Remember Me? (3 page)

“Well, we can all hope, can’t we?” Maureen gives me a sympathetic smile and holds out her hand for the cup.

I pass it back—and as I do so, I suddenly notice my nails. Bloody hell. What on earth—

My nails have always been bitten-down stumps that I try to hide. But these look amazing. All neat and varnished pale pink…and long. I blink at them in astonishment, trying to work out what’s happened. Did we go for a late-night manicure last night or something and I’ve forgotten? Did I get acrylics? They must have some brilliant new technique, because I can’t see the join or anything.

“Your handbag’s in here, by the way,” Maureen adds, putting the plastic bag on my bed. “I’ll just go and get you that juice.”

“Thanks.” I look at the plastic bag in surprise. “And thanks for the bag. I thought it had been nicked.”

That’s something good, anyway, to have got my bag back. With any luck my phone will still be charged up and I can send a few texts…. As Maureen opens the door to leave, I reach into the shopping bag—and pull out a smart Louis Vuitton tote with calfskin handles, all glossy and expensive-looking.

Oh,
great.
I sigh in disappointment. This isn’t my bag. They’ve got me mixed up with someone else. Like I, Lexi Smart, would possess a Louis Vuitton bag.

“Excuse me, this bag isn’t mine,” I call out, but the door has already closed.

I gaze at the Louis Vuitton wistfully for a while, wondering who it belongs to. Some rich girl down the corridor, must be. At last I drop it onto the floor, flop back on my pillows, and close my eyes.

Chapter 2

I wake up to find chinks of morning light edging underneath the drawn curtains. A glass of orange juice is on the nightstand and Maureen is bustling about in the corner of the room. The IV drip has magically disappeared, and I feel a lot more normal.

“Hi, Maureen,” I say, my voice scratchy. “What time is it?” She turns around, her eyebrows raised.

“You remember me?”

“Of course,” I say in surprise. “We met last night. We talked.”

“Excellent! That shows you’ve come out of post-traumatic amnesia. Don’t look alarmed!” she adds, smiling. “It’s a normal stage of confusion after a head injury.”

Instinctively I put my hand up to my head and feel a dressing. Wow. I must really have whacked it on those steps.

“You’re doing well.” She pats my shoulder. “I’ll get you some fresh orange juice.”

There’s a knock at the door. It opens and a tall, slim woman in her fifties comes in. She has blue eyes, high cheekbones, and wavy, graying blond hair in straggly layers. She’s wearing a red quilted waistcoat over a long printed dress and an amber necklace, and she’s holding a paper bag.

It’s Mum. I mean, I’m ninety-nine percent certain it is. I don’t know why I’m even hesitating.

“The
heating
in this place!” she exclaims in her familiar thin, little-girl voice.

Okay, it’s definitely Mum.

“I feel quite faint!” She fans herself. “And I had such a stressful journey….” She glances toward the bed almost as an afterthought, and says to Maureen, “How is she?”

Maureen smiles. “Lexi’s much better today. Far less confused than she was yesterday.”

“Thank goodness for that!” Mum lowers her voice a fraction. “It was like talking to a lunatic yesterday, or some…
retarded
person.”

“Lexi isn’t a lunatic,” says Maureen evenly, “and she can understand everything you say.”

The truth is, I’m barely listening. I can’t help staring at Mum. What’s
wrong
with her? She looks different. Thinner. And kind of…older. As she comes nearer and the light from the window falls on her face, she looks even worse.

Is she ill?

No. I’d know about it if she was ill. But honestly, she seems to have aged overnight. I’ll buy her some Crème de la Mer for Christmas, I resolve.

“Here you are, darling,” she says in overly loud, clear tones. “It’s me. Your mo-ther.” She hands me the paper bag, which contains a bottle of shampoo, and drops a kiss on my cheek. As I inhale her familiar smell of dogs and tea-rose perfume, it’s ridiculous, but I feel tears rising. I hadn’t realized quite how marooned I felt.

“Hi, Mum.” I reach to hug her—but my arms hit thin air. She’s already turned away and is consulting her tiny gold watch.

“I can’t stay more than a minute, I’m afraid,” she says with a kind of tension, as though if she lingers too long the world will explode. “I’m due to see a specialist about Roly.”

“Roly?”

“From Smoky’s latest litter, darling.” Mum shoots me a glance of reproach. “You remember little Roly.”

I don’t know how Mum expects me to keep track of all her dogs’ names. There’s at least twenty of them and they’re all whippets, and every time I go home there seems to be another one. We were always an animal-free family—until the summer when I was seventeen. While on holiday in Wales, Mum bought a whippet puppy on a whim. And overnight it triggered this total mania.

I do like dogs. Kind of. Except when six of them jump up at you every time you open the front door. And whenever you try to sit down on a sofa or a chair, there’s a dog on it. And all the biggest presents under the Christmas tree are for the dogs.

Mum has taken a bottle of Rescue Remedy out of her bag. She squeezes three drops onto her tongue, then breathes out sharply. “The traffic coming here was terrible,” she says. “People in London are so aggressive. I had a
very
unpleasant altercation with a man in a van.”

“What happened?” I say, already knowing that Mum will shake her head.

“Let’s not talk about it, darling.” She winces, as though being asked to recall her days of terror in the concentration camp. “Let’s just forget about it.”

Mum finds a lot of things too painful to talk about. Like how my new sandals could have got mangled last Christmas. Or the council’s continual complaints about dog mess in our street. Or, to be honest, mess in general. In life.

“I’ve got a card for you,” she says, rooting in her bag. “Where is it, now? From Andrew and Sylvia.”

I stare at her, bemused. “Who?”

“Andrew and Sylvia, next door!” she says, as though it’s obvious. “My neighbors!”

Her next-door neighbors aren’t called Andrew and Sylvia. They’re Philip and Maggie.

“Mum—”

“Anyway, they send their love,” she says, interrupting me. “And Andrew wants to ask your advice on skiing.”

Skiing? I don’t know how to ski.

“Mum…” I put a hand to my head, forgetting about my injury, and wince. “What are you
talking
about?”

“Here we are!” Maureen comes back into the room, bearing a glass of orange juice. “Dr. Harman’s just coming along to check you over.”

“I must go, darling.” Mum gets to her feet. “I left the car on some extortionate parking meter. And the congestion charge! Eight pounds I had to pay!”

That’s not right either. The congestion charge isn’t eight pounds. I’m
sure
it’s only five quid, not that I ever use a car—

My stomach plunges. Oh my God—Mum’s getting dementia. That has to be it. She’s already going senile, at the age of fifty-four. I’ll have to speak to one of the doctors about her.

“I’ll be back later with Amy and Eric,” she says, heading to the door.

Eric?
She really calls her dogs some odd names.

“Okay, Mum.” I smile brightly, to humor her. “Can’t wait.”

As I sip my juice I feel a bit shaken up. Everyone thinks their mum is a bit crazy. But that was seriously crazy. What if she has to go into a home? What will I do with all the dogs?

My thoughts are interrupted by a knock at the door, and a youngish doctor with dark hair enters, followed by three other people in medical uniforms.

“Hello there, Lexi,” he says in a pleasant, brisk manner. “I’m Dr. Harman, one of the resident neurologists here. These are Nicole, a specialist nurse, and Diana and Garth, our two trainee doctors. So, how are you feeling?”

“Fine! Except my left hand feels a bit weird,” I admit. “Like I’ve been sleeping on it and it isn’t working properly.”

As I lift up my hand to show him, I can’t help admiring my amazing manicure again. I
must
ask Fi where we went last night.

“Right.” The doctor nods. “We’ll take a look at that; you may need some therapy. But first I’m going to ask you a few questions. Bear with me if some of them seem blindingly obvious.” He flashes a professional smile and I get the feeling he’s said all this a thousand times before. “Can you tell me your name?”

“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
?”