Page 61 of Protected By the Sinner
“That’s fine, doctor. I suppose I’m an adult, right?” I ask, trying to sound brave.
“Yes. According to your ID, you’re twenty-five.”
“Great. Then maybe you can tell me more about my condition. If there’s no one here with me, I’ll have to look after my own health. When will I be able to leave?” What I don’t tell him is that I just woke up and I’m already terrified. If I don’t have anyone besides a boyfriend who left me despite knowing I’m in the hospital, where will I go when I’m discharged?
“Don’t you want to wait until your boyfriend comes back?”
I do. Because I’m scared out of my mind.
“No, sir. I’d really like to know how I was hit.”
“It seems you didn’t see the car.”
He’s choosing his words so carefully it’s making me anxious, so I decide to be blunt.
“Why do I get the feeling you’re being careful with me?”
“All right. If you’re sure you don’t want to wait for your boyfriend, then maybe we can be more direct.”
“Yes, please. It’s awful not remembering anything.”
“My concern isn’t about the accident. It wasn’t as serious as it could’ve been. It’s because...you’re pregnant.”
“What?”
“We had to run all the standard tests when you were admitted, including bloodwork, and we confirmed the pregnancy. Congratulations!” He smiles as he says it, which doesn’t quite suit him. It feels like he’s trying to cheer me up.
After he leaves, the nurse comes over and offers me some water. I take a sip and ask if I can try walking a little, but she picks up the phone to call someone before helping me sit up.
I feel a bit dizzy, but aside from a slight ache in my ribs, there’s no real pain.
I walk slowly, unsteady, until I reach the window.
The sun is starting to rise, the sky a mix of orange and pink. It’s beautiful.
“What city is this?” I ask the nurse.
“Do you know what country you’re in?” She must’ve overheard my conversation with the doctor.
“The United States,” I answer without hesitation.
“That’s right. We’re in Boston, Massachusetts.”
I frown. “I don’t remember the state or the city...but I know I’m a Romani.”
“What?”
“I can’t explain it. It just popped into my head. I’m a Romani,” I repeat.
She smiles. “You might be, you know. You’ve got an exotic kind of beauty.”
“Could you take me to a mirror? I’m still a little dizzy and I don’t want to fall.”
When we reach the bathroom, there’s a mirror covering most of one wall.
“Wow . . . I look awful.”
She steps up behind me, and I don’t even notice when she picks up a brush and starts combing my hair. “Maybe you are a Romani, Amber. Beautiful and vain, just like one.”
