Tempted By The Past

It's the smell that first rouses me from the blackness. Smoke and burned rubber and something bitterly metallic. Next, there is an unidentifiable noise—buzzing and screeching, nothing distinct—and for a moment I wonder if it's only inside my head. For a little while that's all there is. The smells, the sounds. Then comes taste. The metallic is in my mouth, too. Swallowing makes it worse. My throat is dry and it burns with each labored breath I try to take. What I feel most, however, is exhaustion, the full weight of which is realized when I attempt to open my eyes. My eyelashes flutter against the pull of sleep and I think maybe I'll just drift off for a little longer, but then I try again. Prying my eyes open, I peer hazily through thin slits fringed by crusted eyelashes. Shapes and colors blend together, indistinguishable. I'm unable to lift my arms; they seem to be bound to my sides. As I pull firmly against the restraints, my eyes snap open wide and the scene around me finally comes into focus.

There is smoke everywhere and lights flashing blue and red and white from the tops of police cars, ambulances, and fire trucks. The sky is dark but glows with the light of bright pink flares that burn from the roadside. I try to turn my head, but it, too, is being held in place, restrained from movement. From my periphery, I can see a long line of headlights winding up the hill, traffic at a standstill, cars filled with angry, impatient drivers, wondering what's going on. I attempt again to lift myself up to see around me.

“Try not to move,” a deep voice warns. I feel a heavy hand on my arm. “They think you cracked your ribs, that's why you're restrained. They're also being cautious with your neck.”

I squeeze my eyes shut and then open them again, trying to remove some of the haze from my vision. The man has dark eyes, dark hair, tanned skin. He looks like a soap opera villain, one that is always seducing some sweet, innocent girl.

“Drew?” I ask, feeling groggy.

“Don't move,” he says again. “Just try to relax.”

“What happened?” I swallow hard and try to clear my throat.

“You were in a car accident.”

I hear someone in the distance ask if "she's conscious" and it takes a second to realize they mean me. I'm then surrounded by people and they're lifting me into the back of an ambulance and hooking up an IV to my arm. Despite the brightness of the light overhead, I feel the exhaustion sweep over me again and I let it take me back to sleep.

I wake up in a hospital bed. It's still dark outside, though I have no idea what time it is or how long it's been. My body aches, but the restraints are gone so I try to sit up.

“Easy now.” There's a woman in the room, a nurse in bright blue scrubs, and with two steps she's at my side helping me sit up and arranging pillows behind my back and head. “I'll let the doctor know you're awake.”

The room is small and sterile, periwinkle linoleum tiles on the floor and bright white walls. There's an empty bed next to mine, the curtain partition retracted. The nurse returns following a woman in a white lab coat, her hair pulled back in a neat ponytail. Her nametag says “Chloe Carlisle, MD,” and underneath her name it reads, “Ridgefield Hospital.” I think back to the roadside: the sounds, the smells, the sights. And just now, waking up, taking stock of the room. It was all observation. It was all in the moment. Something's wrong.

I close my eyes and try to think. The smoke. The flashing lights. The flares. The man—the dark-eyed man who put his hand on my arm. But what about before that? He said I was in a car accident, but I remember nothing. And that's when the doctor asks if I can tell her my name.

It overwhelms me, not knowing the answer. It's suffocating and I try to breathe slowly but it gets harder and harder, so I gasp for shallow, unfulfilling breaths, forcing any possible air into my lungs. I touch my ring finger on my left hand, but there's no ring on it.

The nurse is at my side again. “Take deep breaths,” she says and demonstrates how. I mimic the nurse's exaggerated breathing and eventually it helps, though my heart is still racing. “Can you remember anything from the crash?”

“Just a man. He was there when I woke up. But not the crash itself. And not—”

“Don't worry about before the crash,” the nurse says. “The important thing is that you're okay. You're lucky, you know. You shouldn't have even survived, let alone practically walk away.”

“You need to take it easy,” the doctor adds. “Your x-rays don't show any broken bones, and while you're going to be bruised pretty badly, we didn't find any evidence of internal bleeding. But you still need to be careful. We'd like to keep you here a while longer for observation. Memory loss isn't unusual in high-trauma situations. You should start to show signs of restoration in the next day or two.”

“Are you going to tell me my name?” I ask. I feel sure that if I heard my name, I would recognize it.

“As soon as we know,” the doctor tells me. “You didn't have any identification on you—no wallet or purse.”

“Nothing was in the car?” I ask.

“Not as far as I know,” the nurse tells me. “There is someone here for you, though. The man who called 911. He's been in the waiting room.”

“Why?” I ask.

“He said he wanted to hang around to make sure you're okay. Would you like to see him?”

“Um, I don't know,” I reply softly, my head feeling foggy again.

“It's fine,” she assures me. “I can just tell him you're awake, if you like.”

“No, I should at least say thank you,” I tell her. “He saved my life, after all.”

As the nurse heads out, Dr. Carlisle takes a second look at my chart.

“Once the man is gone, you should get some rest,” she tells me. “I'll be back to check in on you in a couple of hours.”

When I'm alone, I hold my arms out in front of me, examining the bruises that have already started to form. I roll my wrists, noticing for the first time how sore they are, maybe from bracing myself for the crash. I wish I could remember what happened. No one has mentioned whether or not anyone else was hurt. I hope that's not a bad sign.

“Here he is. Not too long,” the nurse warns on her way out, leaving us alone.

“Hi,” the man says. He pauses for a moment, waiting for something, though I don't know what. After a few seconds, he clears his throat. “I'm Nick Armstrong.”

“Nice to meet you,” I reply with an awkward laugh.

“The nurse said you don't remember the crash,” Nick tells me. He cocks his head to the side, and I feel like I'm being tested.

“I don't remember anything,” I confirm. “Just waking up on the stretcher.”

“You don't remember me?” he asks.

“Well, kind of,” I reply. “I remember you looking down at me when I was on the stretcher.”

“No, I mean—” Nick starts, but a thought occurs to me and I interrupt him.

“Actually, you're not like I remember you,” I tell him. “But I guess it was dark, and I was still a bit foggy from the accident.”

I look closely at Nick now. His hair is brown, but light brown, not the dark chocolate I originally thought. Same with his eyes. And his skin is much paler than I remember. His face is unshaven and speckled with stubble along his jawline.

“You called me Drew when you opened your eyes,” Nick says. “Do you know who Drew is?”

I think for a moment, but the name doesn't come with any memories. I don't even remember calling him Drew. Eventually, I shake my head.

“Can you tell me what happened?” I ask. “With the accident? Was anyone else hurt?”

“You were going over ninety miles an hour and swerved off the road,” he says after a moment's hesitation. “Your car rolled over the guardrail and down a pretty steep incline. I was a few cars behind you. I saw the crash.”

“So, you pulled over to help?”

Nick narrows his eyes at me slightly and then nods. “Yeah.”

“Thank you. I mean it, I really owe you my life.”

“It's what anyone would do,” he says modestly.

“Is it?”

I feel like maybe it's not what anyone would do. Maybe it's only what certain people would do.

“I would hope so,” Nick shrugs. “But I guess maybe not. Do you know when they're releasing you?”

“I think a day or two?” I tell him, repeating what Dr. Carlisle told me. “The doctor said that's when I should have my memory back.”

“What happens if you don't?”

I glance down at my lap, not sure how to respond.

“I'm…I'm sorry,” Nick stammers. “That was really insensitive.”

I shrug. “I don't know what I'll do. But someone has to know who I am, right?”

I let out a long breath. “This is so frustrating.”

The room goes quiet for a moment, and I wonder how long it makes sense for Nick to stay here, making small talk. He probably has somewhere else to be, but I don't want him to leave. Once he's gone, I'll be alone.

“Tell me about yourself,” I prompt him. “I need to stop concentrating on me.”

“What do you want to know?”

“What do you do for a living?”

“I'm a veterinarian,” Nick says, his face lighting up. “I love animals; I have three rescue dogs.”

“Wow, three dogs?” I ask, my eyebrows shooting up. “That sounds fun.”

“It is,” Nick nods. “They keep me company since I live alone.”

He stops for a second, his jaw tightening as he cringes slightly.

“What's wrong?” I ask.

“That just sounded really pathetic,” he laughs lightly. “But I work a lot and I've never been good at meeting people.”

“Maybe you should save women from car accidents more often,” I tell him, suddenly realizing that I'm flirting.

Nick laughs again—he has a great laugh. Loud and uninhibited.

“Did you always want to work with animals?” I ask, changing the subject.

“Definitely. I started out after college training horses but ultimately went back to school.”

Nick gives me a long look, his head cocked to the side.

“You don't remember any of this?” he asks.

“Any of what?” I reply just as the nurse appears in the doorway.

“Sorry you two. Visiting hours are ending.”

Nick looks at the nurse and then back at me. He touches the back of my hand lightly—just the tips of his fingers—and my stomach does a quick flip.

“Thank you again,” I say with a soft smile, trying to calm the jolt running through my body.

He nods, and then he's gone.

That night I dream of Nick. The two of us are alone in a restaurant—a small, intimate room with tables covered in white linens and sparkling China. Every table is set with long-stemmed wine glasses and flickering candles.

“I wonder where our waiter went,” I murmur, looking over my shoulders.

As I glance around, I notice how quiet it is, how the lights in the kitchen are off, how black it is outside. The windows are dark like mirrors, reflecting the room inside. Nick doesn't say anything but reaches across the table for my hand and brings my fingers to his lips. He kisses my knuckles and then runs his thumb across them softly.

I smile, but continue glancing around, wondering where everyone is. Nick stands up and comes around to my side of the table, taking my hand again and pulling me to my feet and into his arms. He runs his hands down the back of my dress, and I feel the cool silk warming against my spine. The sensation pulls my attention to the dress itself—pale blue spaghetti straps with a low, sweetheart neckline.

“I love that dress on you,” Nick says as he kisses my neck.

There's music playing, something soft but with a heavy bass that vibrates in my bones. Nick pulls me closer in his arms and we start to dance, our bodies pressed together as we sway. My stomach does a flip as I feel his lips brush against my neck, but when he lifts his head and looks into my eyes, it's not Nick anymore, but another man with dark eyes that search mine, his full lips smiling at me.

The room suddenly floods with fluorescent light and it takes a moment for me to realize I'm awake in the hospital room. The restaurant is gone and a nurse I don't recognize comes in to check my vitals. He holds my wrist in his hand, and I flush with embarrassment, my pulse still throbbing inside of me. The nurse leaves without saying a word and eventually I fall into a dreamless sleep.

Nick.

The hospital waiting room reminds me of my clinic—nervous patients eyeing each other anxiously, wondering who's going to be called in next, not knowing what to expect once they're beckoned through the heavy door by a man or woman in scrubs. In the clinic, most of the technicians wear personalized tops with colorful prints of different animals. Their Crocs have rubber charms on them, smiling cats and panting pups with long, pink tongues. They greet their patients with eager grins, calling the familiar names—Bella, Charlie, Mocha—and taking a moment to scratch a furry neck underneath the collar, easing nerves before they lead the way to the exam room.

The hospital has a very different vibe. The nurses carry clipboards and read off names they've never heard before and have trouble pronouncing. Their scrubs are the standard blues and green and they wear sneakers—mostly Nikes and Adidas, but I did spot an impressive pair of hot pink Hokas.

“Paul Stef…Stef…Stef-ah-kow-ski?”

All eyes in the room are on a teenage boy with tear streaks down his cheeks, though he's managing to keep a brave face now. Paul's mother or aunt or extremely young grandma helps him to his feet, careful to touch only his good arm, the one hanging by his side, and not the one bent gingerly against his body. A dozen heads turn to watch Paul make his way across the room, cringing slightly but impressively collected given the odd way his arm is loose in his sweatshirt sleeve, as if it's not currently attached at his shoulder.

This is how it goes each time a name is called. Someone in the waiting room slowly gets to their feet and makes their way to the door to be seen by doctor, their speed and temperament dependent on the severity of their affliction. The quickest departure was a man clutching his stomach as he hurried to the door. The slowest was a woman with blood soaked through one leg of her jeans, who made several attempts to stand but ultimately required a wheelchair.

At the clinic, my patients are mostly waiting for basic checkups, well visits that include nothing more than a quick weigh in, a look in the eyes, ears, and mouth, a word about dental hygiene, and a quick vaccine or nail trim. We're not equipped for emergency surgeries, and so other than spaying and neutering and the occasional tooth extraction, any critical cases are referred to the animal urgent care about five miles north in Montvale. My job is in no way easy or routine but sitting in the waiting room with people in varying degrees of pain and anguish makes me glad that most of my patients are in relatively good health. The days we have to put a pet down for a grieving family stay with me. Those days gut me, they haunt me.

This is what I'm thinking about as I sit in the hospital waiting room. What I'm waiting for exactly, I'm not sure. I don't expect anyone to come update me about the woman's condition. No one knows that I stayed after the nurse told me it was time go, and even if they did, it's not like I have any right to any information. I'm not the woman's family, and, as far as they're concerned, I don't even know who she is. Maybe that's pretty much the truth, though. I don't know who she is. I don't even know her name, because she refused to tell me, even as she slid her arms around me, her hands creeping up my back, underneath my shirt, standing at the foot of my bed. As far as anyone's concerned, I'm just a bystander who witnessed a horrific accident and pulled over onto the side of the road, wondering if anyone in the car could have possibly survived.

I tried to keep up with her on the parkway, but the whole time I was scared that she was going to kill someone. I was going well over eighty and the parkway can be narrow and windy, not to mention poorly lit at night. Traffic moves in strange patterns, changing from full speed to a near standstill faster than a lot of people can slam on the breaks. I watched as the silver Mercedes weaved around other cars, changing lanes and then changing back, no blinker, no warning. I could see her in the distance speeding up the hill, but I lost sight of the car as she crested the peak and started going down the other side. Then, maybe twenty seconds later when I reached the top of the hill, I spotted the Mercedes again, just as she swerved in front of another car in the right lane and continued into the shoulder before veering off the road entirely.

The cars between us managed to avoid a collision, three or four drivers quickly shifting into the left lane, slamming on their breaks but then speeding up again so they wouldn't get rearended. Fortunately, I was far enough back to slow down and pull over onto the shoulder without causing another accident.

Tearing off my seatbelt, I flung open my car door, my phone clutched in my hand. I was already dialing 911 as I shuffled down the grassy hill towards the car. I don't remember talking to the operator, but I must have given him the location of the crash because within minutes, I could hear the sirens getting on the entrance ramp a half mile down the parkway.

The car was upside down and there wasn't any movement inside. I searched for a way to get the door open, but the car had slid down the hill, lodging the roof in the grass and dirt, still soft from yesterday's rain. The first responders were quick to the scene, and I was told to stand back as they got to work, using formidable machinery to pry back the crushed metal of the car before the EMTs could get inside. When they lifted the limp body up onto the stretcher, the headlights from the emergency vehicles shining down on her from the road, I thought she was dead.

She was wearing a long black dress, the entire thing covered in lace, with a slit that ran up her thigh. I watched as the EMTs covered her in a blanket and strapped her onto the stretcher before bringing her up to the ambulance, realizing with a relief I felt throughout my whole body that she was alive after all.

The police had blocked off the parkway, closing both lanes of traffic and creating a backup that I'm sure went far beyond the hill behind us. Even on the other side of the road, cars were creeping past sluggishly, causing delays so they could slow down to get a look at the wreck. No one told me I had to leave, so I hung around, lingering nearby, listening to the EMTs as they buzzed around the woman, and waiting to see if she was going to be okay. When she started to move and eventually opened her eyes, I was the first person to notice.

Every time the automatic doors of the hospital's main entrance slide open, I look up, expecting someone to rush in, looking for the woman. I imagine it will be Drew, the name she said when she first woke up. In my head, Drew is slightly older than the woman appears, maybe even with grey hairs, a distinguished salt and pepper, at his temples. He's someone who looks powerful, still dressed in the suit he wore to work. Heading straight for the front desk, he'll demand to know how the woman is, giving her name and then, because no one here knows her by name, screaming that his wife or girlfriend was in a car accident, and he wants to see her right away.

The problem is that because no one knows who the woman is, I'm not sure how they would even get in touch with her family. So maybe Drew doesn't show up in his suit, but calls frantically, saying his wife has gone missing, asking if anyone with her description has been admitted. Maybe he drops to his knees when the person on the other end of the phone tells him about the crash. Maybe he thanks God that the woman he loves is still alive. Or if he's not a religious man, not even after what can only be described as a miracle, given the severity of the crash and the condition of the car, maybe he just lets out a quick sigh of relief before hanging up the phone, jumping in his Lexus or BMW, and speeding to the hospital, still dressed in the suit he wore to work. I find myself fixated on Drew, wondering who he is to her and if he's the reason she wouldn't tell me her name.

The waiting room is quiet for a little while; only the TV mounted high in the far corner of the room makes noise, but the volume is too low to hear what the cable news anchors are saying. I close my eyes and lean back against the wall behind me, thinking of the woman. It really is a miracle that she survived and that she's likely going to be fine, at least physically. I don't know how severe the amnesia is, whether it's something the doctors are worried about or if they see cases like this all the time. Maybe the woman already has her memory back and she's dialing Drew's cell number from the hospital phone at this very moment. Maybe he's not a suit with salt and pepper hair, but a young tradesman, straight out of school, apprenticing with a utility company. Maybe they live in a one bedroom loft with a cat or a small dog, and even though they get by paycheck to paycheck for now, Drew is really good at his job and is going to be making six figures before he's thirty. But judging by the black gown and expensive car, I'm guessing that's not the case.

Or if she's not remembering Drew, whoever he is, maybe she's realizing that she knows me after all, that we were together before the crash, before she ran out of my house with tears streaked down her cheeks.

The glass doors slide open and a woman carrying a little boy in dark green dinosaur pajamas hurries inside. I sit up, thinking this could be the woman's sister, someone who couldn't find a babysitter when she got the news, so she put the boy in his car seat and covered him in a blanket, bringing him along to be with his wounded aunt. The boy rests his head against his mother's shoulder, his cheeks flushed, his eyes slipping closed, and as the woman moves purposefully across the room to the intake desk, it's clear the boy is the patient. I sit back in my chair—a slippery, hard plastic that is already giving me back pain.

I'm watching the boy and his mother as they get settled in the waiting room, the boy draped over her lap, his head against her chest, and I don't hear my phone ringing at first. It's not until the man sitting across from me looks up and catches my eye that I recognize the familiar chiming coming from my pocket.

“Sorry,” I mumble to the man and anyone else within hearing distance as I take my phone out and answer the call.

“Nick? Where are you? I've sent you, like, a hundred texts.”

I cringe, getting up from my seat and heading to a quiet corner of the waiting room so I won't disturb anyone.

“I, uh, I left with that girl,” I reply.

“No shit!” Andy laughs. “Wait, are you still with her? Damn, I'm sorry man. I didn't mean to interrupt.”

“No, it's fine, I…” I take a breath in, not knowing where to start. “It's actually a weird story.”

“Weird how?” Andy asks. “Like, she's into kinky shit? Just do it whatever she wants, dude. Don't look a gift horse in the mouth.”

“No, I'm not with her, she left,” I tell him. “She actually…she was in a car accident. I'm at the hospital now.”

“What? Are you okay?” Andy asks with a combination of confusion and concern.

“Yeah, I wasn't in the car with her, but I came to the hospital to make sure she was okay.”

“So, is she?” Andy asks. “Is she okay?”

“She's awake and talking and seems fine, but—”

“No, no, no, Nick,” Andy groans. “If she's awake and okay, then why are you still there? You just met her tonight—you're not her boyfriend.”

“I know,” I tell him. “But it's complicated.”

“It's only complicated if you make it complicated,” Andy insists. “Don't do this, man. Don't be all you, getting attached because a hot girl smiled at you at a bar. We're heading to Mack's. Come meet us.”

I glance at the door that leads into the belly of the hospital, the place where all of the emergencies get swallowed into, one mispronounced name after another. I know there's no reason for me to stay at this point. The woman seems like she'll be fine, but at the same time, the idea of leaving her all alone doesn't feel right.

“I was just going to wait until her family shows up,” I say to Andy.

“Why?”

“She can't remember anything from before the crash,” I tell him. “She has amnesia and she's by herself and I just thought…”

“Wait, does she remember going home with you?” Andy asks.

“I don't think so. No,” I tell him exhaling slowly.

“What did she say when you told her?”

I pause, replaying our conversation in my head, not knowing why I didn't just tell her. I tried but it didn't seem right to tell this woman who was just in a major car crash that we met at a bar, and she came home with me.

“Nick—listen to me,” Andy says firmly. I can picture him at the bar, his hand wrapped around a cold IPA. “This woman is not a stray dog you need to take in and care for.”

“Give me a break,” I mutter.

“I know you, man,” Andy continues. “You have this need to fix broken things, and while I commend you for all of the animals you've helped, this is a person we're talking about.”

“I know that,” I snap at him.

“Is this because of Julia?” Andy asks. “Because—”

“It has nothing to do with Julia,” I tell him.

“Then why are you there?” Andy asks. “Let the doctors take care of her. Please don't get attached to this girl. Don't do this again.”

I hold my breath for a moment, glancing around the quiet waiting room and wondering what I'm still doing here. Maybe Andy's right. I have a track record of going all in too soon—with people and pets.

“Okay, I'm on my way,” I tell him. The front doors slide open, and an older man and woman walk in, arm in arm. “Or, give me, like, ten minutes and then I'll meet you at Mack's.”

“Nick…”

The couple glances around like they're not sure what to do and I watch as they finally head to the front desk and ask about Paul Stefanowski. My body deflates a little.

“You know what?” I say to Andy. “I think I'm just going to head home.”

“Whatever, man,” he sighs and then ends the call.

I wait another fifteen minutes before leaving, disappointed that no one seems to have come for the woman. I watch everyone who walks through the hospital doors, looking for any sign that they know the woman, but everyone seems to have another purpose, a different loved one. It occurs to me that if the woman has been moved out of the ER to another room in the hospital, it's possible her family might be arriving through a different entrance. That's when I finally get up and leave. No one is going to update me on her condition; no one even knows I'm still here. She could be reunited with Drew by now and I wouldn't know it because it's none of my business. I've done all I can for her and now I need to leave.

The drive home is eerie as I make my way north on the parkway. When I pass the spot of the crash, I slow down, careful that no one is coming up behind me. The emergency vehicles are gone, and the wrecked car has been towed away, likely to be scrapped for whatever parts of it are still salvageable. It looks like nothing ever happened here. Headlights illuminate in my rearview mirror, and I speed up again. The crash has been erased from existence like the woman's memories. I tell myself not to get caught up thinking about her again, but I've never been good with uncertainty. To some degree, Andy is right about me. I do feel a pull to fix things, to settle the unsettled, to see situations through to the resolution. I think about getting off at the next exit and turning around, going back to the hospital, asking to see the woman again, but instead I take a deep breath and grip the wheel and keep moving forward, reminding myself that my dogs are at home, waiting for me, depending on me. Besides, I can always stop by the hospital tomorrow to check-in...I know I can't stay away longer than a night.