Uncovering The Truth

CHAPTER ONE

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Both the dog and the car came out of nowhere.

Brooke Carter had decided to take advantage of the beauty of the day and the start of the weekend. Instead of going home and diligently beginning to mark her students’ papers as she usually did, she put the manila folder that contained them on the corner of her desk, and raced to her bedroom to change into shorts and a short-sleeved top. She finger-combed her long strawberry-blonde hair into a high ponytail, and headed for the garage where her bike was stored. As she walked toward the one-and-a-half car detached garage, she congratulated herself on having the foresight last weekend to pump up the tires. She’d done so anticipating a bike ride last Sunday, but the day had turned out to be overcast and a little too cool. But today was perfect, not too cool, just cool enough that a vigorous ride wouldn’t leave her overheated. The sunlight wasn’t so strong that it would cause her to freckle, or worse, burn, as it filtered through the trees.

The winter had been a hard one, and spring hadn’t been much different from the months that preceded it. But now, with summer, and the end of the school year a few short weeks away, the weather had finally turned for the better.

Brooke pulled the garage door up, wishing that it had a power opener. But like the rest of the small rental house she’d lived in for almost a year, the garage lacked any kind of amenities. Her muscles stretched as she raised the door to its limit, and she reminded herself it was good exercise to have to lift it anytime she came home or went out. She’d have to do the same any time she wanted to use her bike, and she intended to use it a lot this summer. Gas prices had been doing nothing but going up for as long as she could remember, and since she hadn’t landed a job teaching summer school, she was going to have to economize any way she could. Riding her bike on short errands would be a good way to do that. Her ride today would start getting her body acclimatized to what she hoped would be her major mode of transportation over the coming months.

She pushed her bicycle out from the corner where she had tucked it last weekend, and pushed down firmly on the seat to make sure the tires hadn’t lost any air over the last week. She headed back into the garage to get her bicycle helmet from the nail she’d hung it on, then lowered the garage door. Today she had no errand or particular destination in mind, nothing more than some slow steady pedaling to wake up her calf muscles. If she was lucky, she’d come across a garage sale or two. Her bicycle, formerly used for pleasure riding, wasn’t equipped with a basket. It would be a coup to find one at a bargain price; the one she’d priced at the hardware store cost almost as much as she spent on food for a month. As she settled onto the seat, ready to launch herself on her first ride of the year, she wondered whether she could manage grocery shopping by balancing a shopping bag on either side of the handlebars if a bargain-priced basket was not to be found. She put her helmet on, despite the fact she was sure it made her look like a lollipop. She’d bought an oversized one because she didn’t like strands of hair getting into her face as she rode; the oversized helmet allowed her to wear a ponytail to ensure that all her hair stayed tucked inside it. With the helmet fastened under her chin, she took off down her driveway.

Finding a basket was not in the cards today. She started by riding around her own block, then widened her circle concentrically, but there was not a garage sale in sight. Disappointed but not daunted – she could try her luck again tomorrow – she turned her bike onto a street she hadn’t noticed before, barely two lanes wide with tree branches creating an almost arbor-like effect as the arched branches met over the road. Today that road was dappled in sunlight, but once the leaves had completely filled out the trees, this would be a pleasant road to pedal down in the height of summer, with verdant shade assuring she’d stay cool.

When she’d first turned onto the road, it appeared to be a not-yet-developed country lane, but she saw that the houses were set farther back than those on her own street, and were partially hidden by the trees that lined the road. Once she knew where to look, she could catch glimpses of houses as she passed by. There was also auditory evidence of human presence – a lawnmower roaring, the ratcheting sound of a sprinkler watering a lawn, and children calling to one another. Did any of her students live on this street? She hadn’t noticed its name as she turned into it, but it might not have meant anything to her anyway. Although the school kept such information on file, she hadn’t any reason to take note of where her students lived. If any of the children she’d glided past had been one of her first graders, she’d be willing to bet they’d been shocked at the sight of their teacher on a bicycle. They probably thought she lived in her classroom. But the chances of them recognizing her were slim. With her helmet on, they couldn’t see her hair, its color a sure giveaway of her identity. If they thought anything at all when they saw her, it was that she was another old person out on a bike ride.

She smiled at that thought. To her first graders, she was old. To her parents, she was a baby. They had balked at the idea of her moving halfway across the country to take a teaching position.

Why would you want to move to Madison, Wisconsin? they protested. Stay here in California. Something is sure to turn up.

It hasn’t in the year since I graduated. All I’ve had were some calls to work as a substitute, and not many of those, Brooke reminded them gently. I’m lucky to have this offer.

But you’ll be so far away, and you won’t have any family nearby! her mother half wailed.

I won’t have any family nearby if I stay here, Brooke reminded her. Dad’s going to be on sabbatical soon, and you two will be off to China for a year. Her father was an art history professor specializing in Asian art. He had received a grant to do research in Beijing for a book he was writing.

You could come with us, her mother suggested hopefully.

Brooke laughed. I’m a bit too old to be going on trips with my Mommy and Daddy, she said, laughing. Besides, with me living elsewhere, you can rent out the house and have a little extra income while you’re away.

Her father’s eyes lit up at that suggestion – college professors, including those with tenure, weren’t that well paid – but her mother was dubious. I’d rather have you staying here. I don’t like the idea of strangers living with my things.

We could put our personal things in storage and leave the bare bones, her father said, warming to the idea. And Brooke’s right, my dear, he told his wife, gently wrapping an arm around her shoulders. She’s an adult, and it’s time for her to spread her wings.

Now, riding on the tree-lined road, Brooke spread her arms and lifted her face to the sky, the way she had when she rode her bike as a kid, pleased she hadn’t lost the equilibrium to perform such a feat. Her eyes were focused upwards, but her peripheral vision caught a movement to her right. Her hands came down automatically to the handlebars as her head turned in the direction of the movement.

She’d expected to see one of her students running her way, amazed and excited to see that Miss Carter was riding a bike – and wearing shorts, no less. Instead there was what looked like a bear loping in her direction.

She did a double take. No, it wasn’t a bear, it was a dog, a dog that was nearly bear-sized, however. And it wasn’t loping. Loping implied a gentle stride. This dog-bear was racing at her, its huge, clawed paws eating up the ground beneath them with alarming speed. It would be a matter of moments before it was upon her.

What was she supposed to do in a situation like this – pedal like the wind, or stop and try to keep the bike between her and that monster? But was it a monster? Did she think that because of its size? It could be a friendly dog, wanting to give her a big, friendly lick.

She shot a quick glance in its direction and wasn’t reassured. The dog was gaining on her rapidly. Its lip was curled back, its yellowed teeth bared and dripping with saliva. This was not a friendly dog, not in the least. Stop or go, she wondered again, as her legs kept pumping, acting on primal instinct to keep the beast that might intend to make her his dinner as far away from her as possible.

She bent low over the handlebars, tucking her chin down, trying to lessen the wind resistance against her body, willing her already quivering leg muscles to push past the limits they had already reached.

There was a curve in the road ahead. If she could get around it, there could be something there that could help her, like a fence with an open gate that she could pedal through and slam shut behind her, leaving her safe from the dog’s dripping fangs. The dog’s owner might notice its absence, and the sound of its master’s voice would make him relinquish his pursuit. Maybe—

She’d reached the curve and maneuvered around it without losing her balance, but coming at her was a vehicle that by all rights should be on the other side of the road. It wasn’t. It was in her lane and heading right toward her. Before she could do anything, turn one way or another, or wave her arm to get the driver’s attention, the car hit her bike head on. Brooke experienced the odd sensation of being outside her body, of watching herself as she rose off her bike’s seat, projecting high into the air, the car roof beneath her as her body was propelled forward. She had a flash of a thought – it was good she hadn’t hit the car itself, hadn’t crashed into the windshield or onto the metal of the roof. She was going to be all right after all— and then she thought nothing as, head first, she slammed into one of the stately trees that had first attracted her to that road.

CHAPTER TWO

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Brooke’s first thought was that something had gone wrong with her alarm clock. Rather than buzzing, it was repeatedly making a beeping sound, over and over in a steady rhythm, its predictability making her think it was a modern version of water torture. Instead of a drip, drip, drip, it was giving her a beep, beep, beep. It wasn’t the most pleasant sound to wake up to. Eyes closed, she stretched a little in the bed. Her second thought was that saving money was one thing, but sleeping on scratchy sheets quite another. It might cost a little more, but she was going to ditch the generic fabric softener for a name brand on her next shopping trip.

The smell struck her then. One thing she hadn’t economized on was the potpourri she kept in small bowls around the house; she found its vanilla scent uplifting. But that scent was gone, replaced by... She sniffed once, then twice, her nose wrinkling with the second sniff. It was a nasty scent, disinfectant mixed with something medicinal.

What a way to start the morning: annoying alarm clock, scratchy sheets, and an awful smell. The day could only get better after this, she thought optimistically as she opened her eyes.

She shut them again immediately. This was not right. Her bedroom was painted a soft shell pink. She ought to know because she’d painted it herself right after she moved in. But the walls she’d caught a brief glimpse of had been some putrid color. Puce? Was that what that horrid shade of green was called? No, puce was more of a reddish purple color. She could have thought of puce because it was close to puke. That was a word her first-graders loved to use, and what the green of the walls made her want to do. What was that color called? She couldn’t think of it because for some reason her head was hurting, which was unusual. She was one of those lucky people who rarely had headaches. This might be part of some dream, the noise of the alarm, the smell in the air, the color of the walls. All she had to do was open her eyes, wake herself fully, and she’d be back in her own bed, with soft sheets, sweet-scented air, and the walls a comforting, embracing color.

She opened her eyes and kept them open this time. The walls remained unchanged, that awful green color. The smell remained in the air, and the sheets remained scratchy against her bare legs.

Decided to join us again, have you?

The male voice was deep, a hint of amusement in its tenor. It wasn’t a voice she recognized. Brooke tried to turn her head in its direction but a sudden sharp pain made her keep her head motionless. The man moved so that he was in her line of sight. He was tall but slightly stooped-shouldered, as if in his youth he had tried to hide the fact that he was a bit over average height. He had a tonsure of white hair, his pate shining in the overhead light as if waxed. Along with his white coat, the stethoscope around his neck and the chart in his hands identified him as a doctor. Things suddenly fell into place for Brooke. These weren’t her sheets, and that wasn’t her alarm she was hearing but some piece of medical equipment to which she was hooked up. There was a lead fastened by tape to her chest; the tape was pulling at her skin.

You’re a lucky young woman, the doctor said, not a hint of amusement in his voice this time. Believe me, if you hadn’t been wearing that helmet, you wouldn’t be on this floor of the hospital. You’d be down in the basement. In the morgue, he added, as if to make sure she understood the point of his statement.

Now that you’re back with us, you’ll be able to clear up a few matters. His eyes drifted down to the chart in his hands. Like your name, for instance. You didn’t have any kind of identification on you when the accident occurred.

All I was doing was going for a bike ride. Brooke thought she sounded like one of her students after being chastised for some minor offense.

It’s always a good idea to have some ID on you, no matter how brief you think your errand will be.

Brooke thought but did not say, ‘and wear clean underwear too.’ Her mother had used that old adage on her more than once while she was growing up. Instead she murmured, I’ll keep that in mind.

So, young lady, how about clearing up the mystery of your name? We’ve been surprised that absolutely no one has made any inquiries about you.

Brooke opened her mouth to speak, but the name that wanted to form on her lips was not her own. She closed her mouth without saying anything. Why would she think of the name Claire when asked her name? She didn’t know anyone named Claire. It was not a name she had considered for herself when discussing with friends what they’d wished they’d been named.

She tried again. This time, Brooke Carter, came out without any problem.

The doctor jotted it on the chart. And where do you live? He noted that information on the chart, then moved over to her bedside and half perched himself on the edge of the bed. Brooke scooted over to make more room for him. There are a few questions I need to ask to see how you’re doing – though the answers you’ve already given me show me you came through your ordeal quite admirably. First off, can you tell me what day it is?

That depends. Brooke gave a small smile. How long was I out? It was late Friday afternoon when I went on the bike ride.

"I hate to tell you this, but you’ve lost a day of your life, because it’s Saturday afternoon. But I can assure you, Brooke, had it not been for that helmet, you would have lost a lot more than twenty-four hours.

By the way, he added, looking up from his chart. I’ve been remiss, asking you all these questions without first introducing myself. I’m Dr. Morgan. Are you up to answering more questions, or would you like to have a little rest first? The police are eager to talk to you once you’re up to it.

Brooke experienced a frisson of alarm. The police? she echoed faintly. Was the driver hurt? They couldn’t blame her for the accident, could they? She’d been riding her bike on the correct side of the road, and though her memory of the event was a little hazy at the moment, she was almost certain the car had been in the wrong lane as it came around that curve.

The driver’s fine, Dr. Morgan assured her. It will be routine questioning, as I understand it, to confirm what the other party told them of the accident.

Brooke tried to nod as she murmured, I see, but it hurt her head to do so. She lifted a hand to her head, and was relieved to find her hair there. It hadn’t occurred to her until that moment that her hair might have been shaved off. I am a little tired, she admitted. Could I talk to you – and the police – later?

Dr. Morgan nodded and got to his feet. Of course, my dear. If you need anything, buzz for the nurse. I’ll check in on you later.

Brooke hadn’t been fibbing when she’d said she was tired, but she didn’t think she’d be able to fall asleep. Despite that, almost as soon as Dr. Morgan left her room, her eyes drifted shut of their own accord. She was in that state halfway between consciousness and sleep when she heard it. A voice, a voice she somehow recognized, said softly, There’s my Claire. Her eyes flew open. She half expected to see someone in the room, perhaps a visitor who had mistaken her for some other patient. There was no one else in the room, but her heart was pounding as hard as if there was a bogeyman standing at the foot of her bed. The machine she’d mistaken for her alarm clock earlier was going off at a pace so fast it sounded like one steady beep. She hoped it wouldn’t sound an alarm at the nurses’ station and send them running in here. Why hadn’t she asked the doctor what the purpose of the device was? But little by little, as her breathing slowed and her racing heart returned to normal, so did the machine. Once again, exhaustion overtook her, and once again as she began to drift into sleep, she heard the voice. Claire. It was said with such tenderness that this time it didn’t alarm her. This time it brought her a wash of warmth and contentment, and her sleep was deep and dreamless.

A touch on her shoulder brought her awake almost at once. Dr. Morgan was again at her bedside. Sorry to wake you, my dear, he said with a gentle smile, but we’ve scheduled you for some tests.

What kind of tests? Brooke asked warily.

A brain scan and— Don’t look so alarmed, Dr. Morgan said hastily. It’s routine when a head injury is involved. After the scan – which won’t take long, and all you have to do is lie quietly for it – there are some other tests a psychologist will administer to make sure you’re functioning normally.

And after that I can go home, Brooke said hopefully.

After that the police will want to talk to you, Dr. Morgan said. We’d like to keep you overnight for observation – unless there’s someone who can keep an eye on you.

Brooke knew better than to try to shake her head this time. I live alone.

What about your parents, or a friend?

My parents are overseas right now, she told the doctor. I haven’t lived here that long. There’s no one I know well enough to ask to stay with me, or for me to ask to stay with them.

I see, Dr. Morgan said, once again making notations on her chart. In that case, the hospital will be the best place for you.

I suppose so, Brooke said with a sigh as she thought longingly of her tiny rental house. It hadn’t been quite as appealing before as it was at this instant.

An orderly came into the room, pushing a wheelchair in front of him. Your taxi has arrived, he said cheerily.

Now Brook wished she had a close friend in the area, not so she could go home sooner, but so that someone could have brought her a robe. As she struggled to get from the bed into the wheelchair while keeping the back of her hospital gown closed, she wondered what had become of what she’d been wearing, and her bike, for that matter. But her clothes were her utmost concern. She didn’t want to take a taxi home wearing a hospital gown, and since her keys were in the pocket of her shorts, without her clothes she wouldn’t be able to get into her house. She tried to put that out of her mind as the orderly whisked her down the corridor at what seemed like a rapid pace. There was a sign up ahead that read ‘MRI Department.’ She was certain that was their destination.

When she’d finished with that test, the same orderly came to take her to the psychologist’s office. She wondered if she’d be able to give any coherent answers with the clanging of the MRI equipment echoing in her head. The scan had been painless, it was true, but the sound it made would have sent her climbing up the walls if she had been allowed to move during the procedure.

The visit with the psychologist wasn’t that bad. The woman, gray haired and motherly, with the most sensible shoes Brooke had seen in a long time, had at first asked questions along the same lines as Dr. Morgan had: where she lived, what she did, what day it was. There were other tests too. Brooke was sure her answers were the same as they would have been had she taken this test before the accident.

Then the smiling orderly was back to return her to her room. But the ordeal wasn’t quite over, for waiting in the chair by her bedside was a uniformed policeman. Brooke struggled again to get from the wheelchair into the bed without giving the officer a show. Once she managed that, the policeman – Officer Feeney – led her through a series of questions. Brooke told him as much as she remembered.

We’ve given both the driver and the dog’s owner citations, Officer Feeney informed her as he snapped his small notebook shut.

The driver wasn’t hurt in the accident, was he—or she? Brooke asked, using both pronouns because no one had told her the driver’s identity. Dr. Morgan had said the driver was all right, but he could have been trying to protect her.

He, the officer said. Feeney opened his notebook again and flipped through a few pages. Philip Brethren, he read. An older gentleman. Said he was trying to put a CD in his player and had taken his eyes off the road for a second. But sometimes, Feeney said, snapping the notebook shut again, a second is all it takes. You were lucky to be wearing that helmet.

That’s what Dr. Morgan told me too, Brooke reported.

Feeney stood and held a piece of paper out to her. Brooke hesitated to take it. Was she getting a citation too? She’d done nothing wrong!

It’s Mr. Brethren’s insurance information, Feeney said when he saw her hesitation. You’ll want to call them to make a claim. They should pay for the expenses involved in your injuries at the very least.

But I have insurance through my job, Brooke protested.

His insurance should pay, and so should the homeowner whose dog chased you. He showed up right after the accident, chasing down his dog. His information is there too, Feeney said, nodding at the paper in his outstretched hand. Brooke took it from him. My contact information is there, too, in case you have any questions later on. Good luck to you, he said with a nod before leaving the room.

Brooke half-glanced at the paper before putting it on the nightstand. She was exhausted again, but she was hungry too. When did they feed people around here?

Almost as if her thought had summoned it, the smell of food wafted into her room, and she heard the squeak of a cart’s wheels. A minute later a staff member came into the room, bearing an orange plastic tray. With the ease of long practice, the worker placed it on a rolling stand and scooted it over to Brooke’s bedside. Enjoy! the worker said and was gone.

Brooke took the insulated lid off the tray and looked at the plate beneath it. A patty of unidentifiable meat was nearly covered with gelatinous gravy, and a mound of grayish mashed potatoes had the same covering. Watery-looking green beans completed the plate’s contents. Next to it, on the paper mat covering the tray, was an almost perfectly round globe of bread with a foil-encased square of margarine next to it. A carton of skim milk and a small plastic bowl of garishly green gelatin completed the offering. In other circumstances, Brooke would have been repulsed by what was before her, but right now, as her stomach rumbled loudly, the food looked as good as anything from a five-star restaurant. She picked up the plastic fork and dug in. The meal had too many starches,  and was nearly cold, but she savored every mouthful. Replete, and again exhausted from the tests and interviews, Brooke pushed the wheeled serving table away, and settled back into her pillow. As her eyes closed, she once again heard that voice in a lovingly murmured, Night-night, Claire. She fell asleep with a smile on her face.

CHAPTER THREE

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Brooke never remembered her dreams. She knew she must have them, but their events vaporized the moment she opened her eyes each morning, and nothing of them remained with her.

Not so this morning. She woke, fully aware of where she was – the hospital – and what had happened to her – the bike vs. car and dog accident. But she was also fully aware of what had been going on in her mind before her eyes opened.

Brooke’s earliest memory had always been her second birthday. She could remember vividly the birthday cake from that event – a round cake of multiple layers. Atop it had been a candle in the shape of the number two, burning brightly as the cake was carried to the table. In her mind’s eye, that candle looked gigantic, but as an adult, she was sure it hadn’t been more than a couple inches high. She remembered her parents’ faces on that day as they stood on either side of the cake and sang to her, remembered her delight at the attention, remembered clapping her hands in glee as they sang, and then clapping harder when she had successfully blown out the candle. Before that day, her life was a blank.

Until this morning. She had awakened from a dream that was more like a memory, one that predated that birthday. She’d been lying on her back, and could see the bars of a crib surrounding her. She remembered stretching her arms up and seeing her own hands – chubby, dimpled baby hands – and remembered making a noise – not a cry but a happy, gurgling sound, as if she was pleased to be where she was. Then there came the sound of footsteps, and the voice – that same woman’s voice again – calling cheerfully, I’m coming, Claire. I’m coming!

A woman had appeared then, leaning over the barred sides of the crib. She was smiling. Her long hair – a strawberry-blonde identical to Brooke’s own hair – had fallen like a curtain on either side of her face. Brooke watched her own baby hand reaching for it, and heard the woman laughing as she pushed her hair back, away from the baby’s reach. Oh, no, you don’t! that almost-familiar voice said, not with rancor but with humor. Mommy doesn’t like it when Claire pulls her hair.

Brooke had woken up then, not frightened, not startled, but with that dream-memory intact. Mommy, she thought. The woman had called herself Mommy. But her own mother didn’t have strawberry-blonde hair. Her mother’s hair was dark, short, and curly, and had been that way forever. As a little girl, Brooke had once asked her mother if her hair grew, because it always looked exactly the same.

Of course it grows, her mother had said. Everyone’s hair grows.

But I’ve haven’t seen it grow, Brooke protested.

That’s because I get it trimmed while you’re in school, her mother explained. I don’t like hair around my face so I have a standing appointment at the beauty shop.

But that other woman, that dream woman, didn’t mind the hair that fell in her face; she minded that the baby in the crib wanted to pull it. Was that why her mother kept her hair short, so baby Brooke couldn’t pull at it? But that woman hadn’t called the baby Brooke; she’d called her Claire. And that woman’s hair hadn’t been dark or curly; it had been straight and Brooke’s own color. Surely if her mother’s hair was naturally strawberry-blonde, she wouldn’t have dyed it, not when she was always telling Brooke how pretty her hair color was, and how it was a throwback to Brooke’s Irish great-grandmother.

Brooke put a hand to her forehead where another headache was starting to develop. Her confusion had to be caused because she never remembered her dreams. If she did remember them, she’d know that these kinds of illogical events were the norm.

From down the hall came the same squeaking sound she’d heard the night before when the dinner cart arrived. Good. Breakfast must be on its way. Food might help clear the muddle in her head.

As it had been the night before, the meal was brought in on an orange plastic tray, covered with an insulated lid. Removing the lid revealed a plate of fluorescent yellow scrambled eggs and some bread that had been barely toasted. There was also a bowl of a gluey substance that might have been oatmeal, cream of wheat, or grits. Brooke didn’t care. She was starving again. Was that a side effect of the accident? She normally didn’t eat breakfast. Coffee sufficed because she was never the least bit hungry in the morning. Today she dug in, and ate every bite. When the meal was finished, again her thoughts were haunted by that dream-memory.

Maybe that, like her increased appetite, was an aftereffect from the accident. Should she mention it to the doctor? That idea gave her pause. To do so at best might mean they’d want to run more tests on her; at worst, it might mean they’d transfer her to the psychiatric unit. She didn’t want either of those things. She wanted to go home, the sooner the better. How long was it going to be before Dr. Morgan appeared to discharge her?

Brooke noticed that the nightstand was actually a small chest of drawers. Staying in bed, she leaned over and opened the top drawer. There was nothing there. She leaned farther over and pulled open the lower drawer. Its contents solved the mystery of what had happened to her clothes, for there they were, neatly folded within a clear plastic bag. She pulled it out, patting the garments through the bag and found the sharp bulge of her key ring safely within the pocket of her shorts. Good. At least she wouldn’t have to call the landlord to get back into her house.

How was your night? It was a female voice, not Dr. Morgan, who asked that question. Brooke turned to see a nurse entering the room, thermometer in hand. Let me take your temp, she said as she slid the plastic-encased instrument under Brooke’s tongue.

Plastic on her clothes, plastic on the thermometer, Brooke thought as she waited for her temperature to register. It wasn’t eco-friendly, but in an environment that was replete with germs, it was necessary.

The nurse removed the thermometer and read the results. Normal, she announced. So how was your night? She repeated her earlier question.

Should she mention the dream, the memory, whatever it was? No, Brooke decided, not if she had any hope of leaving soon. Fine, she murmured, then, Is there a phone book here I could use?

Phone book? the nurse asked with a short laugh. Most people look things up on the internet these days.

I can’t exactly do that, Brooke said. There’s no computer in here.

I think there’s a phone book at the nursing station. I can bring it to you when I finish my rounds.

I’d appreciate that, Brooke said.

When the nurse returned a quarter-hour later carrying the thick volume, she looked at Brooke questioningly. You didn’t want this so you can look up an attorney, did you?

No, Brooke said, surprised at the question. Why would I want to look up an attorney?

You were in an accident, and from what I hear, it was in no way your fault. You want to make sure you get everything that’s coming to you, don’t you?

I thought the insurance company was going to take care of all that, Brooke said a little uncertainly. At least that was what she had understood from her talk with the policeman.

The insurance company’s going to be looking out for their own best interests, the nurse said firmly. Believe me, you need someone looking out for yours. She reached into her uniform pocket, pulled out a card and handed it to Brooke. This guy’s my cousin, but if I were in your shoes, I’d be calling him whether or not we were related. You want someone like him in your corner.

Brooke looked at the card, then back at the nurse. Thanks, she said. Maybe I will give him a call.

No ‘maybe’ about it, the nurse said emphatically. Call him, if not now, then when you get home.

All right. Brooke wasn’t sure she intended to make that call, but it was easier to agree than to not. May I have the phone book, please?

The nurse handed it over. Brooke waited until she’d left the room before flipping open the pages. The listing she was looking for was ‘Detectives.’

CHAPTER FOUR

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Dr. Morgan was acting reluctant to discharge her; his concern was that she’d be going home to an empty house. Brooke was glad she hadn’t mentioned her dream-memory to him or for sure he would have wanted to keep her longer. When she told him she was a teacher, he advised her to take the next week off work, to be on the safe side. He insisted Brooke give him the name of her principal and said he would call the woman himself on her behalf.

I’ll be all right, Brooke assured him, meaning both at home and at work, but Dr. Morgan shook his head.

My daughter teaches grammar school, too, he told her. It’s not a job where you get to sit behind your desk. You’re up and down more than you realize, and with the bump you took on your noggin, he grinned at his highly unprofessional description of her head, "I’d rather you keep your activities to a minimum as much as you can until I see you at your follow-up visit on Friday. I don’t want you driving until after that appointment either.

And of course, he added, his expression turning somber, I want you to call me, any time, day or night, if you experience any unusual symptoms. With the best technology, there are things we can miss, you know.

Brook wondered if hearing that voice calling her Claire, or that dream that was more like a memory counted as unusual symptoms. She was pretty sure they did, but she didn’t want the doctor to verify that. She wanted to go home.

That was where she’d be going, as soon as a taxi pulled up to the hospital’s door. She was wearing what she’d worn for her bike ride. Those formerly pristine garments were stained from her landing in foliage, and torn, too. She hoped the taxi driver wouldn’t refuse her as a fare because of the way she looked. Once she got home, her clothes were going right into the trash, though the shorts had been a long-time favorite. Then it was into her own bed, because although she’d been in a wheelchair, the trip down from her hospital room to the foyer had her light-headed and weak. Dr. Morgan appeared correct in his assessment that she needed to take it easy this week.

The taxi driver let her climb into the back of his car without a blink of an eye. He had probably picked up people here who looked far worse than she did. Brooke gave him her address, then leaned back against the seat and closed her eyes. She rubbed her hand along her thigh, aware of the outline of the attorney’s business card in her pocket. She decided that after a nap she would give him a call, then remembered it