Burying Water (Burying Water #1)(14)

Or not at all.

And until then, what do I do? I’m stuck in this hospital room for now, my bones mending as my muscles go into atrophy. The nurses come to shift my body several times a day to help avoid bedsores, telling me that they’ll be forcing me out of bed to move around soon. Next will come rehab. All of this is government-funded because I have no identification and therefore, no insurance. And then what? If I never regain my memory and no one comes to claim me, where will I go? What will I do?

How will I survive?

“I want you to remember that there is still some bruising and swelling, especially around your nose area. That will change the look of your face,” Dr. Alwood says, cutting into my silent worries, the handle of the blue-framed mirror gripped in her hand.

I eye it warily. “You really didn’t have to do this. Reid or Amber would be willing.” Or any other nurse, for that matter. Anyone but “the best surgeon in the hospital,” on her day off, sitting at my side in jeans and a red sweater, her long hair normally tied back now cascading over her shoulders.

“Also, the redness in the scar will fade. I’m hoping for a fine line,” she says, ignoring me. She pauses to smile. “Really. It could have been so much worse, Jane. Remember that. Okay?”

I nod slowly, my adrenaline spiking as she raises her arm, angling the mirror just right, so I can set eyes on a face I’m sure I’ve seen thousands of times.

A complete stranger stares back at me.

“Breathe,” I hear Dr. Alwood remind me and I inhale sharply, as if I wasn’t able to gather air in my lungs before. She waits patiently, quietly, while I study this battered stranger who I do not recognize.

“So, that’s what russet looks like.” I zone in on my deep reddish-brown irises while I try to ignore the purple bags hanging beneath. Most of my face is puffy and mottled with yellow and purple bruising, the worst of it around my nose. If this is what I look like and this is a vast improvement, I understand why no one would hand me a mirror before now.

There are so many details to take in, I don’t know where to focus first. I run my tongue over the dark mark across my bottom lip, where Dr. Alwood confirmed it had been split open. The stitches have since dissolved. My long, straight hair—a light blond color with dark roots and hanging limp from grease—is partially pulled back to reveal a shaved patch and dark scab on the side of my scalp.

But it’s the glaring red line running vertically down the side of my face from my temple to the underside of my chin that holds most of my attention. I flinch as I take it in, wondering what caused it. Was it accidental?

Probably as accidental as the rape.

“It will fade with time,” Dr. Alwood reminds me as I stare at my reflection.

“And what if I still don’t recognize myself then?” I ask with a hollow voice, my gaze catching the gap on the top side of my mouth. Three teeth. I’m missing three teeth. Was I pretty once?

I certainly wouldn’t call myself pretty now.

Maybe that’s why, when there’s a knock at my door followed by the squeak of a hinge, I instinctively duck my head. For all the weeks and all the nurses who have strolled in and out of here, I’ve never felt the instinctive need to conceal my face. But now that I know what I look like, I’m suddenly desperate to hide.

“Jesse, you can’t be in here!” Dr. Alwood hisses.

“I need to head back to the city, Mom.” A masculine voice—deep like the sheriff’s, only smoother—answers.

Despite my distress, I find myself hazarding a glance, curious what the offspring of Dr. Alwood and Sheriff Welles might look like. I find a young guy standing in the doorway, his face a stony mask.

His intense gaze riveted to me. A wave of familiarity washes over me as I take in the eyes he shares with his father—set with striking eyebrows and so dark they could be mistaken for black. He holds my gaze steady, even takes a step closer. He’s curious, I’m sure. He’s probably never seen a face this bashed up before.

A police officer pokes his head into the room. “He told me it was okay.”

“Of course he did,” Dr. Alwood mutters, shooting her son a dirty look before standing.

The officer seizes Jesse’s bicep and gives it a tug.

With a scowl, Jesse jerks his arm free. “Get your f**king hands off me, Crane!” He obviously has no qualms about swearing at a police officer. I assume it’s because he’s the town sheriff’s son and can get away with it.

Dr. Alwood intervenes. “It’s okay, Officer Crane. We don’t need a scene in here.” She turns her attention to me. “This is my son, Jesse. He drove me in to work today. Car troubles. I’m sorry for his rudeness.” I feel her weighty gaze on me as I can’t help but steal another glance, quickly evaluating him from head to toe—his short ash-brown hair, his strong jaw, the way his blue-and-black checkered shirt hangs nicely off his body.

Yes, the good doctor and the sheriff certainly created a handsome child.

I duck my head again, knowing that my battered face can’t possibly earn the same appraisal from his end.

“I’ll leave this here for you, okay?” Dr. Alwood sets the mirror down on the nightstand. With a slow smile, she adds, “Don’t worry. It will all work out.”

Hiding my right side, I watch Dr. Alwood stroll toward the door. “Come on, Jesse. It’s time for you to go.” She loops her arm around his waist. He’s still staring at me as she tugs him out.