Chapter 6: I've Gone Long Enough

They got me a new remote for the television since I'm positive Mr. Kil ended up taking it with him when he was discharged. I had to beg one of the other nurses for it though, since I knew Judith wouldn't want to get it for me. Judith doesn't, well, it isn't that she doesn't approve of what I've started watching. I think she's more worried that I'll never watch anything else again.

I moved on from Friends reruns.

I ended up on the channel by accident the first time; I had been channel surfing, diligently trying to avoid all the news stations that reported constantly boring weather and traffic reports. I wanted to actually watch something. I was partially glad Mr. Kil was gone, he enjoyed watching the weather repeat over and over again.

So I ended up there by accident, but have found that the Discovery Channel is an amazing way to pass the time when confined to a hospital room twenty-four seven. Programs about survival, different places around the world, natural disasters, animals. And then the science shows. MythBusters. How it's Made.There was even a special on the brain, and one about disease.

It's a little addicting to say the least.

Five hours after the special on disease came on, it's airing again; that's the only real problem, sometimes they repeat things. But I don't mind watching it again. It's interesting, listening to them explain mutations and pathogens and how bacteriophages infect their host.

It's a little boring sometimes, especially the second time around, and there are a lot of scientific things but… I understand a lot of it. I can understand most of what they're talking about, I know I've learned it, I know it feels familiar.

"You know sitcoms are good for you too," Judith says as she comes into the room. She's early for work; sometimes she arrives for her shift early so she can keep me company. Which is nice. Since Mr. Kil left I don't have a lot of company.

I try not to think about why that is.

"I know," I say, smiling at her as she takes a seat near the bed. "Laughing is good for you. But learning is good for you too."

She nods, "Only teasing. How's the head," she nods towards my bandage.

"Better," I say honestly. "The headaches aren't so bad anymore. And walking is fine now, I don't get as dizzy and my sides are healing pretty well, so they don't hurt as much."

"That's good then, can't have you lying in that bed forever."

I bark out a laugh, "But then I'd get to watch all the TV I want."

"Really," she insists, her serious face showing, "The amount of time you spend watching that station is beginning to worry me. I might request you being moved to a room with no television in it."

"That's just mean," I glare, but only for a moment, my need to explain greater than my need to pretend to be angry. "I just… I don't remember anything about myself, about who I was. And I have nothing around me that I recognize. But this," I wave a hand towards the TV, "I remember this. Not, not like all of it, but bits and pieces."

"So," Judith rationalizes, "You worked for the Discovery Channel before you were hit in the head?"

I give her a half smile, "I don't know. I do know I remember this. And not… not just the facts, but I remember learning it. I have remember feelings from when I learned it."

She leans forward, clearly curious with that I'm telling her. "What do you mean?"

"I mean like, the special they had on the brain? They were going over different parts and… and I remember feeling so annoyed learning the parts. They were talking about what each lobe does and I suddenly felt frustrated, like my mind remembered how difficult and interconnected it was to learn the first time around and was reminding me. It's… I don't have anything else."

It's been a week and a half since my accident, and no signs of me regaining my memory or of anyone coming to look for me. I don't know what I did for a living, it could be something completely unrelated, but the science, the biology, feels familiar. There's something inside me telling me to latch onto it, because it's the only real part of me that I know.

Judith's voice is gentle when she speaks, "Do you have any idea what you were before this? Maybe you were a doctor, or a physical therapist or nurse or something?"

I nod, I've thought about it. "Maybe." I look away from her, gazing out the window into the city I can't recognize. "Maybe a doctor? Was I smart enough to do that in school? I don't know. And if I am, what kind of doctor? A family one or a surgery one or something else entirely. Maybe I'm a painter or a kindergarten teacher or a dancer or something and just have a science kick."

"Science teacher?" Judith offers.

"Maybe," I say, still not looking back at her. "I just know I remember this, I remember things about it so I want to hold onto it." I've tried. I've tried so hard to remember other things, to find the fuses inside my head and light them. I've tried forcing the sparks but they won't come, I can't make them come when they aren't ready.

I mean, little things have come back. There were bananas with lunch one day and I only had to take one bite before the feeling of I hate bananas washed over me. I know I was a person who couldn't stand bananas. As soon as the thought came to me, I knew it was true.

I know all the words to a jingle for a fast food restaurant. A commercial came on and I automatically sang along with all the words. It was weird, knowing all the words but not knowing where they're coming from. I don't know if I eat there, or if I just memorized the jingle.

And I know I like to move around a lot, I fidget in bed and then get up and pace the room. I know I must have been an active person, I can't sit still for very long.

I know I'm a cat person. There was a humane society commercial on and seeing the dogs made me sad, but seeing the cats made my heart squeeze in a way that I couldn't explain. It was just… a natural reaction. I don't even remember my name but I know I love cats.

But it's frustrating. Do I have a cat? Did I at some point? Why cats over dogs?

It's all so annoying, that I can't remember. That no one is here to help me remember.

That I'm alone and have to rebuild who I was by myself.

Maybe I was a doctor, maybe I wasn't. But science is one of the things that sparks connections inside my head. So I'm holding onto it. Maybe eventually I'll watch the right science show and it will set off the right fuse, the one that leads to the fireworks, to me remembering.

When Dr. Richards got wind of my random but very sure knowledge of science he started coming by my room more, asking and probing me about when I do and don't remember. He asked me questions, questions that initially I had no idea what they meant – like The maximum systolic pressure is represented by what in a blood pressure reading? – but was immediately able to answer anyways – The top number. For the first few seconds I had no idea what the word systolic meant, but my brain was still able to fill in the answer for me.

He tested me, poking around inside my head. He said a lot of my answers seemed textbook, things I had memorized and that's why I retained the information. Dr. Richards said he couldn't be sure what profession I had been working before the accident, but that I had definitely studied hard at school, and probably not all too long ago either.

He started bringing me science and doctor-y journals and articles to read once he realized that pretty much all I do now is look out the window, talk with Judith and watch TV. They're boring as hell to read, but at least it gives me something else to do.

It's been over two weeks now.

Still nothing.

I've got some clothes now, and my own hairbrush and toiletries. Judith bought me some things when she realized no one was coming to see me any time soon and said I must be getting sick of wearing the hospital clothes.

I was, but didn't really have anyone to complain to.

Dr. Richards has said he wants to keep me here for at least a month for observations, to make sure there aren't any lingering side-effects and that nothing else goes wrong with my brain. He's hoping I'll regain some of my memory by then, but says there's no way of knowing.

No one talks about what happens to me after the month is up. I mean, I know I can't just live in the hospital for the rest of my life…but I don't know where I'm going to go.

We all play the game of not talking about it and pretending it isn't there.

So I'm sitting on my hospital bed, feet curled under me, reading an old – and extremely boring and dense – edition of a neuroscience journal when someone walks into my room, knocking on the open door as they do so.

My head whips up; a visitor.

It's the man from a few weeks ago, the one I met in the hallway who thought I was a nurse. What was his name, what was his name?

"Oh, hi," I say carefully, dropping the journal and looking up at him.

"Bethany, right?"

"Yes. I remember you…"

"Grant," he says, offering his hand for me. "Grant Duncan."

"Right," I smile, remembering the name now; it sounds more like two first names than a last name and a first name. But I figure that isn't really a polite thing to say. "What are you…?" I gesture around the room; what is he doing here?

"Visiting Lydia again," he says smoothly. "She had a set-back; my father's somewhere around here too. I'm not really sure why he's wasting his time here, he has a new wife, but he insists. And what he insists, I do."

Uh huh. "What are you doing here?"

"Oh," he chuckles. He actually chuckles. "I just asked the women at the desk where the girl with the pretty blue eyes and stunning smile's room was, and she directed me here."

I smile, he's charming. A little forceful, but charming.

"Any memories back yet?" he asks, eyebrows raised and waiting for me to answer.

My eyes flicker over to the empty chair in the room, and I nod my head at him before I answer. I figure since he came here to see me I may as well offer him to sit down. Plus I haven't had anyone visit except Judith, so I'm not about to deny the company.

He sits as I speak, "Nothing concrete. I can remember some things, things that feel familiar. But no names or places or anything like that."

He gives me a sympathetic look, "That's too bad."

I shrug in response, giving him a tense smile. "Not a whole lot I can do about it. I try focusing on the things I remember, hoping something will catch. And I read, and watch TV, and eat the apple fritters Judith sneaks me."

"Apple fritters?" He asks. "You've got a sweet tooth."

"Yeah," I smile, "I think I do."

"I've never had one of those."

I want to let my mouth fall open, but I don't, I shouldn't judge him. I don't even know if I'd ever had one before my accident. "They're really good. You should try one."

"Hmm," he muses. "I don't normally grab anything to eat when I'm in a coffee place."

He's a 'coffee, black' person. I can feel it.

"You should totally change that, the snacks are the best part of the coffee experience."

He barks out a laugh, "If you say so. I'll keep that in mind next time I get coffee."

I watch his eyes drift from mine to look at the magazine at my side, "Light reading?" I smile and hold it up for him to read the cover, biting back a smirk as his eyebrows rise in response. "Not so light then."

"This is one of the more boring ones; everything is too technical and dense for me to understand a lot of it. Bits and pieces I get though, and the pictures are really neat." I tap the cover, an image of the brain with sections of it lit up in purple fluorescence.

"Interesting choice for a hospital patient to read, an amnesia patient at that."

"Oh, I didn't even think of that," I laugh. "I was reading it because Dr. Richards gave me a bunch to read, not because I wanted more info on what was wrong with my head."

He frowns, leaning closer, "Your doctor is giving you science journals to read? That's a little… odd."

I shake my head, leaning back on my hands to stretch my legs out properly, "It's one of the things I remember. Not, not neuroscience, that's way too difficult for me. But science and medicine and stuff like that, I remember them, I remember learning and memorizing facts about them. The doctor says that's good, that certain parts of my memory are intact, he says there's hope for me remembering other things too.

"That's kind of why I'm reading them, I'm waiting for something to really connect and give me more to go off than that my name isn't but sounds similar to Bethany."

His eyes widen a little and his head tilts to one side, taking me in. "You were a doctor or something before your accident?"

"Or something. I don't know what, but I know I've learned this," I wiggle the magazine.

"Not often you find such pretty girls working in science."

I cannot help the snort that breaks free, "You did not just say that."

"I did," he counters smoothly, "I did. I work at a bio-engineering lab; most of the people there are freaks and weirdos. No one as stunning as you." He winks.

We talk for a little while longer, about science, his work, and then back to apple fritters again, before he says he has to go. I frown, because as bizarre as it is to talk with a complete stranger like this, getting to interact with someone outside of the hospital staff is a nice change. And Grant's nice. His personality is a little forceful, but he's charming and it's fun to talk with someone different for a change.

He waves as he leaves, saying he'll stop by and see me next time he's at the hospital.

Grant starts becoming a regular visitor. I'm pretty sure he isn't visiting his father's ex-wife anymore, I'm fairly certain he's only coming here to visit me. Which is a little strange, but it's still nice. When the only people I get to see day in and day out are hospital staff it's nice having a visitor, even if he isn't someone from before the accident, trying to help me remember.

He does help me remember things, in a way. He lets me talk with him, just talk, the way I do with Judith. I tell him my theory about me being a cat person, I tell him about the craving I have for shrimp recently, and I tell him about the voices I can hear but never put a face to; the memories that are too covered in fog for me to reach. I don't mention the voice I can hear in my mind sometimes, the one who sings, I haven't really told anyone about that yet, but I know it's important.

Everything I can almost remember is important – that's the problem. I can almost remember them, but never enough to satisfy what I want to know.

I want to know who I am.

Grant doesn't actually live in Santa Clarita, I find out. He was staying here, meeting with important people and trying to sell them on the new research platforms and radical new drug therapies his company engineers. I don't catch a lot of the business-talk, but I've gathered that there's someone here offering to invest a lot of money but are holding back.

Grant lives in Phoenix. He was in Santa Clarita for three weeks and now he's just flying back and forth periodically, trying to solve whatever business plan it is he's trying to sell.

He's an interesting man. I'm flattered but not really interested in all the flirting he does with me, but aside from that he is a nice guy. And smart. He says he doesn't work in the labs, but he sure knows his stuff.

We end up talking about science a lot; his science and the science I remember are different. He's convinced I was a med student before the accident; a lot of the things I remember are more medical and physiological whereas he knows more lab and engineering things.

The month drags on, and I get no closer to remembering who I was before the car hit me. I still hope that someone will come to the hospital looking for me, but it's sinking in more and more that it won't happen. For whatever reason, either no one is looking for me or they're looking in the wrong place.

I'm still alone.

When it's been a month and a half Dr. Richards can't really justify keeping me here any longer. My ribs and the cut on my head are healed fine. I'm not having any trouble remembering things from after the accident, and my motor skills are all fine. And no more headaches. Aside from not knowing who I am, I'm perfectly healthy.

"He says the hospital can try and organize somewhere for me to go. Like a halfway house I guess? Except I'm not a drug addict or anything like that. Just a place for me to stay until I can… 'get back on my feet' were the words he used."

I'm leaning with my back against the window, hands loosely gripping the sill behind me and long legs casually stretched out in front of me.

Grant is sitting in the visitor chair, dressed in a business suit as always and watching me, listening to me complain and voice the fears rolling around inside my head.

"So basically the hospital can help get you going until you find somewhere to stay and can start building a new life."

I nod, "Judith said she'd help out if I needed anything, but I don't really want to burden her. I mean, it won't be that hard to find a place to stay. What will be hard will be finding a way to pay for it. Finding a job when I literally have a blank resume."

"You seem pretty qualified to me."

"To do what though?" I sigh. I feel lazy and a little child-like; I've already had this conversation with Judith. At this point I'm just whining.

Whining because no one came looking for me, no one showed up saying they knew who I was and could help me get home. So it means I have to start from scratch, all on my own.

"Why don't you come work for me?"

My eyes, which were looking down at my socked feet, lift to look at him. Grant shrugs, "What? I'm sure a pretty thing like you could work anywhere she wanted. But if you're looking for something similar to what you did before, I can get you in and get you on your feet."

This isn't him trying to flirt with me – well mostly not anyways, he always seems to be subtly flirting but I try to ignore it – this is him being honest.

"Really?"

"Bethany, I'd like to think that you see me as a good friend, not just some stranger who visits you in the hospital. I can get you a place to stay and a job down in the labs," he shrugs again, like this is no big deal. He co-runs the company, it probably isn't.

"You'd do that? You don't even know me. You have no idea if I'm qualified to work for you, or even what kind of worker I am. Maybe I'm the laziest worker known to man."

His grey eyes study me for a long moment. "I'm willing to take the chance."