Darkness.
Heavy, floating, darkness.
Shrill beeping. Panicked voices. More nothing.
Vague grey shapes I can't force into focus. Excited voices.
"Tris?" a strange man asks. Who or what is a Tris? And why does he sound so emotional? He's excited, hopeful, and terrified, and he's uncomfortably in my face.
"Where?" I manage to wheeze. My voice is dry and weak, and I can barely squeak out the single word.
"You're in the hospital," the man explains. "You were in an accident."
He must be a doctor, though he seems too young and casual to be a doctor. Maybe he's still learning. He stares at me with dark ocean blue eyes, and it seems like he can see clear into my soul. Though he's sitting on a chair, I can tell that he's tall, fit, and athletic. He has short, dark hair, and a five o'clock shadow that looks like he hasn't shaved in a few days.
I try to remember the accident he mentioned, but I draw a blank. I have so many questions, but my voice won't cooperate, and my head hurts. In fact, I hurt all over.
Tears leak out of my eyes and roll toward my ears. I hate the feeling of wetness in my ears, but I'm helpless to do anything about it. My left arm is weighed down by a cast and several tubes. Three fingers on my right hand are taped together, and my pointer finger has some kind of monitor clipped to it.
"Are you in pain, Baby?" the man asks in alarm. He pushes a button on my bed repeatedly, and leaps from his chair, running out the door of my room. Did he just call me Baby?
The man is back in mere seconds. His twitchy, anxious movements make me uncomfortable as he moves about the room. He runs his fingers through his short hair, tugging at the ends. He paces, sticking his head out the door. He comes back to me, squeezing my wrist and looking at me with far too much intensity.
A few minutes later, a blonde woman in baby blue scrubs enters the room, and I'm relieved to see her. She seems calmer, and moves with greater confidence. Maybe she can get the nervous doctor to calm down. They really shouldn't let trainees alone with patients.
"Tris," the woman says, "it's good to see you finally awake."
Tris. That word again. Maybe it's her name, though that seems like an awkward way for her to introduce herself.
"How do you feel?" she asks.
"Hurts," I croak. "I'm ov- over- it's all... too much," I manage.
The lady checks some machines and taps at a computer screen while the young doctor watches her every move.
"I know it's a lot to process," she says comfortingly. "We're taking good care of you. Your nurse will be here in a minute with some ice chips for your throat. That will help, and the next dose of pain medication will be administered soon. It will make you sleepy again, but you still need to rest, so that's okay."
As if on cue, a woman walks in with a styrofoam cup of shaved ice. She has long red-blonde hair that's pulled back in a ponytail. Her bottom-heavy figure strains the fabric of her mint green scrubs. She smiles brightly at me, then gives the young doctor a dirty look.
"Let's have Mr. Eaton feed her the ice," the woman in blue says authoritatively, "I think he'd like to feel useful."
The redhead adjusts the controls on my bed to sit me up a bit, then reminds the man to give me tiny bites and watch out for any sign of choking. His hands tremble, but he smiles reassuringly as he offers me the first bit of shaved ice.
The cool, moisturizing treat feels heavenly in my parched mouth. I sigh as I swallow, and eagerly open my mouth for another bite.
"Very good," says the woman in blue. "Is that helping with the discomfort?"
I try to nod, but the motion sends pain shooting through my head, and I wince. "Yes," I croak instead.
"Good," she says. "I'm going to ask you a few questions, and I want you to stay relaxed and calm. If there are things you can't answer, that's okay. Just stay calm. Four will keep feeding you little bits between questions. Okay?"
"Okay," I agree, though I'm still confused. Her wording is strange. And why can I only have four bites?
"Good," the woman replies. "Now what is the last thing you remember? Do you recall the accident?"
"No," I say. I have no idea about the accident. Was it a car accident? Do I even have a car? I can't picture one. "I… I don't remember an accident. What happened?"
"That's okay," the woman says calmly. "That's very common. You've been through a trauma, so your brain wants to block out the memory to protect you while you heal. What is the last thing you remember?"
I scramble to come up with something recent. Nothing. I try to come up with anything at all. Nothing. The monitors beep frantically as my heart rate gives away my panic.
My memory is a total blank.
"Tris, look at me please," the woman says.
"Tris, calm down," the man says. "It's going to be okay."
"Do you know who he is?" the woman asks, pointing at the young man.
"The… a doctor?" I guess. "A medical student doctor?"
The man's mouth drops open as his eyes fill with panic and pain. The little dish of shaved ice falls to the floor at his feet with a wet splosh.
The woman sighs. "No, Tris," she says gently. "I'm your doctor, Dr. Matthews. Four is your husband."
For a split second I stare at Dr. Matthews, then my head whips toward the man on my other side. The sudden movement sends an explosion of searing pain through my skull, and I cry out. My high-pitched exclamation is matched by blaring alarms. Spots cloud my vision, then everything is mercifully dark again.
…
"Zeke."
"Zeke, what do you want me to say?"
I come around hearing the deep voice of the strange man with the ocean-blue eyes. His name is… It's a number, for some reason. Hopefully it's a nickname. Four, I remember. My husband. He's standing by the window with his back to me and a phone held to his ear.
"Fine, I'm sorry," he says into the phone, though he sounds more frustrated than apologetic. "I know she's like a sister to you. I'm sorry I didn't call you when she woke up, but you don't understand."
"No."
"Zeke, no. She… She doesn't remember anything."
Zeke... Zeke… Nothing. The name is unfamiliar.
"No, Zeke, like nothing. She… She didn't know me, and finding out we were married gave her a damn panic attack."
"I don't see why this is funny."
"Well, this is exactly why I didn't call you. My wife just woke up after a week in a coma. She lost her memory, and you're making jokes. It's not funny! What if she doesn't ever remember?"
"Well what if she doesn't fall in love with me all over again? What if she doesn't want anything to do with me? She… She's everything, Zeke. She's my whole family and my whole world! How would you feel if it was Shauna?"
"Yeah, well, this is happening. To me. Right now. And I'm freaking out, okay?"
"Fine, bye."
Four turns around as he hangs up the phone. Seeing that I'm awake, he smiles ruefully.
"I was talking to my best friend, Zeke," he explains. "Everyone wants to see you, but Dr. Matthews has only allowed me to be here. Are you feeling any better?"
I shrug. Is one pain "better" than another? And how do I rank memory loss? That certainly hurts. It's terrifying. But pain meds won't take the edge off that.
"Thirsty," I manage to say to Four.
"Sure, yeah," he says. "You can sip some water now."
He helps sit my bed up again and offers me some water through a straw.
"I'm… confused. Like, a lot," I say to Four. "Tell me things."
"Um, yeah, sure," he says, tugging at his hair again. Must be a nervous habit of his. "What… Uh, what do you want to know?"
"Who am I?" I ask. My voice is small and frightened. The question is not existential or philosophical, it's loss, pure and simple. I am a lost child who can't find its parents. I don't know how to get home.
"Well," Four says. "Okay. Your name is Tris Eaton. Well, your real name is Beatrice Grace Eaton, but you hate it, so you go by Tris. Uh, we live in Chicago. I work in tech security, and you're a preschool teacher. Do… Do you remember your parents at all, or remember being a kid?"
I think about it for a minute. Mom. Dad. Mom. Dad. What do those words look like in my head? I can't settle on an image. There are no memories or recollections. Nothing. I shake my head gingerly.
Four nods sadly. "That's okay," he assures me. "I really didn't want to go through that again. Your parents passed away about a year ago. Telling you about their death was the hardest thing I've ever had to do. Well, the hardest thing before almost losing you. At least this time you don't remember them, so maybe it won't hurt so bad."
"What… happened… to them?" I ask. My voice is still dry and weak, but I make myself understood.
"They were attacked by a mugger," Four explains. "They were downtown after dark. Some guy stabbed them and took off with your mom's purse. It was devastating - for all of us. They were great people, Tris. It was terrible for you, and me. Caleb and Susan and the kids, too."
More strange names. My frustration must show on my face, because Four apologizes as he explains that Caleb is my brother, and that he lives in San Francisco with his wife Susan and their two little daughters, Avery and Ashlyn. Apparently they call at least twice a day, and Caleb even flew out here right after my accident.
"Do… Do we have kids?" I ask shyly.
A wave of painful emotion crashes over Four's face. "No," he says gently. "Not yet. We were… we were hoping to - soon - but it will have to wait a bit longer, I guess."
I have more questions, but I'm getting tired again.
…
The next time I wake up, I'm alone. There are several new flower arrangements in my room. I guess I'll have to ask Four about them when he comes back.
I take a minute to do a quick inventory of my life. My name is Beatrice Grace Eaton, but I go by Tris. I live in Chicago. I'm married to a guy named Four. He's in tech security and has a best friend named Zeke. I'm a preschool teacher. My parents are dead, but I have a brother named Caleb who lives in California with his wife… Oh, what is her name again? Sharon? No. Susan? Yes! Susan. They have two little girls, but their names escape me. They both started with an A. I think one was Ashley.
"What's the matter?" a deep and increasingly familiar voice interrupts my thoughts. Four is back. He's in clean clothes, and he's freshly shaved. He smells good - spicy and masculine - and he carries a large duffel bag like he's coming from the gym.
"I'm taking inventory," I say. I can feel my cheeks heating up, and I look away. Four's eyes are intense. "What… uh, what are Caleb's daughters' names?"
"Avery and Ashlyn," he says gently as he sets the duffel on a chair and opens it. "They're six and five - Irish twins like you and Caleb, but they're not in the same school year like you were."
Four had been digging in the bag as he spoke, and he places a pile of photos and papers on the little table over my bed. I slowly drag my right hand up to the table. It's stiff from disuse and covered in healing scratches and bruises, but the monitor is off, and it seems to have fairly normal mobility.
"Your finger is broken," Four says, pointing at my hand. "That's why they're taped. Maybe they'll unwrap that soon. Here's the most recent picture of us with the girls. We were just in San Francisco this summer."
I look down at the picture and recognize Four right away. He has one arm around a petite blonde woman, and they're holding two laughing little girls.
"That's Avery making the monkey face," Four says, pointing at the little girl on his lap in the picture. "And that's Ashlyn on your lap. She's the more… precocious of the two. Everyone always compares her to you, because you were such a handful as a child."
"That… that's me?" I ask, pointing at the blonde in the photo.
Four flinches. "Yeah," he says, his voice thick with emotion. "That's you."
"Can I … Do you have a mirror?" I ask.
A tear trickles down Four's cheek. "I don't have one," he says in a choked voice. "We can ask a nurse next time they come in. You… you look a bit different right now, anyway - because of the accident and all. But when I look at you, that's the Tris I see. You're still here. Your eyes have more life and fire every time you're awake. The cuts and bruises will fade, the swelling will go down. Your hair will grow back-"
"My hair!?" I exclaim. My less encumbered hand reaches for my head, but I find only bandages before Four gently grabs my hand and moves it.
"Don't touch it," he says. "You suffered a lot of head trauma. They had to do surgery. There was bleeding, swelling, pressure, skull fractures… I don't know. I'm not good with medical stuff, and I was too much of a wreck to know what was going on anyway. Zeke and Uriah had to hold me down while Hana talked sense into me. I wanted to see you so bad I was just going to bust into the operating room."
Wow. This man really cares about me. I wish I knew him. I wish I could remember our life together, but I just can't. There's nothing there. I let him continue holding my hand in the hope that it brings him some measure of comfort.
"Zeke is your best friend?" I ask, eager to change the subject. "You were on the phone with him before?"
Four nods. "Ezekiel Pedrad," he elaborates. "Zeke and I have been best friends since middle school. His mom, Hana, took me in when I was a teenager. I stayed with them for almost a year before I left for college. She's my mother-figure. Their dad died when we were kids, just like my mom. Zeke and I bonded over the shared experience of losing a parent, I guess. Hana was close friends with your mom, too."
Four's rambling contains a lot of information, and leaves me with more questions than answers. Where was Four's dad? What happened to his mom and Zeke's dad? Who is Uriah? If Hana and my mom were close, is that how Four and I met?
That seems like the least painful question, so I start with that one. "Is that how we met? My mom and Hana?"
"Not exactly," Four says. His face softens, and I'm glad I've steered the conversation in this less painful direction. "We grew up in the same suburb. Zeke and I were two years ahead of you in school. You, Caleb, Susan, and her brother Robert were neighbors and friends until middle school. Then Caleb and Susan started being all awkwardly middle school flirty with each other, and you and Robert started getting involved in other things. He joined some garage band, and by high school he was growing weed and the ugliest beard ever. He was like some neo-hippie. It was strange. He dropped out of school to backpack around the world. He lives in a commune now and everything.
"You started playing sports, and found out you were really good at volleyball. You made some new friends, who introduced you to their friends. By high school you were doing different sports every season. You played varsity volleyball starting as a sophomore, and you were on the gymnastics and softball teams. You tried track, dance, and cheerleading, too.
"Zeke's brother, Uriah, was one of your new friends. We didn't exactly meet each other, but we orbited the same planets. When I was a senior and you were a sophomore I had such a crush on you. That's the year I lived with the Pedrads. I was convinced that you wouldn't want anything to do with me. You were this bubbly, feisty, adorable little ball of energy, and I was quiet, damaged, and broken. Plus I was leaving in the fall. So I just watched you."
"Stalker," I say, trying to tease Four as it's obvious that he's struggling as he stares at our still-joined hands and tells me our love story.
He looks up at me and smiles. "As it turns out, you were no better," he says. "Zeke dragged me to prom senior year. He was dating his wife, Shauna, at the time, and she wanted us to go. The three of us were best friends, but I was feeling like a third wheel after they started dating. They insisted that I should go to prom, too, and Shauna set me up with this friend of hers, Jessica, who had just moved to town. Jessica was a lesbian, though we didn't know that at the time, and she was new in town right in the middle of senior year, which is a terrible time to move a kid. Anyway, she was struggling to fit in, so Shauna decided we should go as friends.
"Prom was nothing special, but when we went back to the Pedrad's after the dance, you and your whole crew were there playing truth or dare with a bottle of Jack Daniels that Lynn stole from her parents' liquor cabinet. Lynn is Shauna's sister, by the way, and one of your good friends. Zeke produced another bottle that he had hidden in his bedroom, and the four of us joined you. By the end of the night Zeke and Shauna had snuck off to his room to swap virginities then came back to loudly tell us all about it, Lynn and Jessica had both come out of the closet and were making out in a corner somewhere, and I had the most beautiful girl in the world sitting on my lap. Your friend Christina had dared you to sit on your crush's lap for the rest of the game. When you walked over to me with your cheeks flushed, biting your bottom lip, and perched on the end of my knees... I swear my heart exploded and I saw fireworks. I put my hands on your hips, leaned forward and whispered that I had a crush on you, too."
"Then what?" I ask breathlessly.
"Then my heart started beating," Four says with a shy smile. "For the first time I felt alive, and hopeful. The most amazing girl in the world saw something worth liking in me. I pulled your back against my chest and held you for the rest of the night. I didn't know if that night was going to be it, or if I could get you to go on a date with me, but I was determined to hold you as long as you let me."
"And?" I prompt.
Four holds up our joined hands. "And I'm still holding on to you ten years later."
"Ten years," I say. "That makes us, what? Twenty-five and twenty-seven?"
Four nods. "Well, I'm twenty-eight. I had a birthday recently."
"Did I get you a present?" I ask, trying to stifle a yawn. I'm having trouble staying awake, but I like listening to Four talk about our life.
"The best gift ever," he says, kissing the back of my hand. "You woke up."
"Four," I breathe, feeling guilty that this sweet man had to spend his birthday at the hospital. Worse than that, that's the day he found out that I have no memory of him. What a terrible birthday!
"Tris," Four says in a low, soothing voice. "Don't call me that."
"Wha… what do I call you, then?" I ask. I know my question hurts him. It hurts me. I'm a terrible wife. I don't even know my husband's real name. Tears stream down my cheeks, and Four wipes them away. His own eyes are wet, but his tears don't fall.
"Nothing for now," he says. "You need to sleep. I'll tell you that story next time. I love you, Tris. Close your eyes and rest."
I take a deep breath and do as he says. My last thought is of our still-joined hands.