Chapter 9: Pinned

Something really weird happened today. Really, really weird.

It kind of caught me off guard, so I probably didn't act the best way possible. But it was so unexpected, I was frozen, I didn't know how to react. I'm pretty sure I just stood there, a dumb-struck look on my face.

Someone recognized me today; some guy that was on a tour of the labs with Grant. They stopped by my office so Grant could spend time stalking me under the cover of introducing me to someone. I had tried hiding under the desk but when that didn't work out I gave up and stood up to face them.

The man, Grant introduced him as Artie, was in a wheelchair. Dark hair, glasses, dress pants and shirt. And he recognized me, he knew me from somewhere.

At the time, it kind of threw me. When I'm at work, I forget that there are empty places inside my head. My work is somewhere I've built up for myself, something mine, where everything is familiar and makes sense. When I'm there, I get distracted and forget that the life I'm living is just something I've built recently, that there is more behind it. When I'm at work, I'm Bethany.

It isn't until I get home that everything hits me, that Bethany is only someone I've created, that she isn't fully me. It's when I get home and I see the empty house, with few personal touches, that it washes over me. It's when I get home that I can hear the echoes of voices inside my head, that the memories of my dreams resurface and remind me that I'm missing something inside myself.

He surprised me; he caught me off guard in a place where I'm not the girl who forgets. That's who I was at the hospital, that's who I am at home. But at work I'm not that person, and it threw me when he started saying he knew me, because me, the work me, didn't know him even though he said I did.

I'm so accustomed to not remembering that it's second nature now.

But that's why I acted really stupidly when Artie realized he knew me. Instead of explaining that I didn't remember anything, I just kind of stood there wondering why this crazy guy in a wheelchair was insisting I knew him.

Whoops.

It wasn't until a good five minutes after he'd left and I'd sat at my desk replying the scene over and over in my head that I realized that he was probably right, that he did know me. That I just didn't know him.

It's been five years since the accident. Five years and no one has ever said they remember me. I was beginning to think it wasn't going to happen, I had accepted it. And then it actually does happen and I go and ruin it because I forget that I don't remember.

God, I must have really freaked him out.

When I got home from work I changed clothes, switched from my work shoes to a pair of sneakers, and went for a run. A long, long run, where the only thing I focused on was the dry air around me and the feeling of my feet pounding the sidewalk. I had needed to clear my head, because this was big.

Someone recognized me.

I got home about ten minutes ago, and haven't moved since. I'm sitting here on top of my kitchen counter, a bottle of water in one hand, the mystery guy's business card in the other. Hobbes is sitting on top of the microwave, sleeping.

Artie Abrams. He works in an office that sells software and parts to other companies.

It sounds kind of dull, but then again, I don't really know what I was doing with my life five years ago, so who am I to judge?

Taking a long gulp of water, I play with the card, debating how to call. 'Hi, you met me today but I didn't remember you at the time. Sorry about that. Do you know who I am?' That seems a little forceful. And confusing. The poor guy is probably already confused as hell.

If Drew were here, he'd tell me to call.

I probably should call.

I want to call, but… I'm a little nervous.

What if I… what If I don't like what he tells me? What if I don't like… me?

I reach for my phone, but hesitate in dialing the numbers. Is this actually real? Did this guy really recognize me? Does he know who I am?

Am I about to find out who I really am? Who I was five years ago and then forgot?

I dial half the numbers and then end the call. It's a little nerve-wracking. I really had gotten to the point where I never thought this would happen. It's surreal-feeling, knowing this man might be able to help me.

Imagining Drew's glare if I told him I chickened out and didn't call, I dial again, this time hitting all the numbers.

Artie himself doesn't answer, does well enough for himself that he has a receptionist.

Not what I need to be focusing on right now.

"Um, hi." I begin, completely unsure of what to say. "I… I was told to call this number…"

The woman lets out a breath, waiting for me to say something intelligible.

"I… I'm looking for Artie?"

"Oh," she says. "Are you the woman he gave his card to earlier?"

Her words catch me off guard, but I manage to stumble out a, "Yes. Yes, that's me."

She laughs, "I don't really know what he was going on about when he got in today, but he said if you called to make an appointment with him as soon as possible. He really wants to speak with you."

"R-right." This is so weird. I'm calling to make an appointment to find out who I am.

I look over at the calendar hanging on the side of the fridge; today's Friday. "Does he work on Saturdays?"

"He'll be in tomorrow actually, yes," she chirps happily. "How's nine o'clock work for you?"

"Um, fine? I guess that's okay?"

"Can I get your name?" the woman asks right as I'm going to end the call.

I don't remember what he called me today. I'm sure he called me something other than Bethany, but I can't remember what he said. I was a little distracted with trying to figure out what was going on. "Um… just… just tell him it's the blonde girl he met today."

I hit the end button on the phone before she can argue.

It's big and bright at Artie's office. The secretary, I realize, is in charge of scheduling things for a few different people who all work in the same hallway as Artie does. She works at a big, round desk. It loops in a big circle and she sits in the middle, talking into a headset and tapping away at a computer. The inside of the loop probably has all her work things, but on the top of the counter there's brightly coloured in-and-out boxes, a bowl of candies, and a mug that says "I love my hubby, Mr. Coffee" with a bunch of pens sticking out of it.

She smiles good-naturedly at me when I tell her I'm there to see Artie, and she buzzes his office room while speaking to someone else on the phone at the same time, she's also turned so her body is typing on the keyboard but she's looking at a separate monitor. The woman is like, super good at multitasking.

Someone clears their throat. I turn, and the man in the wheelchair from earlier is there. He's in a different suit, but he looks tired and his glasses a little astray on his face. It makes me feel guilty, clearly he knows me, and probably stayed up late thinking about the interaction with me the day before, killing himself trying to understand what happened.

He's looking at me with a guarded look, careful not to let me see whatever he's feeling. He nods for me to follow him, and then turns his chair and rolls down the hall.

I stare at the back of his head as we walk down the hall, ignoring the swirling voices all around. People stand in doorways or in the hall or in their offices, talking on phones or with other people. Along the left is an open area, with cubicles of people working. Their voices are low individually, but they swirl together and make me feel like I'm walking into a bee hive. Everything feels busy.

Along the right are doors to private offices, and Artie leads me into one a little ways down the hall. The room is bigger than my workspace, that's the first thing I notice. He has a low, dark wood L-shaped desk – it's lower than most desks, but that's probably because he's in a wheelchair. There's also a small leather couch and a chair along the far wall, though that's probably for other people, not him. He also has a really big window that I wander towards. I can see the people on the street walking below, rushing this way and that. His office is high enough up that the view is nice. I kind of wish my room had a window. None of the rooms on the lab floors have windows.

He clears his throat and I turn around to look at him. He looks nervous now, unsure of what to do. "Hey," I offer, figuring that's a good place to start.

His lips tighten. "Um… hi."

We're never going to get anywhere if he's keeps holding back whatever he wants to say, hiding what he's feeling. I let the first words that come to mind tumble from my lips as an icebreaker, "You're secretary reminds me of an octopus."

His eyes widen in confusion so I try to explain further, "You know, with all the arms?" I wave my arms as a demonstration. "Doing too many things at once…?"

He stares at me for a long moment before saying, "The similarity is uncanny."

"Um. I'm sorry?"

"You… You're just like her. You look and sound exactly like her. Are you…" I can see he's trying to push himself to just say whatever he needs to say, even though part of him wants to hold back. "Do you have a twin sister? Maybe you were separated at birth?"

"I don't have a twin sister." His face falls. "That I know of."

"That you know of?"

I pace around the room a few steps, not exactly sure how to tell him. I can feel his eyes following me. Eventually I drop heavily to the leather couch and he spins his wheelchair to face me.

"I don't… I don't remember. I don't know. I… I was in an accident. A few years ago, I was hit by a car. I can't remember anything from before it happened."

His head lifts, eyebrows dropping slightly as first he takes in what I've said, then the corners of his lips dropping as the understanding hits him. "That's why you didn't recognize me."

I nod. "That's why I didn't recognize you. I don't remember you. I don't remember me. The accident was five years ago but no one has ever recognized me, no one has ever been able to tell me about myself, who I was before I got hurt."

His hands clench in his lap. His eyes drift away for a few seconds before finding me again. "You don't remember anything?"

"No," I answer, feeling my hair brush against my neck as I shake my head.

His face falls. "I… I can't believe it. All this time. You disappeared. You disappeared without a trace; we didn't know what happened to you. We… we thought you were dead, or that you had left… God, I think Santana thought you had…"

"Who's Santana?"

The way his face almost seems to crumble under the weight of my question squeezes my heart painfully. Artie gives me the most pitying, heartbreaking look I've ever seen. His lips part and he lets out a slight breath; he can't believe the words I've just spoken.

I don't know why this question hurts him, and I don't know how to fix it. I don't know him. Or, well, I know him, but I don't remember knowing him. I don't know if it's okay to reach out and touch him, to try to comfort him. I have no idea if me touching him would help ground him or push him farther away.

Artie closes his eyes for a long moment, and when he opens them he seems to have pushed back some of his pain. "Santana… she was someone who cared a lot about you."

"Oh," I say, unsure how else to respond.

"I can't believe you're alive. That you've been here all this time." He shakes his head, "My God, Brittany, I'm just glad you're-"

"Brittany?"

He nods sadly at me, "That's your name."

"Brittany," I repeat, testing it out. Right away I know that it's right, the way it feels inside. It anchors inside me like the word knows its place, its home within me, even if I don't. "I was close."

"What?"

"I didn't have any ID with me when I got to the hospital. And when no one came looking for me… I picked my own name. I was going by Bethany. It was close."

He barks a laugh, giving me a smile that is both happy and sad. He whispers, "God, I've missed you." Then louder, addressing me properly, he says, "You didn't have any ID?"

"No. All I know is that it was raining and I was hit by a car. I didn't have a bag or a wallet with me, so they didn't know what to call me. I didn't have anything with me to identify myself, and no one came looking for me."

He shakes his head, "No. No, I'm sure they did. Quinn… Quinn came down to help Santana look for you when you first went missing. I'm sure they checked hospitals."

My face must look confused, so he continues. "I don't know the whole story. I couldn't make it down there right away, I visited a few months later, after Santana had… after you'd been gone a while. But you… you and Santana had an argument, and she went away for a work trip. When she got back, you were gone. A small bag packed, a bus ticket. That was it. But no sign of you. It was like you just… dropped off the face of the earth. We didn't know if something had happened to you or if you had wanted to leave, to disappear."

His hands move from where they rest in his lap to play with the sides of his chair restlessly. It must have been really hard, not knowing what had happened to me.

"You…" I say, trying to distract him from the heaviness of the conversation. "When we met yesterday… you said you knew me from school?"

"High school," he corrects. "We, um, actually, we dated for a while."

"Yeah?"

He nods, "And we were in a glee club together. Like a show choir? Lots of dancing and singing."

I can't help it that my eyes drop to his chair when he says dancing.

"Hey, I was a pretty good dancer," he insists, rolling his eyes. "Don't judge the chair. But I wasn't like you though."

"Me?"

"Brittany, you were one of the best dancers our school had ever seen. You were phenomenal."

"Oh." I'm not really sure how to take the complement. "So. Brittany. I'm Brittany. I was a dancer and in a glee club." I pause, trying to see if I've missed anything he's told me. "What was my full name, Brittany what?"

"Brittany Pierce," he answers automatically.

I nod, committing this to memory. I have a name now. A real one. My real one. "Brittany Pierce."

"Oh," he stumbles. "That's not, no, wait."

"What?"

"You… you were married. I mean, Pierce isn't your full last name anymore."

I feel my eyes blink a few times in surprise. Married. I was… I had never really thought about that before. That I may have been seeing someone, but I never really thought about if I had been married. If I didn't come home one night and someone I was married to didn't know what happened to me.

"Married?" I whisper. "I… I don't have a wedding ring. I wasn't wearing one when they found me."

I'm afraid my words may have broken him, with the look he gives me. The little light he had in his eyes from seeing me drains completely. His whole face, his whole body, it all goes slack, like a balloon that's been defeated. I've deflated him. This one statement, and I've broken him somehow.

Eventually he just nods sadly, "Brittany Pierce-Lopez. You … you and Santana…" he trails off, probably hesitant about my reaction.

A woman. I was married to a woman. I can feel the slightest smirk creeping up. Go me. Drew would be proud.

No wonder I never really liked Grant. Besides the fact that he was a creepy, stalker man anyway.

And then the smile drops when I replay what he said seconds before, that we had an argument and then I just left. I know I was hit by a car, and that was why I didn't come back. Because I couldn't remember how. But I don't know why I would have left in the first place.

God, that must have killed her. Not knowing where I was or why I left.

"She didn't know what happened to me?"

He bites his lips slightly, "No."

"Oh."

"She…" he shakes his head and exhales.

I feel heavy, knowing this. I've wanted it for so long now, to know who I was. To know the person I had been and the people in my life. And I've thought about what they must have thought, me not coming home. No one ever looked for me, no one ever came to the hospital asking if a tall, blonde woman had been admitted.

But I'd never considered the idea that I had been devoted to someone when I got hurt, what they must have gone through. If what I went through was hard, what this woman must have suffered through… not knowing if I had up and left her or…

My emotions press down on me, guilt I can't control bubbling up. I feel heavy and thick and uncomfortable inside.

"What about the rest of my family?" I force myself to ask.

He looks startled. "Family?" he chokes out.

"My… my parents? Do I have siblings? Were… were they worried about me?"

He shakes his head to himself, "Oh. Oh, right. You have a sister, a few years younger. And yeah, you have parents. I haven't seen them in a little while though, not since the last time I went home for a visit."

"Where's that?" Where did I grow up?

"Lima. It's in Ohio. You and Santana made your way to California after graduation." He frowns, thinking. Then his frown grows as he remembers, "I don't know if Santana was the one to tell your parents or not. That may have been Quinn or Kurt, one of them told your parents you were missing. When you left… Santana… she…"

He doesn't need to explain. I can't… I can't even imagine what she must have gone through. What she or my parents or my friends all went through. Not knowing where I was or why I left. Just knowing I was… gone.

"I don't… I mean, I don't know what happened. But I'm sorry I had you all so worried."

Artie shakes his head animatedly, insisting, "No, Brittany. I'm just happy you're okay. I'm glad you're alive." He wheels himself towards the couch slightly and then stops abruptly. "Can… God, this is so stupid. Can I give you a hug?"

This, despite everything I'm feeling all at once, makes me smile. "Yeah," I say, getting up and crouching in front of him. He doesn't hesitate, he wraps his arms tightly around me, squeezing like he may never get to hug me again.

He's probably afraid he may not.

"I'm so glad you're okay," he whispers again as he pulls back. His eyes are damp.

"I'm sorry I-"

He cuts in before I can finish what I want to say, "Don't. You got hit by a car, that wasn't your fault." I watch as his eyes roam up and down over me, first over my face and then over all of me, taking in all the changes. It's been five years, I can't look exactly the same as I did; I'm not even the same person anymore, not really. I'm Bethany now. It must be so weird for him.

"What did I do for a living?"

"What?" he asks.

"My… my job. What did I do before the accident?"

"You were a nurse."

Score. "That was one of my guesses," I smile. "Nurse, doctor, or science teacher maybe. I work at the lab now, but I knew I must have done something similar before."

He nods, "You were really good at it. It… it suited you, taking care of people. The studying and getting there was hard, but you really loved your job."

I smile. A nurse would definitely have been a good fit.

"You really don't remember? Anything about before?"

I shake my head gently, "No. Nothing about who I was."

"I have pictures!" he bursts out suddenly, quickly wheeling himself away from me and behind his desk to reach his computer.

"Pictures? Oh what?"

"Oh you," he says like I should have gotten that. "I have a few pictures on here, family and friends and stuff. Hang on," he instructs as he starts tapping away.

There's an empty chair sitting near the window. I stand and drag it over to his desk, staying on the opposite side from him – there's isn't a whole lot of room to sit next to him behind his desk with his wheelchair taking up so much of the space.

"Here," he says proudly, spinning the computer screen for me to see.

I gasp.

It's a picture of a bunch of teenagers crowded around a trophy. Artie is in his wheelchair in the center of the group, and an older man crouched down near him holding the trophy. The rest of the group surround them. I look at the people, studying each of their faces, as if trying to remember them.

I stare at my own face the longest.

I'm in some form of uniform, standing right behind Artie, another girl in the same uniform next to me. I'm smiling really big, hair pulled back and with side-swept bangs. I stare and stare and stare at the grin I'm wearing, shocked. It's me. This, this person, she's me.

Artie speaks, "It's from when we won our first glee competition. Sectionals."

"How old?"

"You're a sophomore."

"Wow."

He clicks his mouse and the picture changes. Me and him and an Asian couple – they were in the glee club picture – sitting at some sort of desk with a scoreboard on it. We're all smiling at the camera, Artie has a fist in the air, cheering. There are nametags in front of each of us. I read them all, but only take in one: Brittany S. Pierce.

"The Brainiacs. We won the academic decathlon."

I smile, not looking away from the screen. "That's pretty cool."

He nods, "It so was."

It was hard in the beginning – it still is now – looking in the mirror and not recognizing who I saw. But this, this is an even stranger feeling. Because I'm not just looking at my reflection. I'm looking at me, at another me, living a life that I can't remember. Like some sort of twisted déjà vu. I can see that the pictures are of me, but I have no memory of them.

He flips through three more pictures. A group shot of the glee club; some of its members in graduation gowns. Everyone has happy tears in their eyes. Then there's one of me and Artie, up close and making ridiculous faces at the camera.

The last one looks more recent, like it was taken after high school. It's of Artie and me and another girl; she was the other one in uniform in the first picture. We're sitting on a patio of a restaurant – I can see other tables and people in the background. Artie looks like he's trying to ignore us and smile for the camera, the other girl is grinning right at me and ignoring the camera, and I'm in the middle of a laugh.

"That's Santana," he says.

My eyes widen and I take a harder look at her, this stranger I married once upon a time.

She's Hispanic, long dark hair and tanned skin. Her teeth are bright and her eyes squinting as she laughs at the me in the picture. She has a small frame and is sitting casually at the table with us, leaning so her arm rests over the back of my chair.

She's beautiful, really.

"She…" I can't finish, because I don't know what to say.

He spins the screen back in place and laughs slightly, "Yeah. She is. You two were made for each other."

"Where," I try, my throat tightening. "Where is she now?"

"Still in California," he answers. Then his head snaps up and his eyes widen, "Shit, I should call her! She doesn't know you're alive." He begins moving things around on his desk, searching under papers for something. "She should know. Oh my God, she needs to know you're alive."

"She'd want to know?"

He pauses in his scrambling to look at me like I just asked the most obvious question in the world. "Yes," he says, nodding his head very slowly, forcing eye contact with me.

Then he looks back down at his desk and retrieves his cell phone from under a file folder. I watch silently as he scrolls through it, looking for her number.

My heart isn't beating, it's throwing itself madly against my chest like some sort of rabid dog, trying to beat its way free of my body.

"Damn it," he curses, "I don't have it. Shit, I thought I did." He sighs heavily before looking at me, making sure I'm still there. "Rachel," he says flatly. "If anyone has contact with everyone from glee, it's her."

While he dials I sit and wonder which one from the first picture he showed me Rachel was.

"Okay, here," he says, pulling the phone away from his ear and setting it down on the desk while hitting the speaker button.

"Hello, this is Linda James for Miss Rachel Berry."

"Hi, this is Artie Abrams, I'd like to-"

"If you are a reporter asking about the back stage incident," Rachel's manager snaps, "then I would like to stress Miss Berry's insistence that she has no comment on what transpired."

"Um," Artie blinks for a few seconds, confused. "No, I'm not a reporter. I was actually just wondering if I could get in contact with Rachel. It's about-"

The woman cuts Artie off again. "Miss Berry will be giving her debut performance in her new role tomorrow night and has arranged for a fan signing after the show. You can get a picture with her then, sir."

Artie looks a little peeved but tries again, "No. I'm an old friend of Rachel's. From high school. I need to speak with her, it's very import-"

"Sir, if I gave Miss Berry's personal number to every man who claimed to have gone to school with her, then enough people to fill every inch of Madison Square Garden twice over would have her number. I'm sure you can see the problem with that."

"No," Artie insists. "I really did go to school with her. Look, this is important, please, I just need to talk with her."

"I'm sorry, sir, I can't do that. Have a good day." Then she hangs up.

I stare down at the phone on the desk, wondering what kind of job this Rachel woman has that she has her own assistant. "That was kind of rude."

Artie shakes his head as if to brush off what just happened and picks up his phone again. He scrolls through his contacts again, mumbling to himself. Then his eyes light up, "Kurt," he says. "Kurt will have it."

He dials, and I can hear it ring once before going right to a voicemail service. Artie gives an annoyed growl.

I can't tell if I'm getting more or less anxious that we can't seem to get in contact with Santana. I want to, but I'm also a little hesitant. What exactly is Artie going to say? 'Oh, hey, guess what? I found your wife?' It seems so… impersonal.

"Well?" I ask, seeing as how his second option of contacting Santana didn't work either.

His face scrunches slightly as he thinks to himself, but I can see he has another idea. "I don't know where exactly Santana's living so I can't look her up, but…" he trails off as he taps a few things into his computer. I can't see what he's doing, but he must have looked up a number because once he's done searching he picks up the phone and dials what he sees on the screen. Then he puts it down on the desk between us as it rings.

"Hello, Hummel Tires and Lube," a gruff voice answers. "This is Charlie."

"Hi," Artie says. "I'm looking for Finn, is he around?"

"Yeah, hold on." I can hear the sound of the man covering the mouthpiece before yelling, "Yo, Hudson!"

There's a few seconds of waiting while the phone is passed between people and a new voice answers happily, "Hello?"

Artie smiles, he's finally getting somewhere. "Finn? Finn, its Artie."

"Artie, man! How's it going?"

"Um, alright. You?"

"Not bad, not bad. What's up? Haven't heard from you in a while."

"It's actually… I'm trying to get in contact with Santana."

The man on the other ends pauses a second, "Santana?" He sounds skeptic, as if it's surprising Artie would go to him with such a request.

"Yeah. Do you have her number, or know someone who would have it? I tried calling Rachel to give me it, but her manager-"

"That new woman, Jesus she's horrible," Finn grumbles. "Woman run's Rachel's life like some sort of army camp. I'd love to meet her one day and yell at her, see how she likes it."

"Uh, right," Artie says, trying to pull the conversation back to where he wants it. "So Rachel was no luck. You don't happen to have Santana's number, do you?"

"No, man. Sorry."

"I tried calling Kurt to get it but it went right to-"

Finn laughs. "Kurt and Blaine are stuck in Japan at the moment, dude."

"Japan?"

"It's a long story." The other man pauses, thinking for a moment before offering, "I have Quinn's number though. She should be able to help."

"That would be great," Artie replies. He picks up a pen off his desk and scribbles the number Finn relays to him onto the back of a memo. "Thanks, Finn."

"No problem."

Once Artie's said his goodbyes and hung up his phone I ask, "So this Quinn person will be able to help us?"

Artie nods, "Definitely. The three of you were best friends in school. I know she'll have Santana's number."

He begins dialing then and I feel butterflies start zooming around in my stomach, my whole body clenching nervously. He puts on the speaker-phone and sets the phone down on his desk one more time.

"Hello?" a groggy voice answers.

"Hi, Quinn? This… It's Artie. Artie Abrams?"

"Artie?" The woman yawns. "Artie, hi."

"Did I wake you?" Artie asks, looking at the clock. It's only past ten in the morning, it isn't that late. I'd still be asleep this late today if I wasn't meeting with Artie.

"Mmm, I was dozing," she replies lazily. "I worked late last night. Saturday's are my sleep in days. What's up? I haven't heard from you since… a long time."

"I was wondering if you could help me get in touch with Santana."

"Why?" she asks absentmindedly as she gives a little sigh while she stretches.

"It's about Brittany."

It's like my name was the magic word. Suddenly Quinn is wide awake and all business as she asks, "What about Brittany?"

"I…" he looks over at me, thinking up how much exactly he wants to tell her. "I might have a lead on… on where she is."

"Brittany's alive?" Quinn whispers.

"Yeah… I… I think she…" He trails off and there's silence on the other end for a long moment. "Quinn?" he asks when she doesn't speak.

"You're still living in Phoenix, right? I'll be there as soon as I can." The line goes dead.

Artie's brows come together. "That's not exactly what I was going for."