Before & After - Nazarea Andrews Page 0,16

to put the pieces back together.”

He frowns thoughtfully but doesn't say anything else as he pushes my wheelchair off the elevator when the doors slide open. I sit quiet while he opens the door to my room and wheels me in, laying my bags across the bed. Without giving me a chance to say anything, he crosses to the desk and scribbles on the pad of paper there. Taps it with his pen while giving me a serious look.

"I'm Tommy. I work here to fill my time—since my wife died, I don’t like being home alone. You need anything at all—food or a ride to the store or help downstairs. You call me. I'm here every day but Sunday." He says sternly. I nod quietly and his gaze, so very fierce, gentles into the concern that looks like what I imagine my father would look like, if he could be bothered to care. "You should not be here, alone. I will help, if you'll let me."

"Thank you," I whisper, and he grins. Bobs his head at me and ducks out the door. I let out a breath and stare around the little room.

A TV. Two beds. Three bags. A view of a city I've never been to, and that I live in.

A cell phone that has been silenced, blinking with unread messages.

It's not much to build a life on. Not nearly enough.

I shove that thought aside and work on getting out of the wheelchair, and on to the bed.

I don't know who I am. Rike holds the keys to everything, but he's not giving them up and I'm not going to wait for him to tell me. So it's time to research.

***

I'm lost in Facebook when I hear a tap on the door. My head jerks up and then, muffled, I hear Tommy calling to me. "Ma'am?"

Relief sags my shoulders. "Hang on," I yell. It takes a few minutes, but I make it to the door and pull it open.

Tommy is standing there with a bag of food and a hopeful look. “You hungry?

I tilt my head. “Tommy you don’t have to take care of me. I’m ok.”

He hesitates, some of the light in his going out. “Sorry. I—you remind me of my wife. She was stubborn and brave. I didn’t mean to be pushy.”

“How long ago did she pass away?” I ask, softly.

Grief flickers in his eyes, “Four years ago. They said it’ll get easier, but it doesn’t. It just gets familiar.”

"Peyton. My name is Peyton," I say. "And I am hungry. I was working." He glances over the bed, at the little notepad that I've scribbled on and ripped apart, the notebook that's spread out with names and lines crisscrossing like a fucked up map.

"Well, eat something. And try to get some sleep tonight," he says.

I nod and take the bag. "Thank you."

"Need me to bring you anything in the morning?"

I shake my head and he wilts but doesn't push. Just gives me a quick smile before he ducks out. "Lock up behind me," he advises and then he's gone.

I do.

It begins a routine that quickly becomes comfortable. He comes by in the morning with breakfast and whatever random thing he thinks I need. And in the evening, when his shift is ending, he comes by again with dinner. Sometimes he stays and we talk about the hotel and what he did during the day. He learns quickly that I don’t like questions and stops asking after a few days. But he’s a constant presence, with stories about his wife, and the forty years they spent together before cancer ripped apart their happy life.

It still bugs me when I call him for the first time.

“Tommy? It’s Peyton, in 337.” I hesitate and he laughs.

“I only know the one Peyton,” he teases. “Now what do you need?”

“Do you think you could help me downstairs? I have appointments at the hospital all day—”

“I’ll be right down. Get your stuff together.”

He hangs up before I get the “thank you” out of my mouth and I let out a little sigh.

When Tommy knocks on the door five minutes later, I’m ready and vaguely nervous. I’ve got more information about the retrograde amnesia, and about myself.

But knowing that I’m the daughter of a politician from Tennessee, that I hate my family and spent a good chunk of my high school years in and out of rehab—none of that tells me why I’m living in Austin or who the hell Rike is to me.

And