Page 27 of Day Shift

I tried to think, but my thoughts were sluggish, as if I were trying to wade through a thick fog.

I glanced around. “A hospital,” I managed to say.

“Yes, you’re in a hospital,” Conan affirmed. “But do you know what city?”

“New York City?” I guessed, plucking the name from the top of the swirling confusion in my mind.

Conan shook his head. “No, actually you’re in Tacoma, Washington. Quite a ways from New York. Does that ring a bell?”

I stared at him, my confusion deepening. “Tacoma? I’ve never been to Tacoma…I don’t think,” I whispered, the realization unsettling me.

Before Conan could respond, a tall man with dark hair and a white coat appeared in the doorway. It was a doctor. He leaned against the doorframe, frowning down at a chart.

Conan continued, “Do you know what day or month it is?”

I paused, a distant memory flickering to life in my mind. “Is it…May? My birthday month maybe?” That seemed right—and important somehow—but who knew? I was grasping at straws.

“It’s June fifth,” he said. “You arrived here on May twenty-eighth.”

The room spun a little as the panic started to creep in. That was a lot of days to be unconscious. Just how bad were my injuries? My breathing quickened, and I shouted, “I don’t even know my own name!”

Conan was quick to react, coming to sit on the edge of the bed next to me. He reached out, gently cradling my face in his hands, and pressed his forehead against mine. His touch was solid and comforting.

“You’re going to be okay,” he whispered, exuding a quiet confidence that reassured me. “I’m here with you. You’re not alone in this. In time, you’ll remember. You’ve been fighting a hard battle, sweet angel.” As he spoke, his breath brushed softly over my lips.

He leaned back, his hands falling on top of the stuffed bear. “You know what? I’m gonna call you Angel if that’s all right. I can’t stand you being called Jane Doe like you’re just some nobody. I think Angel fits because you kinda swooped into my life outta nowhere, and there’s this…ethereal beauty about you.”

The nickname, under the circumstances, touched something inside me. It was silly and sweet, and despite my inner turmoil, I found myself liking it. “Angel,” I repeated, smiling slightly. Deep down, regardless of my current helplessness, I knew I was strong—that I was no angel. But with everything so jumbled, I had to let that go for now and accept his help.

Conan’s tenacity, the solidness of his hands, the nickname—it all felt strangely right. “Thank you, Conan,” I whispered, trying to steady my breathing. “Thank you for being here for me.”

“I’ll be here as long as you need me, Angel. We’ll get through this together.”

The doctor, whom I’d forgotten was standing at the door, cleared his throat and stepped into the room. His cool, professional air contrasted with Conan’s more rugged demeanor.

Conan jumped to his feet, turned, and let out a breath, relaxing his shoulders. He stepped back, allowing the doctor to approach my bed.

“Good evening. I’m Dr. Atticus Thorin,” he said with a nod, his eyes scanning the chart briefly before meeting mine. “I treated you when you first arrived in the emergency department, and I’m also Conan’s older brother.” He glanced over his shoulder and flashed Conan a quick half smile.

I glanced from one to the other, searching for the resemblance but not seeing much. Dr. Thorin continued speaking, but I struggled to pay attention to what he was saying. “You’re experiencing what we call traumatic amnesia, likely due to the concussion you suffered. Which means you’ve lost memories formed before the accident. It’s caused by damage to the hippocampus, a region of the brain that plays a crucial role in the consolidation of information from short-term to long-term memory. It’s common in patients with significant head injuries. Essentially, your brain is protecting itself while it heals.”

His brow furrowed slightly in concern. “How are you feeling physically? Any discomfort from the seat belt, or perhaps pain in your arms and legs?”

I hadn’t thought about it until he asked. Hesitantly, I lifted the edge of my hospital gown, peeked under it, and caught sight of the dark greenish bruises marring my skin. I inhaled sharply—more from surprise than pain—while recoiling from the sight.

“The bruising may look severe but is expected, given the nature of your accident,” Dr. Thorin commented, making a note on the chart. “And your breathing? Any difficulty there?”

I hesitated as I considered this, aware of a slight tightness in my chest that I hadn’t noticed before. “My chest feels a bit heavy.” Swallowing hard, I grumbled, “And my throat feels like I drank razor blades.”

“That’s consistent with a condition you had upon arrival—right middle lobe atelectasis,” he explained. “It required intubation at the scene of the wreck, and you were placed on a ventilator to assist your breathing. It’s not uncommon for patients to feel some residual effects from the mechanical ventilation, such as soreness or a hoarse throat.”

All the details made my head spin.

Conan said gently, “Maybe we can go over this in bits and pieces, huh? Give her some time to adjust.”

Atticus nodded, his expression softening. “Of course. You’re in excellent hands here in the ICU, and the team has noted your good progress. If this continues, you’ll soon be moved to a private room and eventually outpatient therapy. You’ve made remarkable progress so far.” He turned to Conan. “Let me know if you need anything.”

With a final smile and a nod to me, he left the room.

---