Page 44 of One Foggy Christmas
Behind every glide of her lips, there’s a promise of a lifetime together.
No matter what happens in the future.
Present Day
SADIE
I’ve never relatedto Ebenezer Scrooge more than I do right now.
Not in the cold-hearted, miserly, I-hate-Christmas way, but in a is-this-real-or-am-I-dreaming sort of way.
I feel for the guy. It’s tough sorting through your past and present choices and seeing how they’ve shaped the direction of your life.
Trust me. I know.
Like Scrooge, I thought this was just a dream—more accurately, a nightmare. Any minute, I would wake up, and everything would be back to normal, exactly how I remember it.
But it finally hit me this morning. This isn’t a dream. It’s really happening. I’ve conceded to what everyone’s been trying to tell me.
I had an accident skiing.
I have a traumatic brain injury.
I was in a coma.
It’s a lot to take in, like the kind of stuff that makes you want to breathe into a paper bag because you’re hyperventilating.
But that’s not even the kicker.
The kicker is I live in Chicago permanently, and I’m Mrs. Nash Carter—life events I don’t remember happening.
See, that’s where Scrooge has me beat. There’s no ghost visiting me, showing me how I ended up married to my boss, who happens to be a complete stranger to me.
There area lotof missing pieces.
Three and a half years’ worth, to be exact.
I stand in front of the bathroom mirror, searching my soul for the answers, for some kind of spark of a memory. It sounds deep, but really, I’m just staring at the unrecognizable reflection of myself.
I take inventory of the woman before me:
Pale skin, making my usually unnoticeable freckles stand out.
Gaunt cheeks—courtesy of the ten to fifteen pounds lost while in the hospital.
Overgrown eyebrows in need of a good tweeze.
A jagged scar that starts at the middle of my forehead and continues up my scalp past my hairline.
Older features.
I could blame this version of myself on the horrific fluorescent lighting in the hospital, but it would be a stretch.
Without warning, nausea rolls through my stomach, and I clutch the vanity for support.
“Sadie, you okay?” Annie peeks her head into the bathroom, smiling back at me. It’s funny how time has changed my sister too. The Annie I remember—that I expect—should be finishing her junior year of high school, sitting at the kitchen table inher cheer uniform. But she’s a grown woman now, studying accounting at Syracuse University.
It’s hard to wrap my head around the passing of time when everything in my mind has stood still.
