window while he fingerprinted me, watching the dove move its head back and forth, as if admiring its own reflection. I turned back reluctantly when a camera was pointed in my face and a photo was taken.
“I think we’re all done here,” the detective said after what felt like an eternity. Time seemed to move so slowly between these walls, or was that always how time moved? I didn’t know. I couldn’t think of one example in my life that I could use to measure this concept of time with.
“Thank you,” I mumbled as they moved towards the door. “Wait! What if you don’t find out who I am?”
“Your fingerprints will be in the database somewhere. It’s just a matter of time.” The detective gave me a wave before they all exited.
“Time for blood pressure, oxygen and lunch.” A different nurse came into my room.
“Where’s Ntethelelo?” I asked, feeling uneasy.
“We’ve just changed shifts; she’ll be here later. But for now, I’ll be looking after you. My name is Beauty.” She was carrying some food for me, but my stomach lurched at the thought of it.
“I don’t want to eat,” I said, my tone a little harsher than I’d intended it to be; I could see this because of the look on Beauty’s face.
Nevertheless, she smiled at me. “You must try.”
I turned my face back to the window and watched my dove friend as he cleaned his feathers with his beak. I felt Beauty attach the blood-pressure cuff. I heard the sound, felt the squeeze and then heard the beep.
“A hundred and twenty-two over eighty-one,’ she said. “Perfect.”
“Perfect?” I whipped my head around. “How can I be perfect if I don’t remember anything?”
Beauty seemed to ignore my outburst, and I felt bad. I don’t know why I was lashing out like this. She’d done nothing wrong. I was wrong. Not her. “Sorry,” I whispered.
“How’s the pain?” she asked.
“Better.”
“That’s good. You have to eat. I’ll be back in an hour to fetch the tray.” She left and I looked at the plate of food again. It was covered in a round plastic lid and condensation had formed on it, like it always does . . .
Wait . . . how did I know that? I lifted the lid and some water droplets fell onto the food and a smell hit me. I knew this smell! And it made me want to be sick. I pushed the plate even further away and tilted my body on the bed so I didn’t have to look at it.
I think I must have slept. Because when I opened my eyes again, it was dark. Three trays of untouched food now sat on my table. How many meals had I missed? I startled when I heard a noise and saw Dr. Cohen sitting in a chair.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to give you a fright,” she said. “I was just finishing my rounds and thought I would check on you. How are you feeling?”
“I’m feeling . . . uh . . .” I paused. The words weren’t coming to me and, once again, I tried to reach into my mind to find something that I already knew wasn’t there.
“Try not to think too hard about it,” she urged. “Just say the first thing that comes to you. There’s no wrong or right answer.”
“Scared,” I said, without even checking myself.
“What are you scared of?”
“Everything.”
“Can you elaborate?” she asked. For someone who was telling me not to think too hard, she was really making me think.
That blurry, swirly, dark feeling was creeping up on me again. Tapping inside me. Reminding me it was still there. “What if I don’t find out who I am? What if I do, and I don’t remember? What if there are people out there looking for me, and I don’t remember them, or . . .” I swallowed. The spit got stuck in my throat, as if it were a large rock. A thought formed, the most terrible thought, the rock seemed to grow. “What if no one is looking for me?”
“I’m sure these concerns feel very real to you,” she offered up, “but trust me, they are all very unrealistic. The police will find out who you are, they always do. Your memory will come back, maybe not all at once. But in small bursts. I’m sure you must already be experiencing some feelings of familiarity, even if you can’t quite place them?”
I nodded. She was right about that. The hospital food . . .