Page 662 of One More Kiss

Chapter4

My mom sighs,shifting with discomfort as she looks back and forth between me and the door my dad just walked out of.

“Maybe we should wait for Dr. Chaudhary,” she says as she walks up to the head of the bed.

“I don’t want to wait for Dr. Chaudhary.” I shake my head. “I want you to tell me who that was.”

Instead of answering me, she bends down and kisses me on the top of my head, lingering for a moment as she tells me she loves me. When she pulls back, I immediately reach for the top of my head. The realization that all my fiery red hair has been shaved off and there is a six-inch line of staples on the left side of my head leaves me feeling even more lost.

“Oh, baby.” Mom’s voice cracks, and tears roll down her cheeks as she takes a seat on the edge of the hospital bed.

“Mom, I need you to tell me what happened.”

“There was an accident. You were in a car accident,” she says. “Someone ran a red light and hit you while you were driving home from Gillette Stadium. You have multiple broken bones, but there’s nothing that implies you won’t recover from those. You also had bleeding in your brain, and they had to do emergency surgery. You’ve been in a medically induced coma for four days.”

Every word that comes out of her mouth is clear, but she might as well be speaking in a foreign language. Why don’t I remember any of this? I’ve seen enough movies to know what amnesia is, but how could I just not remember something as traumatic as a car accident?

My mom lifts my left hand, showing me the massive blue ring on sitting on my finger.

“Milo is your fiancé. You got engaged the night of the accident.”

Before she can finish her sentence, I croak out something that resembles a laugh. When mom’s brows pinch in confusion, I shake my head.

“I’m sorry, but no. There’s no way I’m engaged to him. Did you see him? Mom, that has to be the best-looking man I’ve ever laid eyes on.”

For the first time since she sat on the bed, Mom’s body relaxes, and a genuine smile settles on her lips.

“I’m sure Milo will appreciate hearing you think so.” She chuckles. Leaning forward, she lowers her voice like what she’s telling me is a secret. “Rumor has it, he’s pretty much obsessed with you. He didn’t leave your side for three days. The only reason he left today was because Dad threatened to tell you he was skipping practice as soon as you woke up.”

“Why don’t I remember him then?” I ask, wincing as I swallow the small buildup of saliva in my mouth.

When I was younger, I had strep throat a lot and had my tonsils removed when I was nine. I’m no stranger to throat pain, but it doesn’t make it any less uncomfortable right now.

“I might be able to help answer that,” interjects a woman’s voice from the other side of the room. When I look over, a petite Indian woman is pumping sanitizer from wall unit. She’s wearing black scrubs with bright yellow sunflowers all over them, and there’s a stethoscope hanging on either side of her neck. I was so fixated on the thought of being engaged to Milo, I didn’t hear her come in. “Hi, Lochlyn. I’m Dr. Ishani Chaudhary.”

She walks over to the machine currently monitoring my vitals and takes a peek at my IV drip. When my mom, who is still sitting on the other side of me, begins to stand, the doctor shakes her head. “You’re fine, Claire. I’m technically off-duty. I’m just here to check in and answer any questions Lochlyn might have.”

“Okay,” I start. “What happened? To me, I mean. I know about the car accident. But my mom said there was bleeding in my brain? Why can’t I move my left leg, and why don’t I remember I have a fiancé?”

“In the grand scheme of things, you’re incredibly lucky. Due to the blunt force of the impact, we assume you hit your head, causing blood vessels to tear. When you got here, you were still unconscious. A CT scan showed bleeding, and we got you right into the OR and my team and I performed a flawless craniotomy. Which basically means part of your skull was removed temporarily to access the brain. While we were in there, we easily clipped the broken vessels, stopping the flow.”

As she walks me through my surgery, I can feel my anxiety rising, which, I’m sure is just fucking great for my brain and its clipped blood vessels.

“You suffered no physical damage to your legs, hips or spine, so, physically, there’s no reason you can’t use your leg,” the pixie-haired doctor continues. “Sometimes muscle damage can be caused by organ dysfunction, which, I think is the case with you. We’ll know for sure in the next few days. Some of your muscles are controlled by your nervous system, automatically doing their intended purpose, without needing any instruction. Like your heart, for example. Other muscles are moved voluntarily when we tell our brain what to do. As far as not being able to remember Milo, post-traumatic amnesia is more common than you might think. We’ll discuss this more tomorrow, but I would suggest just spending time with him to start. It’s likely with physical and occupational therapy, you’ll get back to your old self. It’s just going to take a lot of patience, and a lot of time.”

Holy shit.

I appreciate that she talked to me like a human instead of using big medical terms, but even breaking it down as simple as she did, it’s daunting as hell. The physical effects of the car accident are a lot on their own, but this Milo guy is obviously a big part of my life. And I don’t remember him.

My parents seem to like him—which is more than I can say about any other guy or girl I’ve dated. I just wish I could know why. He must be something special to have my mom’s approval. It’s no secret that Claire Nottingham is a snob. She doesn’t mean to be. I’m fairly certain it’s just learned behavior from my grandmother.

I guess I’m going to have to figure it out by myself and hope that something comes back to me.

“And when can I have coffee?”

“Let’s put coffee on the agenda for tomorrow.” She laughs. “I will not give you false promises, Lochlyn. Your recovery is one hundred percent what you make of it. I would like to keep you in ICU for one more night to keep an eye on your blood pressure, and perhaps we can get some liquids that don’t come from an IV bag in you. Tomorrow, if all goes well, we can move you to a regular room and get you a coffee. Let’s start there, okay? Once you’ve transitioned out of here, we can figure out what’s next.”

Despite the urge to push getting the ball rolling on my long-term recovery, I nod in agreeance. I mean, what else can I do? I can’t move my leg right now, it’s not like I could chase after her if she shuts me down.

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