Sia (6 page)

I take her cool hand in my own and am startled when she gently shakes it. As if she’s introducing herself to a stranger, which she kind of is.

Dr. Weinstock flips through his notes. “She's a healthy, seventeen-year-old girl, and the tests show she has not been taking any illicit drugs.”

My mother sighs in relief.

“
And after speaking with a colleague of mine, I believe I know what happened to Sia. He’s a brilliant psychiatrist, and he told—”

“
Wait,” I interrupt, suddenly defensive. “A shrink? Are you implying I’m crazy? Because I’m not.”

He raises a hand. “Nobody thinks that, Sia.”

“
Of course we don’t,” my mother says softly. “Doctor, please continue. What did your colleague say?”

“
I will research this further, but I believe what Sia is experiencing is what we call dissociative fugue, or fugue amnesia. It’s a relatively rare phenomenon. It can stem from a number of different factors, the most prevalent being when someone is overly stressed. In effect, the brain wipes itself clean of all memories so it can cope with excessive stress. People with this disorder also tend to wander or travel away from their home, as Sia did. The good news is that the memory loss should be temporary.”

She frowns. “I’m confused. This happened just because of
stress
? It wasn’t some traumatic event?”

“
Not in this case,” he tells her. “Fugue amnesia is peculiar. I know that’s hard to grasp, but the human brain is a mystery to itself.”

“
How long will it last?” I ask.

He only shakes his head. “I wish I could tell you. There aren’t many documented cases of fugue, and those on record show varied recovery times. Some patients recovered their memory in hours, days, weeks, or months. For others, it took years.”

I am frantic. “
Years?
I can’t stay like this for years!”

“
No, she cannot!” my mother agrees. “Please, Doctor. There must be something you can do.” When she tears up, my father wraps his arms around her, as if that’ll help contain her rising hysteria.

“
I’m afraid I can’t do much,” the doctor says. “Only thing I can recommend is getting Sia back into her regular routine and putting her back in school. Familiar surroundings could help jog her memory.”

“
School?” my father asks. “But if she can’t remember anything, won’t her grades plummet? We can’t have her failing out of high school.”

“
That’s okay, Ray,” my mother assures him. “She’s a senior, and all her major exams are done. She’s already been accepted to USC, so the rest of the year really doesn’t matter. It’s mostly social. Besides, we can talk to her teachers about her finals,” she says, winking pointedly at him.

Concern briefly creases his brow, but he clears it, along with his throat. “Yes, of course.”

“
How long do I have to stay here?” I ask.

“
Well,” Dr. Weinstock says, “I don’t see any reason why you should. I’d like you to make an appointment for next week to visit my colleague, George Saunders. He’s a neurologist. Other than that, I’ll go fill out your discharge forms so you can pack up and go home.” He smiles warmly at me. “Good luck, Sia.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

I keep waiting for relief to start flooding in. I’ve been reunited with my family, haven’t I? I won’t have to suffer the indignities and hardships of being homeless anymore. But I’m practically numb with fear as I step out of the hospital’s protective shelter and into my mother’s shiny black Range Rover. Before we left the hospital, my father said he’d meet us later at home. He did apologize for leaving us at a time like this, but there was some big meeting he just couldn’t miss.

Home. Where exactly is that?

The Range Rover starts up. I glance at my mother, who has just joined the endless line of traffic. She is a stunning woman. Her beautiful blue eyes are now shaded by large dark glasses, and a straight fall of blonde hair reaches a few inches below her slender shoulders, streaked with some expertly painted highlights. She’s very tanned—almost too dark, I think—and her lips draw into a tight line as she checks the rearview mirror and navigates traffic. After a while, she seems to remember I’m sitting beside her.

“
Oh, Sia,” she says when we stop at a light. “We were so worried. A whole week you were gone! Why didn't you go to the police or try to find us?”

“
Even I can't figure that out. Part of me wanted to. Badly. But every time I considered it, I had this . . . overwhelming sense of fear. I dreaded what I would find.” I sigh. “I can't explain it.”

She's quiet for a while. “Well, where did you go?”

“
I lived on the streets.”

My mother recoils as if I just slapped her. “What?”

“
Yeah. Like her,” I say, pointing at a hunched woman on the sidewalk. She’s pushing a cart similar to Tito’s, and my heart goes to him for a moment. “I met a wonderful woman named Carol. She helped me out.”

The light changes again. We drive through the intersection, silence sitting awkwardly between us. My mother’s expression has pulled taut. Her eyes are trained to the road, purposely avoiding eye contact with me.

“
You lived like a bag lady?” she finally says. “That’s awful!”

I nod. “It was scary. Without Carol, though . . . I don’t know how it might have gone. She really did save my life out there. I want to find her and thank her somehow. Maybe I can take her some food.”

“
Oh! Amber called a few times,” she exclaims suddenly, her face brightening.

“
Amber?”

“
Of course you remember Amber. From school?”

This may take a while, I realize. “I don’t remember anything, Mom.”

She glances at me. “Mom? You haven’t called me Mom for years. You usually call me Janet.”

“
I do? And that’s okay?”

“
Of course.” She abruptly changes topics, and her mouth pulls tight again. “I don’t want you going back to that homeless woman.”

“
But I have to thank her . . . Janet. It’s the least I can do.” I'm not thrilled about the whole “Janet” thing. It just doesn’t sit right.

“
I don’t know. We’ll see.” She smiles as we turn into a long drive. “Here we are. Home sweet home.”

My jaw drops. I’m staring at a mansion. “How many people live here?”

“
Just the three of us, silly. Oh, and Beatriz, but she keeps mostly to herself, of course.”

The place is huge. All I can see so far is the front entryway. The outside walls are a light brown stucco, a Spanish style, with black iron railings, smooth archways, and pillars. I step out of the car and onto the bricked driveway, then follow my mother up the stairs, past the elegant, landscaped lawn, to the massive arched door. When the door opens, I stop and stare, marveling at the cathedral ceiling stretching over a gleaming marble floor. A winding spiral staircase wraps around one side of the room, bordered by an ornate wrought iron banister. It leads to the second story.

A young woman comes over to greet us. Her dark hair is pulled back from a pretty, copper-toned face. She’s wearing a black dress partially covered by a white apron. I might just be imagining it, but her smile seems forced. “Miss Holloway! So good to have you home again.”

I’m about to say something, but my mother speaks first.

“
Did my husband call?”

“
Yes. Just a few moments ago.”

“
So you know Sia can’t remember a thing, right?”

“
Yes.” She glances at me. “I’m sorry to hear that. I hope everything is back to normal soon.”

“
Me too,” I say weakly.

My mother blusters by, dropping keys and sunglasses on a table by the door. “Sia’s tired, Beatriz. She needs to go see her room and take a long, hot shower before lunch.” She looks back at me as if just remembering I’m there. “Oh, and donate those clothes somewhere, will you?”

“
Yes, Mrs. Holloway.” Beatriz tilts her head slightly and looks at me. “Would you like to come this way, Miss Holloway?”

Wordlessly, I follow the help up the stairs. It takes a little effort because my body is stiff from the car accident, but I cling to the banister for strength.

At the top of the curving stairway, Beatriz leads me into a massive bedroom that almost glows within light pink walls. The king-sized bed is set off by a matching set of ivory night tables. Another wall is made up almost completely of windows and a glass door, which leads out onto a balcony. My own private balcony. I have my own private magnificent view of Los Angeles.

I stare out the window. “This is all mine?”

“
Of course,” Beatriz says, then gestures toward an open door. “And this, too.”

The door leads into a walk-in closet, packed full of clothes, shoes, and purses. At the end of the closet, I discover a cabinet with drawers. Each drawer reveals a different selection of jewelry, a rainbow of twinkling metal and stones. I want to say something, to confide in Beatriz that I can’t believe it all, but she hasn’t followed me inside. She’s waiting in the bedroom, and she’s set some clothes on the bed for me: a pair of rhinestone encrusted jeans and a bright pink t-shirt that looks way too small.

“
I thought you might want to wear something comfortable when you go down to dinner tonight,” Beatriz explains. “I hope these are all right.”

“
Uh . . . ” I pick up the t-shirt and stretch it across my chest. Really? I’m comfortable in something this tight? And it’s
really
short. I know it will show my belly. “Do I have anything . . . looser? Less revealing?”

“
No,” Beatriz says. She moves toward another door. “I’ve started the shower and set out some fresh towels. If you need anything, just call. Otherwise, I’ll be downstairs.”

Before I can say another word, she has walked out, latching the door quietly behind her. I stand in the middle of the room. I feel lost. I step to one wall, hoping to learn something from the framed photographs hanging there. The first picture has me in the middle, with a few other girls posing around me. We’re wearing white and red cheerleader costumes. Another picture is up close. I’m squeezed between two girls, cheek to cheek, and we’re all puckering at the camera as if we’re about to kiss it. I look so happy. So alive. I stare at the picture, feeling close to tears.

I’m like an intruder in this room. I keep thinking someone will come into the room at any time and realize I’m not who they think I am. I’m completely on edge. I need to calm down, let it all soak in. My mother’s right: a shower would be great right about now.

I open the bathroom door, letting out a cloud of steam, and step inside. Instead of calming me, the sight of the place bewilders me even more. The bathroom looks too perfect, with its shining white counters, ultra modern sink and tap, and a white marble floor that reflects a glittering chandelier hanging above. A chandelier in my bathroom. Really? My eyes catch the only non-white, non-sparkly surface: the thickest towel I’ve ever seen, dyed in a lush shade of pink. I pick it up and hug it to me, close to tears again.

“
What am I doing here?” I whisper, then set the towel down. I’m too dirty to be holding something that clean. Dropping my clothes in a pile on the floor, I sweep them all aside with my foot. I step into the shower. The water feels sinfully wonderful, and I lather in shampoo until I nearly choke on the candy-like fragrance. I recall the sickly sweet smell of the cherry hand soap Carol and I used in the public bathroom. I can’t help wondering where she is now. The last time I’d seen Carol was at breakfast, when that boy yelled at me. Then I’d run, and . . .

Why had he been so angry? Who did he think I was?

I turn off the water and wrap myself in the towel. My reflection is clouded by steam, so I wipe the mirror until I can see myself. I look pale, I think, though color has sprung up in my cheeks since the hot shower. I badly need sleep, but from the look on my mother’s face earlier, I don’t think that’s on the to-do list for today. Not yet, anyway.

My hair drops to my shoulders when I unwind the towel, and I reach for a brush. Like the hot shower, the bristles of the brush tickle my scalp. An electronic toothbrush stands nearby, and I start scrubbing my mouth with it. At the soup kitchen, they’d handed out new toothbrushes and small samples of toothpaste, but this feels much better.

While I take care of my teeth, my other hand reaches toward a large mirrored chest. I open the top, then stare in amazement at the hoards of makeup and brushes hidden inside. Expensive brand names like Chanel, Estée Lauder, and MAC. Beneath the top drawer are two more drawers, all equally full.

I finish brushing my teeth, then stoop lower. Curious, I open the cabinet beside the sink and discover a treasure trove of hair products, at least two hair dryers, and an assortment of flat irons. A basket of different-sized brushes sits on top. It’s like a salon in here. I whistle softly. Whoever I am, I’m certainly on top of all the latest styles. Ironically, I feel no impulse at all to test out any of the products.