This was written for the Reviews Lounge 'In The Summertime' collaboration.(Link on my profile)
Many thanks to Katy for the beta job :)
He wakes groggy, confused, at first all he is aware of is the unbearable heat. His hair is plastered across his forehead, and the white sheets stick to his skin effectively strapping him to the bed. He looks around. The room is white. He is alone, no sign of life apart from an unfamiliar tree tapping at the window and a small vase of bright yellow flowers. Daffodils. The word comes unbidden into his mind. Those are the flowers then. They don't seem to like the heat anymore than he does. The white walls, the other bed with a stern metal bed frame and the sterile smell bring another word to mind. Hospital wing. Looking down he examines himself. He is tall; he can see his feet touch the end of the bed. He cannot feel them. He wonders where he is; this kind of heat does not bring any sense of recollection. And the unfamiliarity is starting to creep up his skin, as sweat forms in little beads. Finally he asks the question. Who am I? Panic sets in and he struggles to sit. After wresting the binding sheets from him he starts to swing his legs off the bed. He cannot move them, again and again he tries, grunting with the effort until exhaustion sets in and he flops back on the bed. His skin is red all over, burnt and sore, an angry scar splashed across his torso. His legs wrapped in neat white linen he cannot see the damage, but the sense of loss is over whelming.
He stares and the ceiling, unseeing and tries to explore the blank space in his mind.
A woman walks in. Nurse. She exclaims over finding him awake, calls for a doctor and before he can formulate his question a man appears and an interrogation begins. Does this hurt? What about this? What is your name? What do you remember? He does his best, answers the few he can and suppresses the rise of panic.
Hours later the sun goes down in a fiery burst. It is cooler, but still stifling humid. He lies with his sheets drawn back and thinks over what he was told. The bones in his legs are shattered. They are doing their best but it is unlikely he will ever walk again. He wondered why they didn't just regrow. The doctor had laughed and said 'that would take some magic, son.'
Slowly he gets used to the heat. They tell him January is the worst for heat, that when the height of summer is over then it will cool a bit. The thought confuses him greatly. The broken air-conditiony in his room has been fixed, he still has trouble with some words but seems to have the same understanding of the world that the rest of the hospital residence do. It only takes reminding for him to remember.
He learns he is British. It is familiar.
He learns he is in a small town near Cairns, Australia and has no idea why. But it explains the heat, and the unfamiliar view from his window.
He gets used to the nurses, who giggle a lot and tell him he must have a worried girlfriend somewhere in the world. He remembers he likes flirting. It's familiar.
He gets used to Dr. Wells, who tries so hard to heal his broken legs. But for some reason, hospital triggers odd thoughts that he cannot seem to connect with where he is.
After a while he is allowed to be wheeled outside and makes friends with Old Harry, the gardener, whose name causes a twinge in his heart, and who lets him ask too many questions about the plants.
When he lies in bed at night, despite all the laughing and smiles he feels so achingly lonely he wants to cry. The thought horrifies him. He dreams of snow, and of flying through the air and of laughing voices that sound like his, not like the lazy Australian drawl, and that don't have slang for nearly ever word in the dictionary. Sometimes he dreams of explosions, of flashing coloured lights and men in dark cloaks. He wakes up from these dreams thrashing and screaming.
And he meets Tabitha, a young woman who comes to read to patients and blushes whenever he smiles. It seems to him that more often than not she is there, her low soothing voice taking him away to places far from his current pain, and troubles. He enjoys watching her read, as much, if not more, as hearing the story. She is tiny, and the hard armchair they placed by his bed seems to engulf her. She reminds him of something, but he is unsure what it is. The word fairy comes to mind but it feels like one of those words that get him amused smiles and advice not to take all things literally from the medical staff.
She has large, expressive eyes, he can never quite tell the colour, but loves to watch them light up as she reads.
It is Tabitha who figures out his name. She came to read.
'Good morning.' She beams at him, as she settles down in the armchair and pulls out a book, 'This one's a children's book, but I love it, and it's British so maybe it'll jog some memory.'
He smiles, she is always attempting to jog his memory with her stories. Sometimes it works.
She tucks her legs under her and opens to the first page, 'James and the Gian –' as he heard the name, the rest of her words faded and he was overcome with a sense of possession. ' That's mine.'
She looks up, adorably confused, 'what is?'
'James,' as he speaks he grows all the more certain. 'My name is James.'
A huge grin breaks out on her face, transforming it, she jumps up, 'Oh, of course. That's wonderful!' She throws her arms around him, but after a moment recollects herself and pulls back, embarrassed. James hold on, and after a brief protest she relaxes again. 'Thank you' he murmurs then, aware of her discomfort, releases her. She sits back down, bright red hurriedly continues reading. Nothing else in the story speaks to him, though he's not exactly paying attention to her words.
Tabitha likes to wheel him around the garden; impossibly it seems cooler there, in the shade of the large eucalyptus tree. Outside, they talk,
He tells her a story, he doesn't know where it comes from but it is full of magic. Castles, giants, flying broomsticks and for some reason lots of redheads.
'Maybe you're an author?' She suggests, her knees are tucked up under her chin, a thoughtful expression on her almost childish face. The mystery of who he was had captivated her interest and she was constantly coming up with theories. He liked the international spy who got caught and tortured theory the best, though Dr Wells informed him the Australian Government did not condone torture. He was not to be trusted on this though, especially after some of the physiotherapy exercises he had prescribed.
'Maybe.' The sky was a vivid, unwavering blue, and the sun beat interesting shadows through the leaves. He liked to look at them, imagine what they could become. He has the urge to make them move, and his right hand twitches.
'I think you must have a large family. Because you're so friendly.'
'You're friendly.' Tabitha lived alone, and he knew her family to be distant and small.
'Well, I still think you must have a large one. They will want to find you. Then you will know who you are.' She looks wistful at the thought. 'Then you can go home.'
'Dr Wells said they've contacted the British embassy or whoever it is that can find out who I am. They're looking into it. But it's been a while. Not sure if they'll find anything.'
'What happens if they don't?'
Then he is told there is no chance of his legs recovering, that he will be in a wheelchair his whole life and that there is no longer room for him in the hospital, it was never large in the first place and his amnesia does not make him a priority. His identity will continue to be looked into in the mean time, where would he stay?
In the end, the choice was obvious and Tabitha wheeled him out of the hospital, and into her life.
He wakes, months later, in the middle of the night. Summer is drawing slowly to a close, but it still feels hot. Tabitha lies fast asleep, curled up in the crook of his arm. He stares into the bright green eyes looking down on him, feels the recollection try to force it's way through a concrete barrier and everything goes black.
As the Australian summer turns to autumn, she struggles with an overwhelming feeling that something seems to be missing. Her flat seems lonely, filled with things that ought not be there, or missing things that should. There are photos that seem half empty, books she doesn't recall buying and for some reason, one slightly too far away to grasp, half made plans for a trip to England. The memory of a non-existent summer weighs on her heart and she cannot bear it.