Lost Identity (6 page)

“Not really. I was just sitting here wondering if you had abandoned me.” She shot him an apologetic look. “The feeling of betrayal seemed to take over for a few seconds and that’s when it happened.”

“I really don’t know what to say, Trish.” He squeezed the hand still locked in his. “Let’s give it some thought, and see what we should do next. I checked at the hotel, pretending to be a reporter doing an article on the storm. I asked if all their guests were accounted for, and they assured me that they were, but, of course, there’s no way of knowing if you were registered—unless we show them a picture.”

“No,” she said firmly, withdrawing her hand.
You don’t give your enemies an advantage.
She didn’t re
alize she’d said it aloud until she saw his startled expression.

“If you really believe that, Trish,” he said firmly, “then it’s time to get you some professional help. What happened today might be a breakthrough if you had the right kind of counseling.”

“You mean psychiatric care?” she flared. “Just because I can’t remember, doesn’t mean I should be committed to some booby hatch.” Even as she heard herself, she knew she was like a child throwing a tantrum because she didn’t want to go to the doctor.

“I’m sure we can find a respectable clinic that can provide the kind of help you need,” he said in a quiet, reassuring way. “Just think about it.”

She fell silent as he drove back to the cottage. Even though she desperately wanted a breakthrough as quickly as possible, the idea of putting herself in the hands of perfect strangers was terrifying. She wasn’t even sure that she could depend on Andrew to remain as her main anchor. Maybe he was urging her to seek help because he didn’t want to be involved with her any further.

When they got back to the house, he suggested that she take a nap while he caught up on some work. As soon as she was settled in the bedroom, he left his computer and took his cell phone out on the deck. One of his female co-workers had spent some time at a small mental health hospital after a nervous breakdown, and she’d only had positive things to say about the care she’d been given. He made a quick call to her and she gladly gave him the number he needed.

Andrew phoned the hospital, and asked to speak to one of the resident doctors concerning the admittance of an amnesia patient. He was referred to a Dr. Jon
Duboise. As succinctly as Andrew could, he explained to the doctor about Trish’s condition.

“She has a deep fear that someone will find her before she can remember what happened to her. Whatever it was must have been something traumatic.”

“Reason enough for her to block out the memory,” the doctor agreed. “The loss of memory about an emotionally traumatic event is usually the result of a person’s desire to dissociate from a particularly intolerable situation.”

“And once she’s willing to recall that event, will she get her memory back?” Andrew asked hopefully.

“If it’s hysterical or post-traumatic retrograde amnesia, it’s very likely,” Duboise explained. “But even with therapy, it could take time.” He asked a few more questions, and then assured Andrew that privacy was a top priority at Havengate Hospital.

Andrew thanked him and hung up without committing himself to anything. He sat out on the deck for several minutes trying to come up with the best way to handle Trish. Her aversion to exposing herself to anyone was clear. He knew that she would accuse him of withdrawing his support if he insisted that she check herself into a hospital. She had already admitted that she feared his betrayal.

He decided to wait until evening before saying anything. When she emerged from the bedroom, he noted that she had, undoubtedly, taken his advice and had a long nap. She was more rested than he’d seen her. At dinner, she even ate a nice helping of his spaghetti and meatballs.

They had coffee in the living room, and impulsively he picked up his guitar and began strumming some familiar tunes. Trish curled up on the couch, smiling
as she watched his dexterous fingers find the chords with an easy pleasure. She could tell that he was used to spending evenings in the company of his guitar. A soft wave of blond hair drifted forward as he bent his head over the instrument. Her eyes followed the strong sweep of his cheeks and jaw, and lingered on the fullness of his mouth. She greedily captured every detail in her mind, knowing that she would draw on this memory over and over again, no matter how many others were denied her. She felt a peculiar stirring inside that made her want to shut out the rest of the world and hold on to this sweet moment forever. At that moment, she realized she was dangerously close to allowing her feelings to deepen for this blond-headed troubadour.

Andrew was pleased with the soft smile on her face and he was glad he’d broken his rule never to play for anyone but himself. None of his co-workers at the office even suspected he knew one note from another, and as Trish began humming some of the tunes, he experienced sudden companionship that had been rare in his life.

He gave her an encouraging grin as very softly she began singing along with his playing, as though testing her memory for the words. She had a lovely clear voice, and her confidence grew. When he began strumming a bouncy tune, she started clapping in rhythm, and he glimpsed an outgoing, perky manner that he hadn’t seen before. He ended the song with a flourish of chords that left them both laughing.

“Hey, you’re good.” He grinned at her as he set aside his guitar.

“I love to sing,” she admitted with wide-eyed sur
prise. Knowing one more thing about herself was like finding another piece of a hidden puzzle.

“We make a good team. Shall we go on the road?”

“I wish we could,” she answered wistfully as a cloud descended on her face, erasing the brightness that had been in her eyes only moments before.

Andrew realized immediately that he’d said the wrong thing. Even in jest, talking about the future was painful for her. He eased down beside her on the couch. Maybe the time had come to tell her about the call he’d made to Havengate Hospital.

“Trish, there’s something we need to talk about.”

Instantly her sense of well-being took a dive.
Here it comes,
she thought.
He’s going to tell me it’s time to move on.
He put his arm around her shoulder, but she sat stiffly beside him.

“All right, let’s talk,” she said as steadily as the quivering in her stomach would allow.

“I talked with a Dr. Duboise about you and—”

“What? You didn’t!” Her voice was strident. “You promised!”

“I said that I wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize your safety, and I didn’t.” He kept his tone even and controlled. “Let me explain.”

“I trusted you,” she lashed out, and started to get up, but he pulled her back down.

“Just listen, please.” Putting his hands firmly on her shoulders, he looked directly into her rounded eyes. He could see the wild pulse beating in her neck. “There’s a Havengate Hospital near here, and they treat amnesia patients. You need professional help, Trish.”

“And you want me out of your hair,” she flared angrily and tried to push him away.

“Trish, you can’t do this on your own.”

“If you’d just give me a little time,” she pleaded. “After all, it’s only been three days.”

“And what if it becomes three months? What then? Are you willing to suffer not knowing who you are, and what happened to drive away your memory for months and perhaps even years?” He softened his voice. “You’re a beautiful young woman, and you deserve better than that.”

“But what if someone finds me before…before my memory comes back?” She swallowed hard, feeling as if she’d suddenly been swept up in a whirlwind over which she had no control.

“Dr. Duboise has promised complete secrecy about your presence there.”

“But what about payment? They’ll admit me to a place like that out of the goodness of their hearts?”

“Almost,” he admitted with a reassuring smile. He could tell that her initial defensiveness was easing, and he dropped his hands from her shoulder. “Havengate is supported by a philanthropic trust fund. The hospital will accept you without payment with the belief that after you recover your identity, you’ll be able to settle with them financially. According to Dr. Duboise they take many amnesia patients on that basis. So you see, there’s nothing to stop you from getting the best treatment available. And I’ll be close enough to make sure you’re staying out of trouble.”

She searched his face and felt all the fight go out of her body. Was he making her an idle promise? She couldn’t tell. What if he left her there alone for heaven only knew how long? For the first time, she considered the possibility that he might not want to have anything to do with her once he found out who she truly was.
She wondered if he’d been thinking the same thing and was making this move to get her out of his life before the truth came out.

“All right,” she said stiffly. “Whatever you say.”

Chapter Four

Trish checked into the hospital with a small valise of new clothes and personal effects that Andrew had insisted upon purchasing. She’d offered him her watch to pawn, but he had refused.

“Your credit’s good with me. I’ll just add the purchases to your running tab of three nights lodging and gourmet meals,” he teased, but his levity had failed to lessen the tension between them. He’d been prepared for her backing out even as they made the drive to the hospital. She sat stiffly in the car, looking straight ahead, and barely nodding to acknowledge his attempt at making conversation.

When they had arrived at Havengate, he shot anxious glances at her pallid face to see how she was reacting to the cluster of pink stucco buildings that were scattered on the landscaped grounds, looking very much like a small college campus. He knew she felt betrayed by his insistence that she leave his house and check into the hospital. He only hoped that the decision would prove to be the right one, and, in time, she would thank him for it. He would do everything he could to make sure she didn’t feel abandoned.

“What do you think, Trish?” he asked, acutely
needing reassurance that she didn’t feel he’d stabbed her in the back.

“It looks—” she tried to find the right word.

“Safe?” he supplied, hopefully.

She managed a wan smile. “Yes, safe.”

His anxious expression had made her lie. She felt anything but safe as she got out of the car, and waited for him to take her small bag out of the back seat. If there’d been anywhere to run to, she would have taken off in a flash.

As if reading her mind, he said gently. “Easy does it, Trish. If you hate the place, we’ll find something different. Okay?”

“I hate it.”

He laughed and shook his head. “Not so fast. How about a forty-eight-hour trial?”

“Okay, forty-eight hours.”

Andrew slipped his arm through hers as they walked together into the main building, and she drew strength from the length of his warm firm body brushing hers. She wondered how she could bear to be parted from him for even the two days that she’d promised to stay.

Andrew held his breath that everything would go quickly and smoothly at registration. He had called ahead and talked with Dr. Duboise. The doctor had assured him that everything would be ready for Trish’s admittance.

A pleasant middle-aged woman at the reception desk nodded when Andrew gave his name. “Oh, yes, Mr. Davis. We’ve been expecting you.” She smiled at Trish, and put out her hand. “I’m Ms. Sloan. We have a nice room all ready for you, Trish.”

The use of her name and the warm clasp of the woman’s hand sent a momentary flicker of relief
through Trish. She had expected to be treated like some poor victim who couldn’t remember who she was instead of a person with all her faculties.

“Would you like to look over the premises before you settle in?” Ms. Sloan asked in an easy, friendly manner.

Andrew decided that the question must be a routine one. Apparently it was the hospital’s policy to give people a chance to change their minds, he thought, holding his breath as he searched Trish’s face to see what her response was going to be. Would she take advantage of the momentary reprieve and head back to the car?

Fortunately, there was only a slight hesitation before she said, “No, thank you. I’d rather go to my room.”

“Fine.” Ms. Sloan smiled. “If you’ll follow me, please. It’s just a short walk across the grounds to your building.”

Andrew kept his arm through Trish’s as they followed a sidewalk that led them to a two-storied pink stucco building that looked every bit like a college dormitory.

“You have room 110,” Ms. Sloan told them as she opened a door on the first floor and motioned them inside.

Trish was surprised at the homey charm of the room, and its generous size. There was nothing of a sterile institution about the accommodations. Furnishings were in shades of a restful pink and green. Soft pillows brightened two lounge chairs and a single bed, which was covered with a pastel floral skirt and harmonizing bedspread. An adjoining bathroom was small with cream-colored fixtures and ceramic tiles.

“This building is close to the physical therapy and
occupational therapy departments,” Ms. Sloan told Trish with a smile as if she were a social director acquainting a guest with all the offered accommodations. “Dr. Duboise will be by later to get acquainted and set up a time for daily therapy.” She pointed out a telephone on a small desk. “If there’s anything you need, just lift the receiver.” She paused. “Do you have any questions?”

Trish suppressed the impulse to reply that at the moment questions were all she had. She simply shook her head. “No.”

Responding to the lost look in Trish’s eyes, Ms. Sloan reached out and touched Trish’s hand. “We’re a friendly bunch, Trish. You’re going to like us. I promise.”

The pinched lines around Trish’s mouth eased and she gave the woman a grateful smile. “Thank you.”

“I’ll leave you then,” she said.

Andrew held out his hand. “Thank you, Ms. Sloan.” He was deeply grateful to her. She had offered Trish a reassurance that went beyond just professional concern.