Remember Me? Read online

  “My name’s Lexi Smart,” I reply promptly. Dr. Harman nods and adds a tick mark in his folder.

  “And when were you born?”

  “Nineteen seventy-nine.”

  “Very good.” He makes another note. “Now, Lexi, when you crashed your car, you bumped your head against the windshield. There was a small amount of swelling to your brain, but it looks as though you’ve been very lucky. I still need to do some checks, though.” He holds up his pen. “If you’d like to look at the top of this pen, I’m going to move it from side to side.”

  Doctors don’t let you get a word in, do they?

  “Excuse me!” I wave at him. “You’ve mixed me up with someone else. I didn’t crash any car.”

  Dr. Harman frowns and flips back two pages in his folder. “It says the patient was involved in a traffic accident.” He looks around the room for confirmation.

  Why is he asking them? I’m the one it happened to.

  “Well, they must have written it down wrong,” I say firmly. “I was out clubbing with my friends and we were running for a taxi and I fell. That’s what happened. I remember it really well.”

  Dr. Harman and Maureen exchange puzzled looks.

  “It was definitely a traffic accident,” murmurs Maureen. “Two vehicles, side-on. I was down in Emergency and I saw her come in. And the other driver. I think he had a minor arm fracture.”

  “I couldn’t have been in a car crash.” I try to keep my patience. “For a start, I don’t have a car. I don’t even know how to drive!”

  I’m intending to learn to drive one day. It’s just that I’ve never needed to since living in London, and lessons are so expensive, and it’s not like I can afford a car.

  “You haven’t got a…” Dr. Harman flips over a page and squints at the writing. “A Mercedes convertible?”

  “A Mercedes?” I snort with laughter. “Are you serious?”

  “But it says here-”

  “Look.” I cut him off as politely as I can. “I’ll tell you how much twenty-five-year-old sales associates at Deller Carpets earn, okay? And you tell me if I can afford a Mercedes convertible.”

  Dr. Harman opens his mouth to answer-but is interrupted by one of the trainees, Diana, who taps his shoulder. She scribbles something on my notes and Dr. Harman’s mouth snaps open again in shock. His eyes meet the trainee’s; she raises her eyebrows, glances at me, then points at the paper again. They look like a pair of mime-school rejects.

  Now Dr. Harman is coming closer and gazing intently at me with a grave expression. My stomach starts flip-flopping. I’ve seen ER, I know what that expression means.

  Lexi, we did a scan and we saw something we weren’t expecting to find. It could be nothing.

  Except it’s never nothing, is it? Otherwise why would you be on the show?

  “Is something really wrong with me?” I say almost aggressively, trying to suppress the sudden wobble of terror in my voice. “Just tell me, okay?”

  My mind is already ripping through the possibilities. Cancer. Hole in the heart. Lose a leg. Maybe I’ve already lost a leg-they just didn’t want to tell me. Surreptitiously I feel through the blankets.

  “Lexi, I want to ask you another question.” Dr. Harman’s voice is gentler. “Can you tell me what year it is?”

  “What year it is?” I stare at him, thrown.

  “Don’t be alarmed,” he says reassuringly. “Just tell me what year you think it is. It’s one of our standard checks.”

  I look from face to face. I can tell they’re playing some kind of trick on me, but I can’t work out what.

  “It’s 2004,” I say at last.

  There’s a weird stillness in the room, as if no one wants to breathe.

  “Okay.” Dr. Harman sits down on the bed. “Lexi, today is May 6, 2007.”

  His face is serious. All the others appear serious too. For an instant a frightening chink seems to open up in my brain-but then, with a rush of relief, I get it. This is a windup!

  “Ha-ha.” I roll my eyes. “Very funny. Did Fi put you up to this? Or Carolyn?”

  “I don’t know anyone called Fi or Carolyn,” Dr. Harman replies without breaking his gaze. “And I’m not joking.”

  “He’s serious, Lexi,” one of the trainees chimes in. “We’re in 2007.”

  “But…that’s the future,” I say stupidly. “Are you saying they’ve invented time machines?” I force a little laugh, but no one else joins in.

  “Lexi, this is bound to be a shock,” Maureen says kindly, putting a hand on my shoulder. “But it’s true. It’s May 2007.”

  I feel as if the two sides of my brain aren’t connecting or something. I can hear what they’re saying, but it’s just ludicrous. Yesterday it was 2004. How can we have jumped three years?

  “Look, it can’t be 2007,” I say at last, trying not to give away how rattled I am. “It’s 2004. I’m not stupid-”

  “Don’t get upset,” Dr. Harman says, sending warning glances to the others. “Let’s take this slowly. Why don’t you tell us what you last remember?”

  “Okay, well…” I rub my face. “The last thing I remember is going out with some friends from work last night. Friday night. We went clubbing…and then we were trying to get a taxi in the rain and I slipped on the steps and fell. And I woke up in hospital. That was February 20, 2004.” My voice is trembling. “I know the date exactly, because it was my dad’s funeral the next day! I missed it, because I’m stuck here!”

  “Lexi, all of that happened more than three years ago,” Maureen says softly. “You’re remembering the wrong accident.”

  She seems so sure. They all seem so sure. Panic is rising inside me as I look at their faces. It’s 2004, I know it is. It feels like 2004.

  “What else do you remember?” asks Dr. Harman. “Working back from that night.”

  “I don’t know,” I say defensively. “Being at work…moving into my flat…everything!”

  “Is your memory foggy at all?”

  “A…a bit,” I admit reluctantly as the door opens. The trainee named Diana left the room a moment ago and now she’s back, holding a copy of the Daily Mail. She approaches the bed and glances at Harman. “Should I?”

  “Yes.” He nods. “That’s a good idea.”

  “Look, Lexi.” She points to the dateline at the top. “This is today’s paper.”

  I feel a massive jolt of shock as I read the date: May 6, 2007. But I mean…that’s just words printed on paper-it doesn’t prove anything. I look farther down the page, at a photograph of Tony Blair.

  “God, he’s aged!” I exclaim before I can stop myself.

  Just like Mum flashes through my mind, and a sudden coldness trickles down my spine.

  But…that doesn’t prove anything either. Maybe the light was just unflattering.

  Hands trembling, I turn the page. There’s total silence in the room; everyone is watching me, agog. My gaze travels uncertainly over a few headlines-Interest rates to rise…Queen on States visit-then is drawn by a bookshop ad.

  Half price on all fantasy, including

  Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince.

  Okay. Now my skin is really prickling. I’ve read all the Harry Potter books, all five of them. I don’t remember any half-blood prince.

  “What’s this?” Trying to sound casual, I point at the ad. “What’s Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince?”

  “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’v
e 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-