Don't Look Back(3)

“It’s like writing something on your computer and then you save the file, but you can’t remember where you saved it,” the doctor explained. “The file is in there, but you just have to find it. She still has her personal memories. They’re in there, but she can’t access them. She may never find them.”

I sat back, dismayed. Where did I put the file?

Then the door swung open, and I shrank back as this woman—this force to be reckoned with—stormed into my room. Her deep russet–colored hair was pulled into an elegant twist, exposing an angular but beautiful face.

She came to a complete stop, her eyes darting all over me. “Oh, Samantha...”

I stared. Samantha? The name didn’t do anything for me. I glanced at the doctor. He nodded reassuringly. Sa-man-tha... Nope, still nothing.

The woman came closer. There wasn’t a single wrinkle in her linen pants or her white blouse. Golden bangles hung from each of her slender wrists, and she reached out, wrapping her arms around me. She smelled like freesia.

“Baby girl,” she said, her hand smoothing my hair as she looked me in the eyes. “God, I’m so happy you’re okay.”

I pulled back, clamping my arms to my sides.

The woman glanced over her shoulder. The strange man looked pale, shaken. His dark hair was a mess. Thick stubble covered his handsome face. Compared to this woman, he was a barely contained disaster. I stared until he turned away, rubbing a shaky hand down his cheek.

Dr. Weston came to the bedside. “This is Joanna Franco— your mother. And this is Steven Franco, your father.”

A pressure started building in my chest. “My ... my name is Samantha?”

“Yes,” the woman answered. “Samantha Jo Franco.”

My middle name was Jo? Seriously? My gaze darted between the people. I took a deep breath, but it got stuck.

Joanna—my mom—whoever she was—placed a hand over her mouth as she glanced at the messy man, who was apparently my dad. Then her gaze settled on me. “You really don’t recognize us?” I shook my head. “No. I’m ... I’m sorry.”

She stood, backing away from the bed as she looked at Dr. Weston. “How can she not know us?”

“Mrs. Franco, you just need to give her some time.” Then to me, “You’re doing great.”

It didn’t seem that way.

He’d turned back to them—my parents. “We want to keep her under observation for an extra day. Right now, she needs to get a lot of rest and reassurance.”

I looked at the man again. He was staring at me, sort of dazed-looking. Dad. Father. Complete stranger.

“Do you really think this could be permanent?” the man asked, rubbing his chin.

“It’s too soon to tell,” Dr. Weston responded. “But she’s young and otherwise healthy, so the outlook is great.” He started out of the room, stopping by the door. “Remember, she needs to take it easy.”

My mom turned back to the bed, visibly pulling herself together as she sat down on the edge and took my hand. She turned it over, brushing her fingers over my wrist. “I remember the first and last time we had to take you to the hospital. You were ten. See this?”

I looked down at my wrist. There was a faint white scar running right under the palm of my hand. Huh. I hadn’t noticed that before.

“You broke your wrist during gymnastics practice.” She swallowed, looking up. Nothing about her hazel eyes, which were so much like my own, or the perfectly painted lips triggered anything inside me. There was just a vast, empty hole where all my memories, my emotions should’ve been. “It was a pretty bad break. You had to have surgery. Scared the living daylights out of us.”

“You were showing off on the balance beam,” my father added gruffly. “The instructor told you not to do—what was it?”

“A back handspring,” my mom said quietly, keeping her gaze trained on me.

“Yes.” He nodded. “But you did it anyway.” He met my stare then. “Angel, you don’t remember anything?”

Heaviness spread from my chest to my stomach. “I want to remember—really, I do. But I...” My voice cracked. I pulled my hand free, holding it to my chest. “I don’t remember.”

My mom forced a smile, clasping her hands together in her lap. “It’s okay. Scott has been really worried. Your brother,” she added when she saw my blank look. “He’s at home right now.”

I had a brother?

“And all your friends have been helping with the search party, hanging flyers and holding candlelight vigils,” she continued. “Isn’t that right, Steven?”

My father nodded, but the look on his face said he was a thousand miles from here. Maybe he was wherever this Samantha Jo was.

“Del has been beside himself, spending day and night looking for you.” She smoothed back a piece of hair that had escaped her twist. “He wanted to come up with us, but we thought it would be best if he stayed behind.”

I frowned. “Del?”

My father cleared his throat, refocusing on us. “Del Leonard. Your boyfriend, Angel.”

“My boyfriend?” Oh, sweet baby Jesus. Parents. Brother. And now a boyfriend?

My mom nodded. “Yes. You two have been together since, well, forever, it seems. You’re planning to go to Yale in the fall with Del, like your fathers.”