The Forgetting by Hannah Beckerman
ANNA
LONDON
When I open my eyes, nothing is familiar.
Light falls in parallel strips across the ceiling. Square white tiles, puckered with small black holes, form neat grids. A metal rail hangs above me, curved like the broad sweep of an arm.
My eyes blink against the too-bright light. My head is heavy, as if I have awoken from a leaden sleep.
Muffled sounds become louder in my ears, more distinct: the clatter of metal, the ringing of a phone, the murmur of voices.
I breathe, and my breath is hot against my face.
On the periphery of my vision, a plastic dome curves above my nose. I breathe again, watch the transparent mask mist over, feel the heat rebound against my skin.
‘Hello, my love. How are you feeling?’
A man’s face hovers over me, so close his features are blurred at the edges.
I try to swallow, but there is no moisture in my mouth, the muscles in my throat contracting without purpose: tensing, tightening, a sensation of choking.
‘You’re okay. Just breathe normally.’ The man rests a hand on my arm and it is hot, clammy, my skin flinching in response.
‘Where am I?’ The words are like sandpaper in my throat.
‘You’re in hospital. I’m going to get someone to come and look at you. I’ll be back in a minute.’ The man’s fretful tone is at odds with the reassurance of his words.
As he leaves, the dial is turned up on my senses: the pale blue curtain surrounding my bed; the beeping of a monitor beside me; the rigidity at the back of my neck, aching and stiff.
There is a swish of the cubicle curtain, a change in the direction of air. A new face appears above mine: young, female, wearing a blue nurse’s tunic with white piping around the collar. Behind her, the man hovers, knitting his fingers, a frown pinching the bridge of his nose.
‘Can you hear me, Anna?’ The nurse speaks loudly, enunciating every syllable as though testing the shape of them in her mouth.
I nod, not wanting the sandpaper to scratch the walls of my throat again.
‘Anna, my name’s Fran, I’m one of the nurses here. Do you know where you are?’
I shake my head. I am in a hospital, that much is clear. But I do not know where, which one.
‘You’re in Charing Cross Hospital, in Hammersmith. Do you remember what happened?’
The question snags in my mind, like the sleeve of a jumper caught on a rusty nail. I close my eyes, search for the drawer containing the answer to the nurse’s question.
‘Anna? Do you know why you’re here?’
Opening my eyes, the skin tightens across my forehead. Looking at the nurse, then at the man standing behind her, fear pools in the back of my throat.
I do not know why I am here.
Air sucks in through my lips, leaks out into the mask covering my nose, my mouth. Particles of moisture settle on my skin: damp and hot. I search in my mind for words to form an explanation but find only a blank slate.
The nurse smiles. ‘Don’t worry. You were involved in a road traffic accident earlier today. You’ve been unconscious for . . . just over four hours. But you’re awake now, so that’s a really good sign. Let’s take a look at you, shall we?’
She bustles around me – shining a light in my eyes, pushing buttons on the monitor, writing notes on a clipboard – but I cannot concentrate on what she is doing because there is something amiss and I do not know what it is, only that there is a void in my head, a vacant space that I sense was once full but has now been emptied. It is a feeling of being untethered from my thoughts, as though something was stolen from me while I was sleeping and I do not know what it was or how to get it back.
‘That’s all looking fine. Your blood pressure and pulse are good, and your pupils aren’t dilated. How does your head feel – pretty sore, I imagine?’
There is such heaviness in my head I am not sure where the weight ends and the pain begins. I nod, and my brain seems to lurch from one side of my cranium to the other.
‘And what about your vision? Any blurriness?’
I blink to be sure, slide my eyes slowly from left to right, manage a meagre shake of the head.
‘Okay, well, don’t try to sit up just yet. Let’s take the oxygen mask off and see how that feels.’
She slides a hand beneath my head, lifts the mask from my face, cool air rushing to meet my skin.
‘Is that okay?’
My head is too heavy to nod again. I pull my lips towards reassurance, blink forcibly by way of response. The nurse’s eyes return to the monitor, studying the numbers, and she writes again on the clipboard.
‘Is she going to be okay?’ The anonymous man stands at the end of my bed, his voice hesitant, cautious.
‘There’s nothing immediately concerning. All her vital signs look good. But she’s had a significant concussion so we’ll want to keep her under observation for a while.’ The nurse turns back to me. ‘I’ll get the doctor to come and look at you now. Try not to worry – you’re over the worst.’
The nurse disappears through the blue curtain. The man steps towards the side of the bed, takes hold of my hand, raises it to his lips. I snatch my hand free, not wanting this stranger to touch me, aware suddenly of my vulnerability beneath the thin hospital gown and stark white single sheet. ‘Who are you?’ The words scrape at my throat, as if hauling their way up the scree slope of a mountain.