Authors: Esther M. Soto
Blue. Everything is blue. Am I dead?
I'm sprawled on my back, looking at nothing but blue, and feel as if I'm floating. Blinking a few times, I try to reboot my brain. What the hell happened? Did I get hit by lightning? Because my body is vibrating like I was hit by a jolt of electricity. It takes me a minute to get my bearings, and I realize there’s wet ground beneath me. I try to move, but my body refuses to cooperate. I lie motionless, searching my memory for a rational explanation as to why I'm outside, in the middle of nowhere, staring up at the sky.
I recall walking out here, blinding light, some mind of electromagnetic reaction. Then boom—lights out. My arms are numb. Managing to reach into my pocket for my cell phone, I struggle to bring it up to my face. My phone is fine, but no signal. Great. I put the phone back in my pocket then work on my breathing and muster up enough energy to sit.
Jesus, what the hell
! I feel like I was run over by a truck. My muscles are mush as if I've been swimming in quicksand, expelling every drop of energy I possess. Barely managing to sit up, I hold my head in my hands as if it weighs a ton. Once I'm able to focus my vision, I see I'm in the grassy field. Not another soul in sight.
“On your feet, Harper,” I tell myself, just like I used to all those years ago in Afghanistan. “Snap out of it.”
Summoning all my willpower, I drag myself upright and stand, cold sweat covering my forehead. My mouth waters with saliva as my body starts fighting shock. Breathing deeply, I fight the nausea and dizziness trying to overcome me.
Deep breaths. Weapons check. I run my hands across my waist and through my pockets: phone, Glock, badge, and handcuffs. I’m intact. Although, I'm well aware that something grave has taken place. Something I can’t explain.
Slowly, I do a 360-sweep, struggling to keep my balance. Grass, waist high as far as the eye can see, a small clump of trees to my two ‘o clock, no people, no vehicles, and no structures. No sounds except the wind blowing and me breathing in and out.
I remember. Bloomingfield. Suspect. Did someone hit me on the head? What happened? It’s a clear day. Did I actually get struck by lightning? Shit. Maybe I got tasered; it would explain my waking up confused. And then there's that foul metallic taste in my mouth, similar to the time I stuck my tongue on a nine volt battery on a dare when I was a kid.
Gathering what's left of my functioning brain cells, I regroup and clumsily stumble in the direction of the road—I think. Tommy is going to have a cow when he finds out I came out here on my own and the suspect might have gotten the jump on me.
قلب
Each step I take is excruciating, until I finally reach the edge of the field. I'm out of the tall, dry grass, but the road is gone and so are the vehicles. No law enforcement, no stolen car in sight. There is just a dirt road, leading nowhere in both directions as far as I can see.
Where the fuck is the road?
Perhaps I got turned around and walked the opposite direction? Whatever the cause, my cognitive reasoning and critical thinking have taken a sabbatical. Thirst and hunger are overriding my senses. My brain is one big mass of cloudy memories. Something sucked all the energy and life force right out of me. Not even in the Afghan desert, out on patrol for days, did I feel this drained. This isn't exhaustion, it is some kind of physical deprivation, as if a part of me has been removed and I'm performing at half capacity.
I just need to keep moving. I decide to head north—or south, I don't even know which direction—on the trail of dirt, willing my legs to move forward until I can no longer lift them. I've officially lost all sense of time. Pulling out my iPhone, I notice the time is wrong; no way is it five in the morning. And I still don’t have a signal. I’m not sure what’s going on, so I turn it off to save my battery. I’ll check back for a signal once I get closer to civilization. As long as I keep moving, I’m bound to run into someone.
Fatigue holds me captive as I struggle with all I have to go on, squinting up against the bright sunlight as it pounds down on me. My limbs lock up; my body has just gone on strike. Plopping straight down onto the cool dirt, exhaustion, dizziness, and unbelievable thirst overtake me, and my eyelids slowly drift closed. There's a possibility I might be dying.
Where’s Tommy? Shouldn’t he be back by now?
“Tommy?” I try to call out, but my voice doesn’t cooperate. He’s going to have a field day. If I survive, he’ll never let me live this down.
A small chuckle escapes me. Life is funny. After everything I've been through, I'll die of dehydration. How ironic. It'd be like surviving Mount Everest then breaking your neck while taking a shower at home. I can just see Tommy looking down on my casket, muttering, “Jesus, Harper, you’ve been shot at, impaled, but what does you in is plain old thirst? And I’m the dumbass?”
I'm so sorry
,
Tommy
. I don’t want to leave him, but I'm just so tired. Falling on my back, I look up one last time at the bright blue, cloudless sky.
“Heaven is nice,” I murmur as I drift off, peaceful for once in my life.
قلب
“I called you to check on her since Will wouldn't leave her side. I finally talked him into going to work today.”
Is that a woman's voice?
“I'm glad you did. There's no telling how long she'll be unconscious. If you notice any changes, let me know and I will come back,”
says a man's voice I don't recognize.
I need to open my eyes. I have to.
This is definitely not a hospital or my apartment. I have no idea where I am. I struggle to open my eyes. Something I take for granted, just raising my eyelids, is proving to be a challenge. Everything is blurry, including the woman and man standing a few feet from the bed. Who are these people? Shit, where am I?
“Hello, you're finally awake!” She seems surprised.
The woman’s warm smile reaches her blue eyes. She looks to be in her early fifties, her light blonde hair elegantly pulled up away from her delicate facial features. Her skin is smooth but gracefully aging, evidence of a well-lived life. She's wearing some kind of housedress and an apron. I don't recognize her. She turns to the man and they exchange a look. Both approach the bed, leaning over me on either side. The man grabs my wrist as he looks at his watch, taking my pulse.
“Can you hear me? Do you understand me?” The woman addresses me again, a puzzled look on her face.
“Yes,” I croak.
Frowning, she looks at the man. He reaches for my eye, lifting the lid and checking my pupils. I flinch at first, but let him check me.
“Sorry, yes,
ah
, I understand.” My voice is hoarse and my mouth is dry. Classic signs of dehydration.
The man gestures toward a jug and a glass. The woman walks over to the bureau, reaches for the jug, and fills a glass with water. She eyes the man warily, seeming apprehensive to approach me.
“Would you like some water?” Instead of waiting for my response, she looks to the man again for approval.
My throat aches at just the sight of the glass. “Yes, please...”
She takes tentative steps until she’s next to the bed. She hands the water to me but holds my head up as she helps bring the glass to my lips. I have no strength. It hurts my throat to swallow, and I almost choke drinking the water. It’s cool, refreshing, and tastes heavenly. I cough after the first gulp, and then the liquid goes down smoother so I have to pace myself. I drink it all down and then she takes the glass away. A splitting headache makes me wince as I struggle to sit up. I give the woman a small smile in gratitude. The man sits by the foot of the bed, watching us.
“Thank you.” My voice is hoarse, like shards of glass are stuck in my throat.
Trying to figure out where I am, I silently scan the room. Neutral colors dominate what seems to be a small bedroom. The windows are open, letting in a slight breeze, making the see-through curtains dance around like lacy waves. The furniture is a dark wood and so is the flooring. The walls are made of plain, wood paneling. I'm covered with what appears to be a handmade quilt. Perhaps it’s some kind of old farmhouse?
“Miss, do you know what happened?” the man asks.
I can only think to answer ‘no,’ so I shake my head. Technically, that’s the truth. I don't know where the hell I am or who these people are.
“My name is Carol Shaw,” the woman says with a smile. She points to the man, sitting by the foot of the bed. “This is Doctor Simmons. Albert Simmons. He's a family friend.”
My gaze switches to the man. He's also in his fifties with a full head of short, salt and pepper hair, his mustache peppered as well. He's taller than she is by about half a foot, and wearing old fashion eyeglasses, pleated slacks, and a loose, button-up shirt. Come to think of it, both of their clothes seem quite loose and old-fashioned.
“What is your name, miss?” he asks, and they both look at me with interest.
“Where am I?” Until I get my questions answered, I'm not answering any of theirs.
“You're in my home. My son found you lying on the road right on our land two days ago,” Mrs. Shaw replies.
I’m trying to process what she just said. Two whole days? That’s how long I've been out? And these people kept me here, without calling for help or the cops? I nod curtly, keeping my composure and not giving anything away.
The doctor checks my vitals while Mrs. Shaw updates me on how I came to be in her daughter's bed. Mrs. Shaw’s son, William, was driving down to check on the fields when he almost ran me over. Apparently, at some point I collapsed, probably from dehydration and just plain exhaustion, the doctor tells her.
I listen to Mrs. Shaw's story patiently, wondering the entire time where my belongings are. God, my weapon. A hundred things go through my mind, mainly if my gun has fallen into the wrong hands. Fuck, any hands not my own are the 'wrong hands.'
Either she has no clue where my belongings are or she's a very good liar. She doesn't even mention my things or their whereabouts. I haven't said much, and I’m planning to keep it that way. While she's chatting away, I think about my options. I notice the doctor’s constant stare. He’s trying to figure me out. I can see it in his eyes; he knows something that he’s not sharing. He’s waiting for me to make a move. I’m waiting for the same thing from him. I’m keeping my cards close to my chest and not giving anything away until I see his hand.
Mrs. Shaw wraps up her story, and they both look at me expectantly.
Think, Ileana
.
Given the fact that I have no clue where I am, no idea who these people are, or why I’m here, I have one choice: fake amnesia. This way, I don't have to give any explanations about who I am or what I do.
“Your name, miss?” he asks again. There’s only one name that comes to mind.
“Lil-Lily. My name is Lily.” I pause and hold my head. “That’s all I remember.”
“You best rest, Lily, and take your time getting better. My son William is away for a few days.” Mrs. Shaw fetches a tray of food I never saw her bring in. “He's been worried sick and I know he wants to talk to you.”
Dr. Simmons puts some items into his medical bag, and then Mrs. Shaw turns to see him out.
Before she leaves the room, I blurt out, “Where are my clothes, Mrs. Shaw?” I'm wearing some kind of long camisole.
She stops and turns. “Please, call me Carol, and don't worry, I've washed your denim trousers and sweater.”
My denim trousers
? What the fuck? What about my pea coat, my boots, hell, my underwear? Mrs. Shaw heads for the door with the doctor then turns as if remembering something.
“They’re still on the clothesline, but if you'd like, you can wear some of my daughter's clothes. She's at work, but she's about your size. I'll bring some to you, all right?"
I nod and try to smile. With the door closing behind her, I let my shoulders drop and a sense of dread swallows me whole. I want my personal belongings: my iPhone, my badge, my cuffs, and my weapon. God, my Glock. I feel naked without it. Did someone find me beforehand and rob me, leaving me there to die? Either that or Carol didn't strip me down. If she didn't, someone else did. According to Mrs. Shaw, her son’s the one who found me. If anyone knows anything, it will be him.
I take stock of the room again: wooden walls, lace curtains, a small bureau with a bench and mirror. The small twin bed creaks as I shift, my body protesting in pain. All antique furniture. The breeze blowing through the window carries nothing but clucking sounds—chickens? The faint sound of farm equipment in the distance, birds chirping, the warm breeze—
The warm breeze
.
It’s October, yet the air is tainted with the smell of fresh flowers and pollen. There’s no hint of a chill, no smell of dry leaves and musty soil—no evidence of impending winter in the air.
Carol returns with some work overalls, a blouse, and what must be underwear. Like the furniture, the clothes also seem old fashioned and are way too big to fit me properly. I thought she said her daughter was my size, yet the underwear is something a grandmother would wear. Something doesn't seem right.
“Carol, what day is it?”
“It’s Thursday, May twenty-fifth,” she says as she turns to leave.