about neurological exams and CT scans, I’m somehow managing to keep it together. I’m nodding calmly, as if to say, “Yeah, no problem. I’m cool with all of this.” But inside I’m not remotely cool. I’m freaking. The truth keeps hitting me in the guts, over and over, till I feel giddy.

When at last he gets paged and has to leave, I feel a huge sense of relief. I can’t be talked at anymore. I’m not following any of what he says, anyway. I take a gulp of tea and flop back on my pillows. (Okay, I take it all back about the tea. It’s the best thing I’ve tasted for a long time.)

Maureen has gone off duty and Nicole has stayed in the room and is scribbling on my chart. “How are you feeling?”

“Really, really…
really
weird.” I try to smile.

“I don’t blame you.” She smiles back sympathetically. “Just take it easy. Don’t push yourself. You’ve got a lot to take in. Your brain is trying to reboot itself.”

She consults her watch and writes down the time.

“When people get amnesia,” I venture, “do the missing memories come back?”

“Usually.” She gives a reassuring nod.

I shut my eyes tight and try throwing my mind back as hard as I can. Waiting for it to net something, snag on
something
.

But there’s nothing. Just black, frictionless nothing.

“So, tell me about 2007.” I open my eyes. “Who’s prime minister now? And president of America?”

“That would be Tony Blair,” replies Nicole. “And President Bush.”

“Oh. Same.” I cast around. “So…have they solved global warming? Or cured AIDS?”

Nicole shrugs. “Not yet.”

You’d think a bit more would have happened in three years. You’d think the world would have moved on. I’m a bit unimpressed by 2007, to be honest.

“Would you like a magazine?” Nicole asks. “I’m just going to sort you out some breakfast.” She disappears out of the door, then returns and hands me a copy of
Hello!
I run my eyes down the headlines—and feel a jolt of shock.

“‘Jennifer Aniston and Her New Man.’” I read the words aloud uncertainly. “What new man? Why would she need a new man?”

“Oh yes.” Nicole follows my gaze, unconcerned. “You know she split up from Brad Pitt?”

“Jennifer and Brad
split
?” I stare up at her, aghast. “You can’t be serious! They can’t have done!”

“He went off with Angelina Jolie. They’ve got a daughter.”

“No!”
I wail. “But Jen and Brad were so perfect together! They looked so good, and they had that lovely wedding picture and everything….”

“They’re divorced now.” Nicole shrugs, like it’s no big deal.

I can’t get over this. Jennifer and Brad are divorced. The world is a different place.

“Everyone’s pretty much got used to it.” Nicole pats my shoulder soothingly. “I’ll get you some breakfast. Would you like full English, continental, or fruit basket? Or all three?”

“Um…continental, please. Thanks very much.” I open the magazine, then put it down again. “Hang on. Fruit basket? Did the NHS suddenly get a load of money or something?”

“This isn’t NHS.” She smiles. “You’re in the private wing.”

Private?
I can’t afford to go private.

“I’ll just refresh your tea…” She picks up the smart china pot and starts to pour.

“Stop!” I exclaim in panic. I can’t have any more tea. It probably costs fifty quid a cup.

“Something wrong?” Nicole says in surprise.

“I can’t afford all this,” I say in an embarrassed rush. “I’m sorry, I don’t know why I’m in this posh room. I should have been taken to an NHS hospital. I’m happy to move…”

“It’s all covered by your private health insurance,” she says. “Don’t worry.”

“Oh,” I say, taken aback. “Oh, right.”

I took out private health insurance? Well, of course I did. I’m twenty-eight now. I’m sensible.

I’m twenty-eight years old.

It hits me right in the stomach, as though for the first time. I’m a different person. I’m not me anymore.

I mean, obviously I’m still
me
. But I’m twenty-eight-year-old me. Whoever the hell that is. I peer at my twenty-eight-year-old hand as though for clues. Someone who can afford private health insurance, obviously, and gets a really good manicure, and…

Wait a minute. Slowly I turn my head and focus again on the glossy Louis Vuitton.

No. It’s not possible. This zillion-pound, designer, movie-star-type bag couldn’t really be—

“Nicole?” I swallow, trying to sound nonchalant. “D’you think…Is that bag…
mine
?”

“Should be.” Nicole nods. “I’ll just check for you…” She opens the bag, pulls out a matching Louis Vuitton wallet, and snaps it open. “Yes, it’s yours.” She turns the wallet around to display a platinum American Express card with
Lexi Smart
printed across it.

My brain is short-circuiting as I stare at the embossed letters. That’s my platinum credit card. This is my bag.

“But these bags cost, like…a thousand quid.” My voice is strangled.

“I know they do.” Nicole suddenly laughs. “Go on, relax. It’s yours!”

Gingerly I stroke the handle, hardly daring to touch it. I can’t believe this belongs to me. I mean…where did I
get
it? Am I earning loads of money or something?

“So, I was really in a car crash?” I look up, suddenly wanting to know everything about myself, all at once. “I was really driving? In a
Mercedes
?”

“Apparently.” She takes in my expression of disbelief. “Didn’t you have a Mercedes in 2004, then?”

“Are you joking? I can’t even drive!”

When did I learn to drive? When did I suddenly start to afford designer handbags and Mercedes cars, for God’s sake?

“Look in your bag,” suggests Nicole. “Maybe the things inside will jog your memory.”

“Okay. Good idea.” There are flutters in my stomach as I pull open the bag. A smell of leather, mixed with some unfamiliar perfume, rises from the inside. I reach in—and the first thing I pull out is a tiny gold-plated Estée Lauder compact. At once I flip it open to have a look.

“You’ve had some cuts to the face, Lexi,” Nicole says quickly. “Don’t be alarmed—they’ll heal.”

As I meet my own eyes in the tiny mirror, I feel sudden relief. It’s still me, even if there’s a huge graze on my eyelid. I move the mirror about, trying to get a good view, flinching as I see the bandage on my head. I tilt it farther down: there are my lips, looking weirdly full and pink, as if I was snogging all last night, and—

Oh my God.

Those aren’t my teeth. They’re all white. They’re all gleamy. I’m looking at a stranger’s mouth.

“Are you okay?” Nicole interrupts my daze. “Lexi?”

“I’d like a proper mirror, please,” I manage at last. “I need to see myself. Have you got one you could bring me?”

“There’s one in the bathroom.” She comes forward. “In fact, it’s a good idea for you to get moving. I’ll help you.”

I heave myself out of the high metal bed. My legs are wobbly, but I manage to totter into the adjoining bathroom.

“Now,” she says, before she closes the door. “You have had some cuts and bruising, so your appearance may be a little bit of a shock. Are you ready?”

“Yes. I’ll be fine. Just show me.” I take a deep breath and steel myself. She swings the door shut to reveal a full-length mirror on the back of it.

Is that…
me
?

I can’t speak. My legs have turned to jelly. I grip a towel rail, trying to keep control of myself.

“I know your injuries look bad.” Nicole has a strong arm around me. “But believe me, they’re just surface wounds.”

I’m not even looking at the cuts. Or the bandage or the staple on my forehead. It’s what’s underneath.

“That’s not…” I gesture at my reflection. “That’s not what I look like.”

I close my eyes and visualize my old self, just to make sure I’m not going crazy. Mouse-colored frizzy hair, blue eyes, slightly fatter than I’d like to be. Nice-ish face but nothing special. Black eyeliner and bright pink Tesco lipstick. The standard Lexi Smart look.

Then I open my eyes again. A different girl is staring back at me. Some of my hair has been messed up by the crash, but the rest is a bright, unfamiliar shade of chestnut, all straight and sleek with not one bit of frizz. My toenails are perfectly pink and polished. My legs are tanned golden brown, and thinner than before. And more muscled.

“What’s changed?” Nicole is looking at my reflection curiously.

“Everything!” I manage. “I look all…sheeny.”

“Sheeny?” She laughs.

“My hair, my legs, my
teeth
…” I can’t take my eyes off those immaculate pearly whites. They must have cost a bloody fortune.

“They’re nice!” She nods politely.

“No. No. No.” I’m shaking my head vigorously. “You don’t understand. I have the worst teeth in the world. My nickname is ‘Snaggletooth.’”

“Shouldn’t think it is anymore.” Nicole raises an amused eyebrow.

“And I’ve lost loads of weight…. And my face is different; I’m not sure exactly how…” I scan my features, trying to work it out. My eyebrows are thin and groomed…my lips seem fuller somehow…. I peer more closely, suddenly suspicious. Have I had something
done
? Have I turned into someone
who has work done
?

I tear myself away from the mirror and pull the door open, my head spinning.

“Take it easy,” Nicole warns, hurrying after me. “You’ve had a shock to the system. Maybe you should take things one step at a time….”

Ignoring her, I grab the Louis Vuitton bag and start yanking things out of it, examining each item closely as though it might impart a message. God, just
look
at this stuff. A Tiffany key fob, a pair of Prada sunglasses, a lip gloss: Lancôme, not Tesco.

And here’s a small, pale-green Smythson diary. I hesitate for a moment, psyching myself up—then open it. With a jolt I see my own familiar handwriting.
Lexi Smart, 2007
is scribbled inside the front cover. I must have written those words. I must have doodled that feathery bird in the corner. But I have absolutely no recollection of doing so.

Feeling as if I’m spying on myself, I start leafing through the tiny pages. There are appointments on every page:
Lunch 12:30. Drinks P. Meeting Gill—artwork.
But they’re all written in initials and abbreviations. I can’t glean much from this. I flick onward to the end and a bunch of business cards falls out of the diary. I pick one up, glance down at the name—and freeze.

It’s a card from the company I work at, Deller Carpets—although it’s been given a trendy new logo. And the name is printed in clear charcoal gray.

LEXI SMART

DIRECTOR, FLOORING

I feel as though the ground has fallen away from me.

“Lexi?” Nicole is regarding me in concern. “You’ve gone very pale.”

“Look at this.” I hold the card out, trying to keep a grip on myself. “It says ‘director’ on my business card. That’s, like, boss of the whole department. How could I possibly be the boss?” My voice rises more shrilly than I intended. “I’ve only been at the company a year. I didn’t even get a bonus!”

Hands trembling, I slot the card back between the diary pages and reach into the bag again. I have to find my phone. I have to call my friends, my family,
someone
who knows what’s going on….

Got it.

It’s a sleek new model that I don’t recognize, but it’s still pretty simple to work out. I haven’t got any voice messages, although there’s a new unread text. I select it and peer at the tiny screen.

Running late, I’ll call when I can.

E.

Who’s “E”? I rack my brains but can’t think of a single person I know whose name begins with
E.
Someone new at work? I go to my stored texts—and the first one is from “E”:
I don’t think so. E.

Is “E” my new best friend or something?

I’ll trawl through my messages later. Right now I have to talk to someone who knows me, who can tell me exactly what’s been going on in my life these last three years…I speed-dial Fi’s number and wait, drumming my nails, for a reply.

“Hi, you’ve reached Fiona Roper. Please leave a message.”

“Hey, Fi,” I say as soon as the beep sounds. “It’s me, Lexi! Listen, I know this’ll sound weird, but I’ve had an accident. I’m in hospital and I just…I need to talk to you. It’s quite important. Can you give me a call? Bye!” As I close the phone, Nicole puts a hand on it reprovingly.

“You’re not supposed to use these in here,” she says. “You can use a landline, though. I’ll set you up with a receiver.”

“Okay.” I nod. “Thanks.” I’m about to start scrolling through all my old texts, when there’s a knock on the door and another nurse comes in, holding a pair of bags.

“I’ve got your clothes here.” She puts a shopping bag down on my bed. I reach in, pull out a pair of dark jeans, and stare at them. What are these? The waist is too high and they’re
way
too narrow, almost like tights. How are you supposed to get a pair of boots on under those?

“Oh, 7 For All Mankind,” says Nicole, raising her eyebrows. “Very nice.”

Seven for what?

“I’d love a pair of those.” She strokes a leg admiringly. “About two hundred quid a pop, aren’t they?”

Two hundred pounds? For
jeans
?

“And here’s your jewelry,” adds the other nurse, holding out a transparent plastic bag. “It had to come off for the scans.”

Still stunned by the jeans, I take the bag. I’ve never been a jewelry-type person, unless you count TopShop earrings and a Swatch. Feeling like a kid with a Christmas stocking, I reach into the bag and pull out a tangle of gold. There’s an expensive-looking bracelet made of hammered gold, and a matching necklace, plus a watch.

“Wow. This is nice.” I run my fingers cautiously over the bracelet, then reach in again and retrieve two chandelier earrings. Caught up among the knotted strands of gold is a ring, and after a bit of careful unweaving I manage to untangle it.