One Door Closes, Another One Opens
Author's Note: For background, this takes place in Season 2 between episodes 10 (Strange Things Happen at the One Two Point) and 12 (Alpine Fields).
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"..."
"...n you hear me?"
"Uhhh," he moaned.
"John? Can you hear me, John?"
The voice was insistent, grating, painful. Instinctively he pulled away, only to come up short, gasping in pain when his head felt like it had exploded.
"Easy. Easy." The voice was softer now, not quite so insistent. "Can you open your eyes?"
He didn't want to, but a part of him believed that if he obeyed, the voice might go away. Opening his eyes was harder than he thought. The light in the room hurt his head; everything was blurry and when something moved right above him, the motion made him dizzy.
"Good. Very good. Can you tell me your name?"
Name? He couldn't concentrate. His head... "Hurts." Even speaking that one word was difficult, the pain in his head made it almost impossible to move his jaw enough to form the word. He blinked up at the blurry face leaning over him. Black hair, black face, blue clothes. The contrasts made it hard to focus.
"I know. You're in the hospital. You've been in a car accident. You have a concussion, a few contusions, hopefully there is nothing broken. We'll know for sure when your x-rays come back."
"C-car?" Accident? He'd crashed a car? That meant that maybe... "Anyone... hurt?"
"The person who hit you broke a couple of bones in his hand; nothing serious."
"Hit me?" He shut his eyes, trying to remember. He came up blank.
"DUI. He ran a red light. You are very lucky. A few more inches and they would have scraped you out of that Jeep." The person talking to him touched the back of his hand. "Now, can you tell me your name?"
Name? He knew... It was on the tip of his tongue...
"Your name? Can you tell me your name?"
"I... I don't know."
"When is your birthday?"
He groaned. He had no idea.
"Do you know what is today's date?"
"Tuesday," he said, suddenly certain of the answer. "December ninth, twenty oh seven."
The last numbers echoed oddly in his head and he had a flash of memory of someone saying the date, Eighteen November. Johnny? That's the code? Right, John?
The nausea caught him by surprise. One moment he was trying to process the memory, the next he was spewing, choking on vomit, trying to breathe while his stomach vied with his lungs.
Hands turned him onto his side and if he hadn't been too busy trying not to choke, he'd have screamed in pain. His leg, his ribs, his shoulder, his head, the movement woke up an agony that had been lying in wait, rumbling in the background, waiting for just this moment to pounce.
Helpless, he retched convulsively until there was nothing left to eject. Barely holding onto consciousness, he was aware of someone wiping his mouth and chin, rolling him onto his back with more gentleness than when he'd been turned on his side.
Exhausted, he heard the voice talking to him but he couldn't bring himself to answer. His eyes slid shut. To his credit, he did try to open them once, but the effort was just too great. He felt himself sliding down a tunnel - light, pain, and then sound disappearing one by one.
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He woke up coughing; his throat was burning and his head was pounding.
"Here. This might help." The voice was back.
Something cold and wet pressed against his lips and he opened his mouth. Ice chips fell onto his tongue and he swallowed eagerly. They did nothing to rid the burning sensation nor the awful taste in his mouth, but it still felt wonderful.
"More?" he begged.
This time he crunched the ice slowly, let it melt a little before swallowing. He opened his eyes, squinting at the blurred face of the woman smiling down at him.
"Do you know where you are?"
He had a vague impression of being asked questions already by the same person; her voice was insistent, accented, definitely from the Islands. He looked around; from what he could see, he could take a pretty definite guess.
"Hospital."
"That's right. I'm Doctor Evans."
"What happened?"
"You were in a car accident. A drunk driver ran the red light. You are going to be fine; you have got a concussion and a bruised knee, ribs and shoulder." She held something in her hand, small, white, contrasting against the black of her skin. He couldn't quite make it out. "Do you want some more ice chips?"
"Please."
"Your mother is on her way," the doctor said as she spooned some more ice chips into his mouth.
"M-mother?" He blinked in confusion; he knew the word, but couldn't associate a face or a memory to go with it.
"Yes. She should be here any time now."
"I... I don't remember... I should remember my mother." He tried to sit up but nausea and a knife-like pain in his head forced him to lie back weakly. "I don't remember."
"It's all right," Doctor Evans said softly. "You hit your head pretty good. It's normal to be a little confused."
"No, you don't understand. I don't remember my name. I don't know who I am." John gripped her arm. He could feel his hand shaking as she put down the cup of ice chips and placed her hand over his.
Her fingers were chilled, probably from the ice in the cup. "Okay, let's take this one item at a time. You don't remember your name?"
"No."
"Nothing?"
"No." He shivered; suddenly he felt alone in the world. Except for Doctor Evans, he had no idea who anybody was.
"Your name is John."
Yeah, she'd called him that earlier. John, he said to himself.
"John Baum. Your mother is Sarah. Sarah Baum."
Neither name rang a bell.
"You're sixteen years old. Your driver's licence says you just turned sixteen a few weeks ago. Do you remember your birthday?"
"No." His voice sounded shaky. "I don't remember anything."
"Okay." The doctor squeezed his hand. "I know it sounds silly to tell you not to worry over it, but believe me, amnesia due to a bump on the head is extremely rare. Now it's common to forget a few things leading right up to the accident and those usually come back after a few days. So the odds are of this being permanent are pretty low. And your headache is probably making it hard to concentrate. Right?"
"Yeah," he admitted.
"So try and get some rest. Once you are relaxed, it will probably all come back."
"I can't... my head..."
"Do you think you can swallow a few pills?"
Anything to get rid of the pain. "Yeah."
"Then hold on. I'll get you some Tylenol."
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John couldn't stop shivering. He'd managed to turn onto his side, one knee folded up against his chest, the other one, the bruised one, hurt too much to keep bent. One hand was wrapped against his sore ribs, the other tucked in between ribs and mattress, for warmth. He fought the constant nausea, dizziness, headache, opening his eyes to look past the cubicle's opening whenever he heard footsteps, watching blurry people walk past, wondering if the next person passing by would be his mother.
So far he'd seen mostly medical personnel; he could tell from the color of their clothes. He kept watching, wondering how he would feel when he finally saw his mother, whether he'd recognize her or not.
He prayed he would; he didn't want to be so alone. Feel so alone.
Footsteps approached and he opened his eyes. Blue scrubs, black skin, and a voice he was beginning to associate with kindness.
"How are you doing?" Doctor Evans began taking his blood pressure.
"Okay." He had no idea what else to say. He lay there, miserable, waiting while she finished.
"Did the Tylenol kick in yet?" She unwrapped the cuff from his arm.
"Not yet." He shivered as he stuck his hand under his armpit.
"Can you tell me your birthday?"
"No."
"Do you know what city you're in?"
John blinked. "Los Angeles," he said tentatively.
White flashed in the dark visage. "Considering you haven't spoken to anybody but me, I'm pretty impressed that you didn't say Port of Spain." She held her hands out, and he slowly unfolded his arms, taking hers in his. "Squeeze my hands."
"You're from Trinidad?" John squeezed gently, not wanting to hurt her.
"Harder. And yes. Have you ever visited?"
He squeezed harder, and she nodded, gave a gentle tug and he released her hands. "No. I don't think so." Just like he knew he wasn't in the Caribbean, he knew he'd never visited, either.
After a few more tests, he was rewarded with a scratchy, woollen blanket, which while not the most luxurious, it was definitely warm. He sighed as he pulled the edge close to his chin.
"John."
He popped his eyes open, startled from a light doze. The voice was harsher, deeper, less melodic than that of Doctor Evans. An attractive, dark-haired woman, much slimmer than the doctor, stood in the cubicle's opening, watching him.
"The doctor just told me about your memory." This woman could be Sarah Baum, his mother, he thought as she cautiously approached his bed. "Do you recognize me?"
He stared at her, trying to focus his eyes, the constant back and forth blurriness was making him dizzy. Her gaze was sharp, worried, anxious.
"Are you my mother?"
She smiled and nodded. "I'm your mother."
She took another step, reached the bed and held out a hand towards him. Even with his iffy vision, he could see that her hand was shaking. She touched his face; her fingers were warm. The look in her eyes seemed to speak volumes.
"I don't remember you."
"I know. The doctor said this should be temporary."
John closed his eyes, relishing the touch. It did nothing to ease his headache, his nausea, his pain, but did everything to ease the fear he'd held in his heart. This was his mother. Someone who obviously cared for him, loved him, worried about him, even though she was more of a stranger right now than the doctor who'd been treating him.
"I was so scared. The hospital called me at home. Told me you'd been in an accident. That you were unconscious." Her thumb rubbed gently against his cheek.
She smiled again when he opened his eyes. "How do you feel?"
"I'm not unconscious." He tried to be funny, but the words sounded flat to his ears.
"No. Thank goodness."
"Mrs. Baum?" A nurse appeared outside his cubicle.
"Yes?" his mother said over her shoulder.
"I have some paperwork I need you to fill out."
"Can't that wait?" Her voice was gruff, impatient.
"I'm sorry. Doctor Evans wants to keep John overnight at least, seeing he was unconscious for so long. I need the paperwork completed so I can get him a room."
His mother sighed softly. "I'll be right there." She gave John another smile as she straightened up. The spot on his cheek where she'd touched him felt chilled.
He suddenly felt afraid of being abandoned. Without thinking, he shoved up onto his elbow, then fell back onto the bed, overcome with dizziness and pain.
And his mother was there, a hand pressed gently against his chest. "It's all right; I'll be back soon." She gave him another smile. "I promise."
"I, uh, don't even know what to call you." Embarrassed at his action, he stared at the blurry walls of the cubicle.
"Mom will do." There was a gentle touch to his temple, and then she was gone.
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His mother was gone long enough that a nurse came by to check on him, did the same tests as Doctor Evans had, and asked the same questions. His headache was slightly better, and when he closed his eyes again, he dozed until he felt fingers brushing gently along his hairline.
"Sorry. I woke you."
John blinked tiredly. "No. Wasn't really sleeping."
"I called Derek and Cameron. They're on their way over."
"Who?"
"Derek's your – a friend, and Cameron's your sister."
There was something about the way his mother hesitated over the word friend that was strange. But he was feeling too unfocused to try and figure that out right now. It took him a moment, but he realized someone was missing.
"What about my father?"
"He's dead. He died before you were born."
John tried to feel emotion, and came up empty. Then his mom's face blurred and he had trouble getting it back into focus again.
"You're tired. Try to sleep."
"Not tired," he mumbled, even as he lost the fight to keep his eyes open.
"Yeah? That line didn't work when you were six, and it still doesn't work when you're sixteen." There was a faint teasing quality in her voice, and John felt his lips quirk up slightly in a smile.
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Sarah wasn't sure which was worse; her son's rebellious attitude over the past weeks, or the current expressions of pain and uncertainty whenever he caught her gaze. He was sleeping now, a restless doze that wasn't giving him much relief.
"Does your head still hurt?" Sarah asked when John opened his eyes and looked around blearily. She readjusted the ice pack on his knee for the hundredth time as he shifted his legs.
John stared at her for a long moment, as if having trouble processing her words. "Yeah," he said softly.
"I'll see if I can get you something." Sarah stood, anxious to be doing something for her son than just sitting around watching him toss and turn.
"I think... I think I already got some."
"Then you need something stronger. I'll be right back."
Sarah headed straight for the nurses station. "My son's in pain. Could the doctor prescribe something stronger?"
"Your son is..."
"John Baum. He was in a car accident. Concussion."
The nurse passed her fingers over several medical charts on a cart, pulled one and opened it. "Doctor Evans has prescribed something stronger if Tylenol doesn't work." She gave Sarah a quick smile. "I'll see to it."
"Thank you."
As Sarah turned to go back to John's room, she spotted Cameron striding down the hallway, glancing inside the rooms as she went by.
Sarah stopped outside John's room, waiting for the cyborg to catch up.
"Where's John?" She glanced inside. "Oh," she said softly when she spotted him.
Sarah blocked her entrance into the room by jamming her arm across the entrance. Cameron stared at her arm, then at Sarah.
"He doesn't remember anything," Sarah whispered.
Cameron's head shifted a fraction to the right. "Memory loss is an accepted symptom associated with a blow to the head."
"This isn't forgetting a couple of minutes leading up to the accident. This is forgetting his name, forgetting his family, his home. Forgetting who he is."
"I can explain everything to him, if you'd like."
"No. The doctor said it shouldn't last, that his memory will probably come back on its own. We just need to give him a bit of time. So don't say anything that'll confuse him or stress him."
"Memories are associative. How can John remember if we don't tell him anything?"
"I'm hoping he'll remember on his own eventually. In the meantime, don't push it." Sarah leaned closer to Cameron. "I'm serious. He's scared, alone and in pain. Don't make things worse."
"I won't."
Sarah held Cameron's gaze a moment longer before leaning away from the door, allowing her to enter. John opened his eyes, watching them as Sarah retook her seat and Cameron stood next to Sarah.
"The nurse will be here soon with something stronger," Sarah said with a forced smile.
"Thank you." John couldn't seem to take his eyes off Cameron.
"This is your sister, Cameron."
"Hi." John gave Cameron a tentative smile.
To Sarah's relief, Cameron's answering smile was wholly human and not forced, like she was sometimes wont to do. "I came as soon as Mom called." She turned to Sarah. "What happened? You just said John was hurt."
"I haven't spoken with the police yet, just the doctor. All I know is that John left with Riley just after lunch and then some drunk ran a red light and hit the Jeep."
"Was Riley injured also?"
Cameron's words shocked Sarah. So intent had she been on John, she'd totally forgotten about his girlfriend.
"Who's Riley?" John was watching them, a frown marring his forehead.
"A friend," Sarah answered vaguely.
"Are you, like, my older sister, or younger sister?"
"Younger," Cameron said, just as Sarah replied, "Older."
"You're younger," Cameron said smoothly, lying with an ease that Sarah found enviable.
The nurse Sarah had spoken to entered the room. "Hello, John." She put a small pill cup on a table near the room's entrance and moved around the bed, pulling out her stethoscope as she went. "I hear your still in some pain."
"My head's throbbing pretty bad."
They waited while the nurse examined and questioned John, made notations in his chart, and then gave him the pills she'd brought after pouring him a glass of water. "The medication may make him a little sleepy; which is good, he'll be able to rest better. Makes my job harder, though," she said with a smile.
"How's that?" Sarah answered.
"The sedation effect of the medication may mask worsening effects of a brain injury," Cameron answered before the nurse could. At the surprise on the woman's face, Cameron quickly added, "I saw it on TV the other night."
"Don't believe everything you see on television, sweetie." The nurse took the glass from John and gave Sarah a tight smile. "But she's right. I'll be back in thirty minutes. Try and get some sleep, honey." She patted John's arm.
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Sarah walked back to John's room trying to temper her worry and frustration. The coffee was burning a hole in her stomach so she stopped to drop the barely touched Styrofoam cup into a garbage can, sorry she'd bought it when she'd gone outside to try to call Derek again.
"Sarah?"
She turned, startled to hear a familiar voice. When she saw Charley standing next to the cafeteria doors, dressed in his uniform, she realized of course, this was his territory. She froze a moment, feeling overwhelmed with guilt over his wife's death.
"Is everything all right?" he asked, walking hurriedly towards her.
"Yes," she said instinctively, then realized that Charley didn't deserve a lie from her. "No." She ran a hand through her hair. "It's John." She lowered her hand and held it out towards Charley when his face paled. "He's fine. Well, he's going to be fine. Car accident," she said with a frown. "Drunk ran a red light. He's got a concussion and some bruising..."
"And...?"
She made a face. She hated that Charley knew her so well, and didn't know her at all. "Amnesia. Can't remember a thing. Not his name. Not Cameron. Not me," she finished with a sigh.
"That's pretty weird."
"So everyone tells me." They started slowly walking together towards the elevators.
"Has he seen the hospital psychologist?"
"For a bump on the head?"
"Things have been a little dicey for him the past months—"
You've got no idea, Sarah thought to herself, pushing back the memory of John's hands around Sarkissian's neck, the look of intent on John's face until he broke the man's neck.
"And maybe the strain's gotten a little much for him," Charley continued.
"John's strong. He's dealt with worse situations."
"And maybe never truly understood the ramifications before," Charley added as they approached the elevators. "He's matured a lot since I've known him—"
"Funny, I'd say just the opposite," Sarah said, half to herself.
"Maybe it all just really hit him and this is his way of coping—"
"Charley, thank you for your concern, but first of all, you're not a psychologist." She smiled, trying to take the sting out of her words. "And secondly, John's known all his life what his future entails. He understands."
Charley gave her a lopsided smile, one that she knew so well and always sent her heart racing. This time was no exception. "I guess you know better. But it probably wouldn't hurt to talk to the psychologist."
"And tell him what?" The elevator doors opened and she hissed the words at him. "We can't exactly tell him the truth." She took out her frustrations on the button for the seventh floor.
"You're right." They went up two floors before Charley spoke again. "You could always say he's having a hard time with peer pressure or that your house burned down or something. I'm sure you can come up with some excuse. You seem to be good at that."
Charley always gave as good as he got.
Sarah lowered her head, averting her eyes just as the elevator doors opened. Charley's words hurt. A lot. She stepped through without a word, stopping only at a gentle tug on her arm.
"I'm sorry. You didn't deserve that."
She shrugged, still not looking at Charley. "Yeah, I did. Because it's true."
"I understand, Sarah. I may not like what you did, but I do understand."
She raised her head, meeting his earnest gaze. "Thank you," she said as he pushed a lock of hair that had fallen across her eyes back behind her ear.
He gave her that lopsided smile once more. "Just think about what I just said, okay? About talking to the psychologist?"
"I'll think about it." Were John a normal teenager, he'd at the very least be having regular sessions right now with Doctor Sherman's colleagues. For the same reason she couldn't give John the proper help with Doctor Sherman, she couldn't do so now.
John's voice, strained and high-pitched, was audible in the hallway right outside his room "I told you. I don't remember."
"He's told you already, he doesn't remember." Cameron's voice was threatening.
Sarah strode inside, nearly faltering at the sight of two police officers talking to John.
"Is there a problem, Officers?" she asked, giving them an appeasing smile and standing between the officers and Cameron.
"No, Ma'am," one officer replied.
"Are you Sarah Baum?" the other asked, glancing quickly at Charley before returning his gaze to Sarah.
"Yes. That's my son, John." And her son was lying there, eyes wide and panic-stricken, looking terrified. He'd raised a hand to his head, rubbing away at his temple. She frowned at the bruises around his wrist. "And my daughter Cameron," she added, relieved that Cameron was staying put.
"We came to ask him a few questions about the accident."
"My son doesn't remember anything." She gave John a hopefully reassuring smile.
"So we've just found out. Can we ask you a few questions?"
"Of course." She dipped her head in a quick nod.
"The accident occurred at the intersection of Cortland and Brava. Your son was traveling east on Cortland, and was struck on the passenger side by a vehicle traveling north on Brava. Do you know where your son was heading at the time of the accident?"
"He'd gone to visit his girlfriend."
"Thankfully there was no passenger in the vehicle at the time of the accident. According to witnesses, your son wasn't speeding, and he had the right of way. The person who hit him is being charged with driving under the influence; your son is very lucky, Mrs. Baum."
"I know." She glanced at John, who had calmed down considerably.
"Give us a call if your son remembers what happened." The officer who'd remained quiet throughout the questioning removed a card and handed it to her. "We'll send you a copy of our report. Don't forget to contact your insurance company." The officer leaned towards the bed. "I'm sure you'll get your memory back soon," the officer said gently to John.
She looked at the card, forced another smile at them, and sighed in relief when they left the room. "Are you okay?" she asked John.
"Yeah," John breathed, closing his eyes in obvious relief.
"Cortland is in the opposite direction."
"What?" Sarah spun around, glaring at Cameron.
"John wasn't heading home when he left Riley's house. He was heading in the opposite direction."
"But it's in the direction of the mall and the pier," Charley said, stepping closer to the bed.
"Are you here to question John also?" Cameron looked past Sarah, at Charley.
"No. I'm just here to say hi to John. But I guess that's a moot point right now." Charley smiled, pointing to John when Sarah raised her eyebrows at him.
She glanced at her sleeping son while Charley examined John visually, leaning over the bed, hands on the bedrail, watching him sleep.
"Where's um..."
"Derek's not answering his cell," she said tightly.
"So he doesn't know about John?"
"Like I said, he's not answering his cell."
Both of them moved away from the bed as a nurse entered the room, doing her hourly check up. The nurse shook John's shoulder, asking him to wake up.
John woke up groggy, looking around blearily, licked his lips and sighed. "No, I still don't remember my name. The date is December nine, we're in Los Angeles and I'm in the hospital," he said wearily before the nurse could ask a question.
"How's your headache?" the nurse said with a gentle smile as she raised a finger before his face. She moved it back and forth, and John followed it with his eyes.
"Oh. Um. Better. Thank you."
"On a scale of one to ten?"
"Four?"
"And before?"
"Ten."
"Good. That's good." She made a notation in John's chart.
"I have a problem," Sarah said, pointing to John's right arm, "with the ER tying him down. Look at the marks that were left."
The nurse flipped through the chart. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Baum. John was unconscious when he was brought in. He wasn't restrained."
"Oh. I'm sorry. I just thought..." Her cheekbones hurt as she forced yet another smile. "It must be from the accident." When the nurse left, she looked carefully at the marks, which obvious were from some sort of restraint. She met Charley's eyes; he more than understood what might have happened to John.
"Are you, um...?" John was staring at Charley, his eyes slightly glassy and unfocused.
"This is Charley." Sarah put a hand on Charley's shoulder. "He's a friend. A good friend."
"Hey, Johnny. Looks like you're doing pretty good here."
"I'm okay. I just hate the not-remembering, you know?" He blinked, his eyelids opening more slowly than when they closed.
"I can imagine."
John licked his lips. "Is there, um, water?"
"Here." Cameron stood and reached for the water jug on the roll away table, pouring some into a plastic cup. "The nurse said you could have water, but just a few sips at a time."
John reached for the cup, ignored what Cameron had said and drained the water in three deep swallows. "I'm still thirsty." He held the glass out hopefully.
"You can't have more. You'll vomit." Like a disappointed child, Cameron plucked the cup from John's hand.
"Try to sleep." Sarah refrained from touching John's face, missing the long hair and bangs, which had always given her an excuse before to fuss with.
"Not sleepy," John replied, even as his eyes shut. He opened them again two seconds later. "Okay, maybe I am."
She and Charley waited, watching, as John's breathing slowed into sleep.
"They gave him something for the headache." Sarah came to stand next to Charley. "It's helping him sleep."
"That's what he needs. Rest. Sleep." Charley whispered the words.
"I know."
"Sarah!"
Derek's shout as he entered the room caused everyone, including John, to jump. Cameron was the only one who didn't react, except to glare at him and say, "Keep your voice down. John has a headache."
"I'm sorry." Derek went straight to John. "How're you doing?" He turned to Sarah before John could answer. "How is he? Your messages said he'd been hurt."
"I've got a concussion and my knee's banged up and my shoulder and ribs are bruised. And I don't know who you are because I have amnesia."
Derek laughed. "Oh. Good one. Better work on your delivery, though, because when you say that to a triple eight, he's going to take a lot more convincing."
Sarah grabbed Derek by the arm and hauled him out of the room, ignoring John's question about a triple eight. "He really doesn't remember."
Derek stiffened. "He has no idea who he is?"
"None."
"What about Judgment Day?"
"This is temporary."
"Like hell it is. I've read about people losing their memories and never getting it back. All those years of preparation—"
"Derek. This. Is. Temporary. John will be fine; he just needs to rest and get better. His memory will come back." She said it as if she believed it, trying not to think of what this could mean if by some fluke, John never regained all those years of preparation for his future.
She left Derek there and returned to the room, where Charley was talking with John, who was already half-asleep again. She gave John a reassuring smile, this time reaching out to touch his face, telling him to go to sleep. Once again John slid down into slumber with the help of the pain killers.
Derek, standing by the door, watched John with a frown.
"He'll be fine," Sarah whispered. "You guys should go. There's no need for you to wait around."
"I can sit with John." Cameron walked back to the chair she'd appropriated earlier.
"You can go find out what happened to John." She held Cameron's gaze for several long seconds, willing the robot to read between the lines.
"I'll go talk to Riley." Cameron strode out of the room, as if she'd never been acting like she was willing to spend the night at John's side.
Sarah followed her out. "Don't bring her back here," Sarah whispered urgently. "Don't even tell her about John being hurt." The last thing Sarah wanted was to deal with that girl tonight.
Cameron paused for a moment. "I won't.
Charley left John's room before Sarah could go back inside. "I have to go."
"Of course." She gave Charley a polite nod.
"Would it be okay if I called tomorrow, to find out how John's doing?"
She nodded without hesitation. "The doctors say he can probably go home tomorrow."
"Good. If you need anything, you can always call me—"
"That's not a good idea."
"You still have my number, right?"
"After what happened to Michelle—"
"I told you, Sarah. I understand." His smile was shaky, but his eyes held hers steadfast. "Call if you need anything."
She watched him walk down the hall, waiting till he turned the corner, before she went back to John's room.
"Where were you?" she hissed at Derek.
"You know where I was. I was doing research at—"
Sarah knew exactly what company Derek had been skulking around in, and it wasn't so cloak and dagger that he'd needed to separate himself from his cell phone. "So busy that you didn't have your cell with you?"
"I turned it off for a while. I couldn't chance it ringing while I was—"
"Fine." Sarah put a hand up to stop Derek's explanations. He looked and sounded like he was telling the truth but Sarah couldn't help but feel that he was lying to her. She'd gotten a faint whiff of perfume earlier off his clothes when he'd walked through the door. A perfume similar to what Riley wore. Not that she suspected he was trying to steal John's girlfriend from him but if he was having a liaison with someone, the least he could do was admit to it. It would make it easier trying to get in touch with the man if they needed him than go through these half truths. Maybe John's rebellion right now was easier to deal with than Derek's trysts; at least she knew when John was with Riley.
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Despite John's reassurances that he was fine, Sarah noted how he was squinting through the truck's windshield in the mid-morning sunshine. Without a word, she reached over and lowered the sun visor, cutting some of the glare.
"Another fifteen minutes." She stopped at a traffic light and took a moment to look at him. He was pale, even the bandage on his forehead was darker than the color of his skin. "How're you holding up?"
"I'm a little nauseous." John licked his lips and swallowed noisily.
"Do I need to pull over?"
"No. I'm okay. Just a little..."
"Carsick?"
"Yeah."
The light changed and traffic started up. She concentrated on driving; now was not the time to get into another accident. John sat with his head cushioned on the head rest, eyes closed, breathing deeply. She kept checking on him at every red light. He wasn't sleeping; he had those tiny lines between his eyebrows that bespoke headache.
It was with relief that she pulled into their driveway, parking next to a new Jeep. When she turned the motor off, John had his eyes open, looking at the house which, she had to admit, looked damned impressive.
"We're renting while the owners are out of the country," she said, opening her door.
"So I guess we're not rich or famous." John was slow in getting out of the truck.
"Who says we're not? I might have given the limo driver the day off."
John quirked his lips slightly before shuffling up the stairs, occasionally putting his hand on the bricks for balance. Sarah followed behind, wishing he were young enough so she could just carry him inside. The door opened just as they reached the top and Cameron stood there.
John entered the house, looking around with very little curiosity.
"Derek got another Jeep—"
"Not now." She ignored Cameron, her whole attention was focused on John. "Your room's upstairs. Do you want to go to bed or would you rather just lie down on the couch?"
John looked up the stairs with trepidation. "Couch," he said after a moment, heading for the couch in the den and sitting down gingerly. Sarah grabbed a couple of cushions, put them at one end of the couch and when John stretched out on it, she went to the linen closet and got a lightweight blanket.
"Thanks." He pulled the edge of the blanket she'd covered him with up to his chin.
"Do you want anything? Water? Are you hungry?"
"Maybe some water later?"
"How's your knee? Need more ice?"
"I'm fine. Thanks."
She was hovering, she knew it and couldn't help herself. She pulled herself together. "If you need to go, the bathroom's just down the hall, next to the kitchen." She pointed in the general direction. John's eyes followed her finger and he gave her a miniscule nod.
Despite his not wanting anything to drink, Sarah poured a large glass of ice water, topped it with ice cubes, and squirted some lemon juice into it. She placed it next to the couch without a word, John's half-opened eyes following her movements. "I'll be in the kitchen if you need me."
"Thank you."
Sarah motioned for Cameron to join her. She moved through the kitchen, exiting the back door and stopping only in the middle of the back yard.
"What did you find out?"
"Riley Dawson's foster parents said John came to visit yesterday, but left after about twenty minutes and that he seemed upset."
"Did they have a fight?"
"I don't know."
"Did you talk to Riley?"
"She wasn't home."
"So we don't know where John was going after he left Riley's."
"Charley Dixon lives in the direction John was heading."
"And as Charley said, so's the mall and the pier. Until we know why he got upset, we can't really speculate."
"The marks on John's wrist were made by handcuffs."
Sarah held back a gasp. "Who would—" She stopped short when Cameron drew a pair of handcuffs from a back pocket of her jeans.
"I found these in Riley's bedroom."
Sarah wasn't even going to bother asking how Cameron had snuck into the girl's room. "You think she tried to capture John—" Duh. From the look on Cameron's face, the robot had gotten it before Sarah. "Bondage?"
"There were other sexual aids with the handcuffs."
As much as her son might be into experimenting with his sexuality right now, she was pretty sure that bondage, complete with handcuffs, were definitely not what he wanted to experience.
"These would explain why he got angry and left."
Sarah definitely couldn't argue with that.
________________________________________
Despite his nausea, his thirst was getting the better of him. John finally caved and reached for the water. One sip, he promised himself. It was cold, wet and refreshing and before he knew it, he'd downed half the glass, coming to a stop only when ice cubes smacked his teeth.
He reached over to put the glass back down and the nausea hit him full force. Scrambling to his feet, he nearly tripped over the blanket tangled between his legs. He lurched and limped down the hallway Sarah, his mother, had indicated, retching, one hand clamped over his mouth, praying he could find the bathroom before he spewed.
He saw the entrance, turned into it and would have made it to the toilet in the nick of time if he hadn't bounced off the doorjamb. He lost his battle with his stomach, missed the toilet with the first heave, splattered it with the second and hit a bull's eye as he crouched over it.
The vomiting ended as quickly as it began, leaving him light-headed, shaking and with a reawakening of his headache. He slid down onto his good knee and pulled a huge wad of toilet paper from the roll and began to wipe up his mess.
"Leave it. I'll take care of it."
He jumped, not having heard Sarah come into the bathroom. He continued trying to clean up, mortified at what he'd done.
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—"
"John." Sarah stepped over his mess and squatted next to him. He only stopped when her fingers closed over his wrist. "It's okay. Believe me. This isn't the first time I've cleaned up after you when you've gotten sick."
"I..." He had no idea what to do, where to go. He dropped the soiled wad into the toilet and stretched, feeling the bruises along his shoulders and ribs flare up as he flushed.
"Let's get you upstairs and into the shower."
He stood, allowed Sarah to lead him to the stairs and slowly began the painful climb.
"Strip," she ordered as she reached into the shower and turned the water on. "I'll get you some clean clothes." She tested the water for a few seconds and then satisfied with the temperature, pulled the shower curtains back. "You'll be okay in there by yourself? You don't feel faint or dizzy?"
"I'm fine," he lied, his pounding head ready to explode.
"Just to be safe, make it quick. I don't want you passing out in the shower. I'll leave towels and your clothes on the seat." She lowered the toilet seat before going through one of two doors leading into separate bedrooms.
John undressed, left his clothes in a pile in a corner of the bathroom, and got into the shower. He approached the stream cautiously, first putting his hands out and splashing the warm water onto his face. Next he slurped several mouthfuls, swishing it around and spitting into the tub.
Mindful of Sarah's warning, he hurriedly soaped up, rinsed and turned the water off. True to her word, there were clothes and a towel waiting for him. He dried off awkwardly, barely glancing at himself in the mirror, unable to reconcile the stranger with haunted eyes and short hair in the mirror, and the person he felt he was. He put on the worn sweats, which clung to him tenaciously until he could shake them into place. Then he sat on the toilet, too spent to do anything more than stare into space.
"John?" There was a knock on one of the doors and Sarah opened it, her expression one of concern as she looked him over. "Everything okay?"
"Yeah. Thanks."
"Want to lie down for a while?"
His tentative nod was greeted with her stepping back and beckoning him into the bedroom.
John took two steps forward, then one backwards, pointing to the soiled clothes he'd tossed into the corner. "What should I do with them?"
"Leave 'em. I'll put them in the wash."
He entered the bedroom and was surprised to see a child's room, complete with single bed and a rainbow headboard, clouds and airplanes decorating the walls, and toys piled in a heap in a corner of the room. For a moment John couldn't even reconcile this as being his room, until he recalled they were renting the house.
He approached the bed, feeling drained and shaky.
"Are you feeling okay?" Sarah asked as she pulled the blankets back.
"Just tired." He lay down and let her pull the blankets over him.
"Get some rest. I'll be downstairs if you need anything." She reached over, upended a garbage can and put it close to the bed. "Just in case," she said with a smile.
She rummaged in the bathroom for a few minutes, and then went downstairs, leaving him alone. He stared at the wall until his eyes blurred, feeling like a stranger in a strange land. There was obviously nothing in this room except for clothes that belonged to him, unless he truly was an eight year old in a sixteen year old body. No photos, no memorabilia, no mementos, no knickknacks. Nothing to jog his memory, nothing to stop his mind going round and round, trying to find a connection with one John Baum and coming up blank.
He woke up feeling he was being watched. With a sense of impending danger, he twisted on the bed, searching for the threat. The only thing he found was his sister sitting at the foot of his bed, watching him. He gasped, both at the shock of seeing her there as well as the pain the movement incited.
"What are you... Did you want something?" He continued the movement, twisting his hips so he was lying flat on the bed.
"You're in pain. You should take more pills."
"What time is it?" He squinted around the room, looking for an alarm clock and coming up short.
"You slept for forty-three minutes."
"You sat here watching me for forty-three minutes?"
"No. Only for nineteen."
"That's... freaky," he said, holding back a shudder as he wondered what kind of dysfunctional family he was a part of.
"Did your memory come back yet?"
"No." John sat up, uncomfortable with her proximity. Even knowing she was his sister, he felt an attraction that definitely wasn't brotherly. And she was right, his headache was growing worse.
He had a terrible taste in his mouth and he was still thirsty. He'd stiffened up during his short nap; his knee was the worst and he limped out of his bedroom, taking the stairs slowly, his bare feet getting cold on the wooden steps.
Cameron followed him, mimicking his slow pace on the stairs as he went down them like a child, both feet planted securely on a step before descending to the next. "Where's Mom?" he asked, the word mom feeling strange on his tongue.
"I'm right here." Their mother came out from an doorway, wiping her hands on a dishtowel. "Is something wrong? I thought you were lying down for a while."
"John wasn't able to attain REM sleep; he has a headache and it's preventing him from getting proper rest."
He couldn't help but get the feeling that Cameron, standing directly behind and one step above him, had been a tattletale most of her life.
"Do you need something stronger?" His mother waited for him at the bottom of the stairs as he finally made his arduous way down.
"I think so," he admitted.
"Cameron got your prescription filled. I'll get the pills. Why don't you go lie down on the couch?"
"I will. I'm... kinda thirsty." He hated asking, feeling awkward about it.
"I'll get you some water."
"Is there something else? Like, juice, maybe?"
"Sure." When his mother turned to go back into the kitchen, John put a hand out. "I'll get it. I should start getting familiar with the house, right?"
"Okay." His mother smiled at him. "I'll get the pills." She pointed towards the kitchen. "Help yourself. The glasses are in the cupboard to the left of the fridge."
John found the glasses, found the orange juice, poured himself a glass and forced himself to slowly sip his drink despite the urge to guzzle it down. He examined the pictures on the refrigerator until his eyes blurred. "Why aren't any of us in those pictures?"
Cameron glanced at the fridge door. "Because it's not our family."
"We live here, don't we? Why aren't there any pictures of you anywhere? Or Mom?"
"We lost all our belongings in a fire a few months ago," Sarah said, entering the kitchen with a pill bottle in her hand. She twisted the top open, shook one out and handed it to John. He stared at it a moment, took it from her and swallowed it down with the last of the juice.
"You should eat something with that." His mother snapped the cover back on the bottle and put it on the counter.
"I'm not really hungry."
"How about some toast?"
Five minutes later, John was sitting at the dining room table, munching on toast liberally spread with butter and brown sugar.
"Did we lose everything in the fire? There's nothing in my room except for clothes." He licked the corner of his lips where a bit of sugar-imbued goodness had stuck.
"We pretty much lost everything. We haven't had time to do any shopping except for the necessities." His mother shrugged. "Clothes, makeup, computer." His mother poured more juice into his glass. "The rest will come with time."
"But photographs. Keepsakes." John realized that his best bet of trying to drum up memories had gone up in smoke.
"I'm sorry." His mother walked past him and brushed her fingers against his neck. "We moved around a lot, we didn't have that many mementos. Most of our memories were in here."
She touched the side of his head and he stiffened, concentrating on chewing the mouthful of food. He hated that her touch made him uncomfortable, and he didn't know why it did.
"I know it must be hard, not remembering anything and having nothing to jog your memory."
John swallowed, then had to take a sip of juice to force down what got stuck in his throat. He was relieved when she left him to pour herself a cup of coffee.
"Then talk to me; tell me about us. What about our father? Where do we go to school? Do we have other family? Friends?"
Cameron seemed unmoved, staring out the window as their mother spoke about their father. It was like hearing stories about strangers, things that didn't affect him one way or another. He only perked up when she mentioned he'd dropped out of school.
"I don't go to school? But I'm sixteen."
"Home schooling. You were having too many problems with school so this was the best solution we could come up with."
Was he a troublemaker? A bully? A victim? He couldn't see himself as any of these. "What kind of problems?" He popped the last bite of toast into his mouth.
"You hate English. You think English is boring," Cameron supplied.
"So I quit school because I hate English?" John heard the sarcasm and quickly mumbled an apology.
"I wish it were that simple," his mother said. "You had problems with some kids."
John couldn't figure out why the explanation seemed contrived. He waited for more details and when none were forthcoming, realized that this might have been some point of contention between himself and his mother. He didn't push it. For the moment.
Food and drink didn't do much for his headache, but it seemed to have settled his stomach slightly. He watched as his mother took his dirty dishes, pointing towards the couch he'd lain down on earlier, with her chin.
"Why not go lie down?"
Somehow he felt that this last suggestion was done less out of concern, and more to get him out of her hair. He stood slowly, testing his weight on his leg, and limped over to the couch. He laid back, the couch somewhat too short for him to stretch out completely. He propped his leg on the bolster, and watched as his mother finished cleaning the kitchen.
Cameron came to him carrying an ice pack bundled up in a towel. Without a word, she placed it on his knee, her action surprisingly gentle.
"You should stay off your feet as much as possible."
"I know."
"And you should rest." She straightened, looking down at him.
"I'm resting now, aren't I?"
She smiled at him, her face transforming from cold to beautiful in a split second. "You'd be more comfortable in bed."
"I'm fine here." He rested his head against the pillows, thinking maybe he could get some answers from her. "What about you? Are you being home schooled, too?"
"No."
"Then why aren't you in school today?"
"I don't need to go to school."
"Are you a genius or something?"
"Or something."
She didn't smile to give the impression that she was joking. John didn't press further, beginning to suspect that maybe Cameron wasn't quite normal and wasn't mentally capable of attending school.
"So, tell me about the other guy..." He struggled to remember the name. "Derek?"
"Yes?"
"He lives here?"
"Yes."
"But there are only three bedrooms in the house."
"He doesn't have a bed here, but yes, he lives here."
"He doesn't have a... Where does he sleep?" God, his mother was shacked up with the guy?
"He used to sleep on the couch in our other house."
"And now?"
"He doesn't spend much time here."
"Is he and – Mom – an item?" He struggled with the word mom again.
"Are you asking if they're in a romantic or sexual relationship?"
"Um, yeah."
"No."
"They're not sleeping together? But he lives here, doesn't he? Did they break up?"
"They were never lovers."
"Then why does he stay live here?" The thought hit him suddenly. "Is he your lover?"
"No."
John wasn't even going to ask the next obvious question. Derek hadn't acted like the worried boyfriend so he was pretty sure he and the man weren't together. Anyway, hadn't his mother mentioned he had a girlfriend?
"What about... What's her name? My girlfriend?"
"You don't have a girlfriend."
"But Mom said—"
"You don't have a girlfriend." Cameron turned suddenly, hair swinging wildly as she strode out of the room. It was more than obvious for anyone to see that she was reeking with jealousy.
"Oh god," John moaned to himself. "Please don't tell me my sister and I are sleeping together."
________________________________________
"Charley." Sarah smiled at the sound of her ex-fiancé's voice.
"Hi Sarah. How's John?"
"Stubborn. He won't stay in bed long enough to get some sleep."
"So, does that mean he's doing better?"
She leaned against a kitchen counter and craned her head to look into the living room, even though she couldn't see the couch from that angle.
"He's doing... okay. He threw up earlier but I think the car ride home aggravated his nausea."
"Dizziness and nausea are a symptom of PCS. He'll probably suffer from that for a while. As to the restlessness, I would think he's feeling a little anxious living with a bunch of strangers."
Charley was right; she hadn't really thought of that.
"How do I fix this? Make him more comfortable?"
"Well, normally I'd suggest you tell him all about yourselves, share stories about his childhood, but I think right now telling him the truth would make things worse."
"He has to find out sometime." She hated seeing a stranger looking out at her through her son's face. "If this is permanent, then we need to start teaching him again."
"Sarah. Give him time to recover."
"How much time?"
"I don't know." There was exasperation in Charley's voice. "I've been doing research on amnesia but so far haven't come up with very much. John's injury wasn't severe and this level of amnesia just isn't associated with that type of injury."
"But that's good, right? Because that could mean the amnesia is due to something else?"
"Is there something that you know and you're not telling me?"
Sarah struggled to find a way to tell Charley without divulging too much. She lowered her voice, making sure John wouldn't overhear her. "Cameron found out that John and his girlfriend might have tried to get a little kinky in the bedroom—"
"Sarah, should you be discussing this with that—"
"There were handcuffs involved."
There was silence on the other end of the phone for a good twenty seconds. "You think this has something to do with John's memory loss?"
"He's been under some stress lately—"
"Haven't we all?"
Sarah ignored the sarcasm in Charley's voice. "Cameron's chip being damaged. The FBI deaths. Michelle. It all started with Sarkissian capturing us and roughing us up. Tying us up. Could this have pushed John over the edge? The shock of the accident coming on the coattails of a fight with Riley—"
"John's a strong boy. He's been in other car accidents. Look at that day when the robot went crazy."
"He's changed, Charley. Over the past weeks. He's changed. A lot. Sometimes I just don't recognize him anymore."
"That's what teenagers do."
"Not John. Not my son. He can't change. I need him to..." She rued the innocence her son had lost. His growing up too fast, too sudden. She sighed, the sleepless and worry-filled nights were taking a toll on her. She thought she'd become inured to all of this but John's rebellion had begun to stress her out. And if she was stressed, she couldn't imagine what John was going through.
"Did you talk to the hospital psychologist?"
"No. But I'm thinking about it." If only Sherman hadn't died, she thought to herself.
"Don't take too long."
"Charley..." There was a sudden chatter on a radio.
"Look, I gotta go. If I find anything worthwhile, I'll let you know."
"Thank you."
"Tell John I said hi."
"I will."
________________________________________
"I'm going with Derek to have a look at the Jeep."
John opened gritty eyes, trying to see his mother, who sounded nearby.
"The police report stated that the Jeep was totalled."
He twisted awkwardly on the short couch as Cameron answered, also out of sight. While the couch was great to relax on, it wasn't the best place to sleep.
"It is. But I need to see if any personal items survived the crash."
"Oh. Thank you for explaining."
"I want you to stay with John. Make sure he gets some rest."
"I could go look at the Jeep and retrieve the personal items for you."
"No. I need to go." There was a pause. "It's a parent-thing," his mother said just as John started to believe she had already left. Then footsteps approached, and his mother was standing next to the couch. He blinked up at her sleepily.
"I'm going out for a little while. If you need anything, just ask Cameron."
"Okay," John answered, stifling a yawn. He stretched first one leg and then the other over the edge of the couch.
"How are you feeling?"
"Better. The pills really helped."
"I'm glad. You might be more comfortable in your bed, though."
"Yeah." John yawned again, hating the groggy feeling the pills gave him but preferring that than the headache itself. "I'm gonna get something to drink and maybe go lie down."
"There's soda in the fridge. Juice. Help yourself. I can make you something to eat if you're hungry."
"Maybe later. I'm not sure if I'm hungry."
"Maybe something will catch your fancy." His mother smiled at him. "Derek and I won't be long."
John sat up after she left, trying to muster some energy. He picked up the now half-melted ice pack which had fallen onto the floor, limped to the kitchen and tossed it into the freezer. He searched through the fridge, finally decided on a bottle of Snapple lemonade and a chunk of cheese.
"Do you want the cheese things? The crunchy ones, not the puffy ones." Cameron opened a cupboard and pulled out a bag of orangey snacks. "You like the crunchy ones."
"Um, no. I'm fine." He twisted the cap off the Snapple. "But thanks." He took a sip, testing out the taste and finding that it wasn't bad, took a couple of cautious swallows. "Are there any crackers?"
Cameron seemed to think for a moment, then after tossing the cheese things onto the counter, began to search through the contents of the cupboards.
John needed a knife so he pulled out the closest kitchen drawer. The first one held dish cloths, the one below that held an assortment of spatulas and long handled spoons. He'd almost shut the drawer when something caught his eye, something that seemed like it didn't belong.
He picked up the metal casing and examined it. He figured out how to open it and it took a second for his brain to register what he was seeing.
Bullets.
Inside a gun cartridge magazine.
Inside the middle of a homey kitchen.
Where, if the photos on the refrigerator were true, was filled with children.
Someone here owned a gun.
"What's this for?" he asked stupidly even as he closed the magazine and waved it in Cameron's face.
She glanced at it, taking only a second from her search for crackers. "Ammunition."
"Yeah, I can see that. Why here, in the kitchen?"
"Why not?" she said over her shoulder.
John tossed the cartridge back into the drawer and continued his search for a knife. He found the cutlery drawer just as Cameron found him a box of Ritz crackers.
A few minutes later he finished his snack. After rinsing his bottle, he looked for the recycling bin. A moment later, he absently placed the bottle next to the sink as he took a good look at the rifle hidden under it.
"Are there are more guns around here?" he asked, the food in his stomach suddenly turning into a stiff, heavy lump.
Cameron dug out a pistol from behind several boxes of cereal in one of the cupboards. With the lack of expression on her face as she held the gun out towards him, resting loosely in her palm, John couldn't help the frisson of fear that crept up his back.
"Why not," John said dryly as she put it back behind the cereal boxes.
"They're for protection."
"Against what?" John asked sarcastically. "The Mafia?"
"No." She turned to stare at him and it was obvious no explanation would be forthcoming.
"I'm going to go lie down." He needed to get away from her. Away from the guns. His instincts were to get the hell out of the house itself but he had nowhere else to go.
He began limping out of the kitchen when Cameron put a hand on his arm. He jumped in fright at her touch. Her grip was strong, stronger than a teenage girl should have.
"Your pulse is elevated. You're afraid."
He couldn't deny that; his heart was racing so much that his heart was pounding and he wondered if he was going to throw up again. He struggled to find an excuse. "I don't like guns."
"Yet, you're proficient at using them." Her eyes moved up to glance at his left cheek for just a second. "Most of the time."
He couldn't believe what she'd just said, despite the fact that handling the magazine had felt almost second-nature.
"I'm going to, um, stretch my legs a little." He left the kitchen, making a pretense of walking around. Instead he began searching the house, checking nooks and crannies, trying to see if it was his imagination or if there really was something odd here.
He found two more pistols downstairs, hidden out of sight but in places of easy access, another upstairs in the bathroom as well as C4 behind the towels. There were chemicals of some sort mixed with bath and shower products. He made note of the names and then headed for the laptop he'd seen in the dining room.
Cameron, who was busy staring out the window, didn't even glance at him as he booted up the laptop. Several hard drives were piled up next to the laptop and he had to wonder who the computer geek around here was.
The search for the chemicals didn't come up with anything concrete; they could be used for making something called thermite. Then again, he didn't know women – maybe they were used for body softeners or something.
When the computer screen blurred, he knew it was time for him to finally take his mother's advice and go lie down. He limped up the stairs, then, before stretching out on the small bed, searched his bedroom. He found a pistol in a drawer underneath his underwear and a shotgun in his closet. He entered Cameron's room, intending on searching it, but froze at the sight of a lone pair of handcuffs on her otherwise bare bureau. He backtracked through the bathroom to his bedroom, found he was now too wired to lie down and relax, so he hobbled down the stairs once more and, ignoring his sister who was still staring out the window, opened the back door and went outside.
A lounge chair in the shade was calling his name. He lay back, stretching out his legs. When his knee started throbbing, he wished he had that bag of ice he'd tossed into the freezer earlier. He closed his eyes, trying to figure out why his family was living among an arsenal.
"Hey, John."
He'd gone straight from a few seconds' worth of contemplation, lulled to near-sleep in the mid-day heat. He opened his eyes and squinted against the bright sunshine as a very pregnant blond woman walked across the yard, coming towards him.
"I heard about the accident. How are you doing?"
"I'm fine, thank you." He raised a hand against the bright sunlight, which was sending spears of agony into his head.
She looked at his face and winced. "That looks pretty painful. How's your head?"
"Throbbing," he answered truthfully. "I guess the sun's not helping."
"You're looking a little flushed. Maybe you should go inside."
She was right. It was hot, almost unbearably hot now even in the shade. His head pulsed sickeningly and his stomach felt overly full. He shifted his legs to the side and when he stood, found out the hard way that his knee wasn't happy with him. He nearly fell, only managing to not fall flat on his face when the woman caught his arm.
"Thanks."
"You really have no idea who I am?" The woman kept a grip on his arm, waiting until he was secure on his feet before letting him go. She stayed close, looking as if she was ready to grab him if he stumbled again.
"I'm sorry. I don't even know who I am."
"Please, don't apologize. To be honest, I didn't quite believe your mom when she said you'd lost your memory. I'm Kacy Korbin, your neighbor."
They walked slowly towards the house - John limping and Kacy watching him carefully. He earnestly regretted coming outside.
"Can you tell me something?" he asked, trying to word his question without sounding overly stupid.
"Sure."
"What kind of people are we?" He wondered if she knew about the guns.
She laughed, almost a nervous laugh. "Let's see if my words don't come to haunt me when your memory comes back. I have to say your mom's been a very supportive friend. She's very compassionate and caring. You - you've been a great help around the place, fixed a couple of things for me."
John listened to her talk, noting how her speech patterns were different than his and his family. He realized that they weren't from around here. Probably not even from California. She continued to praise his family, skirting over the issue that Cameron seemed to have some sort of social dysfunction.
She opened the door and when John entered the house, the wash of cool air sent goose bumps up and down his arms.
"Hey," Kacy called out to Cameron. "Can you make sure John lies down? He shouldn't have been out in the heat."
"I'm fine." He caught himself on the edge of the nearest sofa. "Honest." He turned awkwardly to face Kacy. "I just need a drink of water."
"And bed," she scolded, standing in the doorway.
"I'm going. Thanks for the talk." He smiled at her, and she smiled back. But he could see the worry reflected in her eyes.
"You shouldn't have gone outside," Cameron reprimanded as Kacy shut the door behind her.
"I was only outside for a little while." He collapsed onto a couch, lacking the energy to go up the stairs yet another time. He rubbed the back of his neck with one hand and massaged the lower part of his thigh with the other, trying to will the ache of his knee away.
"Your headache's back," Cameron said after helping stuff a pillow behind his shoulders. "I'll bring pills and water."
"Can you bring the ice for my knee?"
"You shouldn't have wandered around. Your mother's going to be upset."
Despite his headache, John raised his head to stare after her as she disappeared into the kitchen. "My mother? Isn't she your mother, too?"
"Yes, of course she is," Cameron called out.
"That's not what you implied."
"She likes you better." The fridge door shut with a jingle as bottles were smacked around. "That's all I meant."
"That's not what you meant. You don't seem like the type of person who'll say something she doesn't mean."
"I'm not." She came into the living room and put the ice pack on his knee.
"So what did you mean by that?"
"Simply that your mother will be upset seeing that you tired yourself out and overdid it."
"Who's your mother?" John demanded as he took one of the prescription pills with the opened bottle of water Cameron held out to him.
"Sarah Baum."
"You're lying."
"No. I'm not."
John stared at her as he swallowed the pill with a sip of water. Even that bit of liquid made his stomach feel queasier.
"This family's weird." He held the edge of the bottle to his forehead, slowly moving it towards the bruised and aching edge of his temple.
"I'll get more ice for your head."
He watched her walk away - despite her attitude there was such assurance in her demeanour that John was confused by her.
The ice was a godsend, and by the time his mother walked in thirty minutes later, it, and the pills, had lulled him into a sleepy state.
________________________________________