She raises an eyebrow. “And you love quinoa.”
“Take me out to lunch and we’ll find out.” I look at the screen. It’s a lifeline to all of my friends and family—everything that matters. I mean, it’s one thing to lose your memory but another thing altogether to lose your phone. Email, texts, Facebook, Twitter, Instagram…Does it even matter that my memories aren’t in my brain? Everything that counts is on my phone. Hard data and digital evidence.
Including my name…
1 Am I a lawyer?
2 Except for “Jolene.”
3 I might be a fashion expert.
4 Or is he just reciting this off of WebMD?!
CHAPTER
TWO
As soon as the facial recognition software locks on my features, my phone’s screen unlocks. (Someone finally fucking remembers me!) “Siri, what’s my name?”
“Hello, gorgeous. Your name is Mia.”
“Siri, did you mean Elizabeth?” I feel more sophisticated than a Mia. Mia sounds like someone who plays the flute or volleyball. A girl who earns two hundred fifty dollars every summer babysitting. Someone who likes strawberry ice cream and always has her hair in a ponytail. Elizabeth—she sounds like someone with potential, like a chick who could run for Congress or become a doctor. I must be important if I had somewhere to go in a cocktail dress on a Tuesday.
“No, gorgeous, your name is Mia.”
I frown at the phone. “Mia…Mia,” I repeat to myself. “What do you think?” I look up at Brenda hopefully.
Brenda pats my hand. Her peppermint Altoid barely covers the smell of her coffee breath. “It’s the first day of the rest of your life, Mia.”
Maybe she really will let me sleep on her couch.
“Siri, what’s my last name?”
“I don’t know, gorgeous.”
“Why does she keep calling me gorgeous?”
Brenda smirks. “You must have nicknamed yourself that, gorgeous.”
I seem to have a healthy self-image.
Another nurse, Cindy, wanders into the room, apparently aware of the memory upload currently going on. I’m the major plotline on this week’s episode of fourth-floor hospital gossip. “Just think, you could be anyone. Maybe you’re a doctor or a lawyer or an actress or…” After an up-and-down look, she says, “I don’t know why but I kind of think you might work for an airline.”
“Uh, thank you…?” Was that a compliment? Not to mention, these nurses don’t understand memory loss at all. “Ladies,” I explain, “it’s not like I’m getting a chance to start over or something.”
“Well, sort of. If I passed out for two days and woke up to find out I was a rocket scientist or a supermodel, I mean…” Cindy raises her hands in the air, as if that would obviously be the best thing that had ever happened to her. No wonder no one thinks my situation is a crisis. They all probably want to forget who they are, too.
“You could be royal. Like a princess who was visiting and got separated from her royal entourage. I mean, you were wearing a tiara when they admitted you. An understated one, like something Meghan Markle might wear to a polo-match afterparty, but still.”
Okay. The nurses are watching waaaay too much TV. Most likely I’m going to find credit card debt and a mountain of student loans the minute I figure out my social security number. I mean, I woke up in America. But still, they’ve planted a seed of hope. I’m hoping I’m a college graduate at least. Even if I’m not, I know I’m important because that’s what tiaras signify—importance (and glamour).
I look at the shiny black mirror that is my iPhone and click on the texts icon, but there are no texts. Not a single conversation is listed in the text message app. How could that be?
When I show the anomaly to the nurses, Cindy says, “Oh, you’re one of those.”
“One of what?”
“You must be super OCD about erasing all your messages.”
“Why would I do that?”
Cindy looks at me like she’s about to deliver one of those lines punctuated by a dun dun on Law & Order and says, “I guess you have something to hide.” She follows up with a laugh. “Probably just sexts, unless you’re a princess. You wouldn’t want the paparazzi to get their hands on it and publish your private conversations in the Daily Mirror.”
I think I’m just efficient, not a lazy bum with old conversations using up all of the space on my phone, space I could use for other more important things like…
I pull up my contacts list. “Where should I start?”
“That’s easy. Check your contacts for ‘boyfriend’ ”—she seems to glance specifically at my haircut—“or ‘girlfriend’?”
“Boyfriend. I think.” Boyfriend—if I have a boyfriend, I probably listed him under his actual name, meaning he might as well not exist. If he does exist, I might have to break up with him anyway. I mean, where was he when I cracked my skull? Something tells me I don’t have a husband. (No ring.) Plus, the cocktail dress and Grey Goose don’t scream married.
Brenda, standing with her hands on her hips and clearly not expecting me to find out that I’m a doctor or rock star, speaks up. “Check for Dad and Mom. That’s who you need right now.”
Oh Brenda, the voice of reason. There’s no way I’m a princess or a doctor. If I were a doctor, I’d probably have a sham degree and dispense pills to anyone who asked. At least that’s what the look on Brenda’s face told me.
I scroll down to M. Mom—bingo! I take a deep breath and close my eyes. She’s probably worried. She probably even filed a missing person report. I wonder if she smells like apple pie, or if she hates to cook and lives off Lean Cuisine. I can’t picture her to save my life.
My pulse races as I wait for her to pick up. In one second I’ll find out if I’ve won the amnesia patient’s lottery. I silently pray, Come on, Big Mary! (Or is it Big Money?) and Dear God—please let my momma save me. Come to think of it—do I believe in God?
One, two, three, four rings. I start thinking of the message I’ll leave—“Mom, it’s me, Mia…I’m in the hospital, but I’m okay.” Hopefully she’ll fill in the rest: SAT score, favorite food, ex-boyfriends, and—dude, where’s my car.
An automated message cuts off my train of thought. “We’re sorry. The number you’re trying to reach has been disconnected.”
Fuck.