Unspoken Memories (Unspoken Series) (2 page)

They’re all still looking at me, as if they’re waiting for
me to say something.

“Abigail, are you sure you’re feeling okay?”

If my throat weren’t hurting so much, I would be saying
right now:
No you dumb ass, I just woke up, my body feels like shit, and you
guys keep calling me a name I don’t recognize.

Another thing to add to the list is that I don’t trust them!
But I keep my mouth shut knowing this is the best thing to do. However, I ask
again, knowing that I still need an answer. “Who’s Abigail?”

Ignoring my question, Bill turns to the doctor. “What’s
wrong with her, why doesn’t she know who she is?” he demands, pointing his hand
in my direction.

Looking perplexed over the whole situation herself, she
answers him, “She seems to have had a bit of a memory loss.” The doctor gives
him a calming look like this is normal. “She may just need time to recover
properly; it can happen with patients in her situation.”

Shaking his head, Bill grabs the bridge of his nose with his
thumb and forefinger, sighing to himself. He’s still quiet, like he's
concentrating on what he's going to say next. I think he’s still shocked.

I hate that they won’t give me any detailed answers.

“What happened to me?” I ask, looking between Bill and the
doctor.

Everybody is looking at me, still very uncertain whether to
tell me or not.

Bill walks up to my bedside, taking one of my hands into
his, and drops his head, looking gently at my face.

He takes a breath and begins, “A friend of ours was having a
party at a hotel downtown, and as usual we had a room there so you could get
ready. As we were waiting for the elevator to go down to the party, you became
impatient, and decided to take the stairs instead. You were wearing some really
high heels and lost your footing on one of the steps and hit your head pretty
badly on the way down.” He pauses like he’s concentrating on what to say next,
then carries on, “When you arrived at the hospital you had some really bad
swelling in your brain, so the doctor here suggested that we put you in an
induced coma.”

I’m trying to absorb all the information he’s just given me,
then I look over to the doctor, still really confused about the whole
situation.

“How long have I been in a coma?” I whisper, staring at the
wall ahead of me, holding back the tears that are fighting to come out.

She looks to Bill first, then directly back at me answering,
“It’s been a little over four months since the swelling in your brain reduced
and we reversed the medication. You didn’t wake up right away,” she calmly
states, as if reassuring me everything is fine.

I look over in Bill’s direction and ask again, “Who are you?”
I want confirmation.

He’s now starting to look irritated by my question, but he
responds again. “I’m Bill, your fiancé, baby.”

His answer still throws me for loop and I panic a little.

Why would my fiancé want me to stay in a coma? He had looked
relieved to see me awake, but I keep replaying the conversation in my head,
wanting to doubt it. I know what I heard. It was loud and clear, even if my
eyes weren’t open.

Another thing that comes to mind, is why does he have
someone else as a fuck buddy?

My panic is obvious to Bill, so he says, “We’ve been
together for over a year now. We met at one of your shows over two years ago
when I became your agent and we started dating a little while later. It was
love at first sight for me.” He tries to reassure me with a smile. But I’m not
buying it.

I look over at the doctor with a look like, “Please tell me
he’s kidding.” From the way she’s looking at me, I know she believes his story.
Bill looks up to the doctor and begins asking how soon I’ll be able to go home.

While she goes over the lecture about needing my rest before
leaving, I block out their bickering at each other.

This is when I start reciting a number in my head,
951-555-2945. It comes to me naturally, like I’ve called it regularly.

That’s weird, why would I be thinking of a phone number at
this moment? I’m happy that at least something is coming back to me.

“Bill, what’s your number?” I ask, loud enough so they both
can hear me.

They both snap their heads in my direction in confusion for
asking such a question, but Bill automatically answers. “555-6213, why?”

Mmm, not the answer I was expecting, so I try again, “Is
there any other number I would call you at?”

I must have excited the doctor because her face is beaming. “Are
you remembering something Abigail? Whatever it is, it might help. What is it
you remember?”

Bill looks excited as well, but knowing that it isn’t his
number, I just fib. “I thought I remembered, but it was only a glimpse of an
area code, then it disappeared.” I lie to both of them, keeping the number to
myself.

“By the way, what is the area code here?”

The doctor is the first to speak up, “206.”

That is definitely not the area code I’m remembering.
They’re both still patiently waiting for me to say something, so I answer with
the only excuse that I can think of at the moment. “That’s why I asked Bill to
recite his number hoping it would spark something, but I was wrong… I’m sorry.”
I look at them, disappointed.

Seeming just as irritated about the whole situation, Bill
turns to the doctor, barks at her to order more tests, wanting to know why I’ve
lost my memory.

The neurologist decides to steer the conversation by saying,
“Although she has a bit of a memory loss, she might get it back in time,
especially once she goes home and begins to see things more familiar to her.
Give her time; she’s just woken up,” she says before her lips go into a frown
of disappointment as well.

“Then how soon can she go home so she can start remembering?”
he barks at her, making me flinch from the anger in his tone.

He turns to me and with a nicer voice says, “Baby, your name
is Abigail Adams. You’re a famous model. Is it ringing a bell?” he questions
with desperation.

I shake my head and pick at the imaginary lint on my
blankets. The name doesn’t ring a bell at all. I want it to, but it doesn’t.

Bill notices my lack of response and begins fumbling with
his phone like he’s looking for something and once he’s found it he brings the
phone close to my face for me to look into the screen. On it is a photo of
myself with a whole bunch of make-up, and I’m half-naked.

“See, that’s you at your last photo shoot, it’s for
Vogue
!”
he says with enthusiasm. “Of course you know who you are, you’re legendary
since this cover came out.” The phone is still in front of my face as if he
expects the light bulb to turn on in my head.

When I shake my head at him he only sighs again, clearly
disappointed. I think I’m really beginning to irritate him.

He moves to the corner of the room dragging the doctor with
him, by the arm, and in hushed tones he begins speaking with her. The nurse
walks in at this moment saving me from having to look at both of them, knowing
that they are discussing me and leaving me out of the conversation. The nurse
entertains herself by fluffing my pillows, in an effort to make me more
comfortable, but I know she’s really just trying to be nice about the whole
situation.

They both stop talking and look over in my direction and he
smiles. The only trouble is that his smile is worrying me and I want it to go
away. It’s the type of smile meant to reassure me that everything is okay, when
in reality it’s not.

Knowing the situation is not going to get any better until
my memory comes back, I bring up the excuse that I’m tired so they will leave
me alone. Right now I want to be alone and sleep. My body feels drained, even
though I just woke up a couple of hours ago. What I really want is for Bill to
leave, so whatever excuse I can give them to make him leave works for me.

They all leave me to get my rest and as I’m left alone with
my thoughts. I wonder again if I’m wrong about Bill. I keep trying to convince
myself that maybe it was someone else, or maybe I had dreamt the whole
conversation. I begin to get drowsy and my eyelids start to feel heavy,
dragging me into sleep once again.

In my dream, I feel happy, and I see this guy who's
laughing with me.

He’s young, early twenties, good looking, and really fit.
He’s taller than me, enough so that I have to look up at him. He has a narrow
looking face, his hair is a dark color, with dark chocolate brown eyes, and
thick lashes that are long, curl, and make you jealous that he has them. But
what really catches my attention is his smile. He has a smile that just makes you
melt inside and it makes you smile with him. He's all sweaty and I note that he
looks like he just finished working out. Or has done something that has made
him breathe really fast and heavy. His shirt is soaked and he's chugging water
from a water bottle like he's dying of thirst. I look at my surroundings and
notice that we are in a park, at the end of what I think is a trail, and in the
background there are a lot of tall trees. He then throws his arm around my
shoulders and says, “Keep up that pace and we’re definitely going to PR this
race.”

What race and what PR event is he talking about? My dream
begins to fade away, and I'm trying really hard to ask him what’s going on, or
who he is?

Unfortunately, I can't get the words out of my mouth. I want
to know his name, but he quickly fades away.

As I open my eyes, I notice it's morning again, with the
light coming in through my hospital room window and a new nurse is taking my
blood pressure, which is what must have woken me up.

Now that I’m awake, I take the time to focus on trying to
bring back some type of memory. When the nurse sees that I’m awake, she informs
me that Bill came by early this morning while I was still sleeping and dropped
off my stuff.

I turn my head and notice an iPad on the side table and I
reach over and grab it. Wanting answers fast, I start to Google my name, “Abigail
Adams.” Right away all kinds of articles and images come up.

According to the Internet, I’m not a world famous model, but
I am in high demand in the states. Thanks to my current fiancé, slash agent and
manager, I was on the way to becoming the most highly sought after model in
recent history. Before my accident, I had wrapped up an interview and photo
shoot with
Vogue
that was going to get me those international shoots I was
working towards.

I was born in Seattle, but raised in the foster system. My
mother died when I was twelve, leaving me to be raised by the state in
different foster homes until I was discovered at the age of eighteen. I had
begun with small photo shoots for a local agency that kept me financially above
water for a couple of years, until I met Bill, making him my current agent and
manager.

On the Internet there were a ton of pictures of me, some
from different interviews, photo shoots, or pictures that must have been taken
by paparazzi when I was out and about. There were so many, it's almost like I
wanted to be constantly photographed or spoken to, which feels a bit
disturbing.

After reading a couple of articles and flipping through what
seems like thousands of photos, I feel even more confused than when I started.
The only thing it’s proven to me is that I was a shallow and conceited person
who only cared about herself. For some reason this makes me feel like crap.

After sitting in my room for most of the day, I notice that
I start to feel jittery and stressed. Eventually, I start twitching my leg,
swinging my foot back and forth and feeling trapped like I want to get out and
do something. It is driving me crazy.

I blame it on being immobile for so long.

On this second day since I've woken up, the doctor is in my
room giving me my routine daily check-up. Bill showed up this morning, but most
of the time he’s on the phone barking commands at someone about a deal that
he's trying to close. He's been coming to visit me as often as he can, but I
have a feeling that he'd rather be at his office than with me.

He claims that he is really busy at work, but that he misses
me badly and wished that he could spend every waking hour with me, but I doubt
it. It takes all of my willpower not to roll my eyes at his response. Even when
he kissed me that first day, it didn’t feel right. There was no emotion in it
on my part. As if to confirm that my body didn’t really know him. It had
worried me, but I had made it a point to Bill that I just needed time and
space, giving him an excuse to stay at a distance.

Before I could even allow him to think things were back to
normal, I had to figure out what normal was.

“SO EVERYTHING LOOKS okay with your
test results, the fact that you’re up and moving around shows excellent
progress. I'm ordering you not to take it too fast for the next couple of days.
Make sure you have the nurses continue to assist you with everything while
you’re here,” Dr. Kumar says, looking very satisfied with my progress.

The memory loss hasn’t improved, but what can I do at this
point? That’s not under my control that I know of.

“Okay. When can I go home?” I ask enthusiastically, hoping
once I get home my memory will come back automatically the moment I walk through
the door. I know it is wishful thinking, but honestly, the only reason I want
to go home is because all I can think about is that phone number and the young
guy in my dream. I hoping this number will answer a lot of questions for me.

I tried calling the number from the hospital, but since it
was a long distance number, the call wouldn’t go through. I also tried googling
the number, but I got a dead end there as well. So now I have to learn the art
of patience until I can get to a phone that would allow me to make the phone
call.

Hanging up the phone, Bill looks my way and says. “Yes Doc,
when can she go home? I've already scheduled several exclusive interviews and
we need to figure out when those will take place.”

Rolling my eyes at his remark, it doesn’t surprise me that
he’d already be trying to make money out of me. That must have been the deal he
was barking about on the phone. I look at him, but he's not even looking at the
doctor or me anymore, he's just messing with his phone.

Figures, if I can't make him any money at this moment, I'm
not important to him

The doctor gives me the normal sigh and sympathetic look
when it involves Bill and tells me I should be able to go home within the next
couple of days. As long I take it easy at home.

This excites me and I start thinking of what I need to do
when I get home. First thing I plan on doing is hiring a private investigator
to help me figure out this whole mystery with Bill. If he were cheating on me,
a PI would definitely be able to tell me.

THE TRIP HOME ends up being a circus
in itself. Somehow it was leaked that I was being released from the hospital,
so there is a crowd of paparazzi outside the hospital as we are leaving. Still,
thanks to the hospital security and a private bodyguard, who Bill apparently
has on staff, we’re finally able to get out of there and back to our apartment
safely.

As we enter the elevator in our apartment complex I notice
that Bill has to enter a card and code into the panel. The mechanical voice
then states, “Penthouse.”

I look over at Bill and think, of course, anything less for
this guy just wouldn't do.

As the elevator doors open into a foyer, the first thing I
notice is that the sitting space is all decorated in black and grey, and it’s
got a modern feel to it. There is no color in this place at all; even though
there is furniture in the room it feels empty of life. Even the pictures on the
wall are in black and white, and I notice they’re all of me. See,
self-absorbed.

“This is the living room,” Bill immediately starts giving me
a tour, “the dining room, as you can see, is to our left, and the kitchen is
further down through that door.” He points in the direction of the dining room.

“The bedrooms are down the hallway to the right and my study
is through this door over here.” From the windows leading out into a balcony, I
can see the Space Needle and the view is breathtaking. The sun is beginning to
set and the buildings surrounding us are beginning to light up.

“I have to go out tonight for a business meeting. Since you
probably want to rest, I won't ask you to come with me.”

I nod at him thinking,
I don't care where you go at this
point as long as I’m left alone.

I start to walk down the hallway towards the door at the
very end of the hallway. As I walk in I realize this must be the master
bedroom. It has a huge king sized bed making it the focal point in the middle
of the room. When I turn to the right, I see the entrance to a bathroom and
head straight in there. It's large with marble counters and a huge white marble
bathtub that could easily fit two people. Across from it is a walk-in shower
with different showerheads coming out of the ceilings and walls. Why would
anybody need that many showerheads? I look ahead and see two doors next to each
other. I continue walking to the door on the right and my breath stops.

I'm walking into the biggest closet I've ever seen, with
rows and rows of clothing and shoes. The closet looks like half the size of the
bedroom alone.

“You did always complain you never had enough clothes and
shoes, but this isn't even half of what you've got waiting in boxes,” Bill
states behind me.

I turn around looking at him. “Why would I need all these
clothes and shoes?” I’m totally confused why this wouldn't be enough.

I'm beginning to think that the look that Bill keeps giving
me is the only look he knows how to make, which implies that I’m an idiot.

“You refuse to wear anything twice. You keep a stylist on
the books to come and rotate your wardrobe out every couple of weeks. Designers
send you their stuff just so you can be seen wearing it.”

This isn’t making any sense. “So what happens to the stuff
that I've already worn, does it go to charity?” I ask him, at a loss for words.

Bill throws his head back and laughs, “You’re funny Abigail,
but since I don't have to pay for any of it, I really don't care.”

Dumbfounded, I say, “Now, that sounds stupid.”

Bill gives me that look again and he shakes his head while
walking out of the closet.

Feeling very overwhelmed at this point, I leave the closet,
following Bill out into the middle of the bathroom. When I reach up to him, I
see he is beginning to remove his clothes and he’s about to start unbuttoning
his pants when I stop him.

“What are you doing?” I ask with hesitation.

He is standing next to the shower doors and looks up at me
shocked. “I’m undressing so I can take a shower, what does it look like I’m
doing?” Then with a mischievous look, drawing his eyes to a hooded slit. “Do
you want to join me?” he asks.

“No thank you, I'll just go look around the apartment and
hope that it will trigger my memory.”

He places his hands on his hips. “What? You love taking
showers with me, especially because you love having sex halfway through.” This
makes me look away as I begin to blush. I push past him into the bedroom, leaving
him chuckling behind me.

He might claim I like having sex in the shower, but right
now the last thing I want from him is sex anywhere.

Ignoring him, I begin walking down the hallway, leaving Bill
to shower alone. Strangely, the pictures of myself make me feel uncomfortable,
so I look away from them, trying really hard to absorb the setting. However, it
feels cold and sterile, like nothing is supposed to be touched, or lived on.
When I take a seat on the black flat leather sofa it feels very stiff, just
like I had imagined it would.

Why would I want to live here? It doesn't feel like me.

Bill enters the living room, dressed once again in a
designer suit most likely custom made for him. He walks over in my direction,
stops in front of me, with his hands in his pants pockets, and stares at me.

I’m beginning to feel very uncomfortable with him standing
there analyzing me, like I’m a child in need of a reprimand. I
hate
that
he makes me feel like this.

“Mary left you something to eat in the fridge. Your cell
phone is also on the counter with my number in it if you need me, but only if
it's an emergency since I'll be in a business meeting after all.”

Of course, I wouldn’t want to bother you
, I think.
I’m pretty sure he’s planning on meeting with the mystery voice, so no
interruptions would be wanted. Or, he really is going on a business meeting,
but most likely so he can figure out a way for me to make him more money now
that I’m awake.

Then it occurs to me that I don’t recognize the name he’s
mentioned either, the name doesn’t sound familiar. “Who's Mary?”

He takes in a deep breath, closing his eyes in frustration.
Judging by his reaction, he’s obviously mad, but what does he expect? For my
memory to just turn on like a light bulb?

Although, at this point even I’m wishing it would.

He lifts his head to look at me. “Mary's our housekeeper.
She comes three times a week, but she usually doesn't cook since we eat out
most of the time.”

He stands there still staring, with his right eyebrow
raised. He's making sure I absorb every word he's saying.

Raising my eyebrows right back at him I respond, “Of course,”
with a nod of my head.

Bill takes his hand out of his pocket and looks down at his
watch, checking for the time. “Okay, if you don't need anything else I'll just
head out.”

Without waiting for a response Bill turns away straight into
the elevator, leaving me there in the apartment alone.

I sit there wondering whether I should feel relieved, or
saddened, that he’s already leaving me. Either way, he’s gone for now, and I
can now try to figure out who the hell I really am.

I head to the study first thing, but as I try to turn the
doorknob I discover that it’s locked. Why would it be locked?

Giving up for now, I head to the kitchen counter and pick up
my so-called cell phone and begin to scroll through the contacts, but I don't
recognize anybody's name.

I enter the number I have been thinking about for the last
couple of days, but it doesn't match anybody in my contact list, so I decide to
send the person a text with a simple, “What's up?” I’m hoping to get a
response.

I wait a couple of minutes, but I don’t get one right away,
so I figure I should try another number. It's to a private investigator that my
doctor recommended.

When I asked her to recommend one, she didn't ask why, but I
have a feeling she knew why I would want one. The guy answers right away and
after explaining that I need his services, we set up an appointment to meet
within half an hour at the coffee shop down the street. Ending the phone call,
I grab a banana from the counter and eat it on the way back to the master
bedroom.

Knowing that I can’t go out looking like myself without
being recognized, I head straight into Bill’s closet in hopes of finding
something that will work. I immediately spot an old Harvard hoodie and grab it,
along with a Mariner’s baseball cap that has seen better days. I throw the
hoodie on and place the cap on top of my head, tucking my long hair into the
inside back of the hoodie, and pulling the hoodie lid on over it. Once I’m happy
with my disguise, I head out of the building.