Ms. Lucky

A relentless throb in my skull brought me to consciousness, drowning out all my other senses until the stench of scorched rubber and burnt plastic tinged my nostrils. Other smells danced on the breeze, oddly sweet and then piercingly sharp.

Engine fluids, motor oil, and gasoline.

I forced open my eyes, and my strained vision gradually focused.

The spiderweb of cracks in the windshield was the first hint, followed by the crumpled-up hood and the too-close tree trunk beyond it. I was no detective, but even I could piece together that I’d been in a crash.

I scanned my mind for memories, but pain blocked me from forming solid thoughts. A warm trickle then ran down my forehead, and I wiped it away. But when my hand came back slick with blood, panic filled me.

Adrenaline hit me like a shock wave. My vision tunneled, and the muffled sounds echoing around me sharpened in an instant—too loud, too much. They collided together as if fighting to win first place. Each buzz, hum, drip, and beep competed to grab my attention.

My overwhelmed senses struggled to process it all and instead began to shut down entirely.

The world faded, but just before I lost consciousness, red and white lights strobed across the inside of my car. A door then slammed in the distance, and footsteps pounded the pavement.

Everything cut to black.

I tried to move my arm, only to find it tethered to tubes connected to a machine emitting an incessant beep. I was aware of my own groans only when a soothing hand began to stroke my arm.

“Shh, it’s okay,” a familiar voice murmured comfortingly.

My words barely louder than a whisper, I stuttered, “Wh…wha…what happ…,” but my parched throat made it impossible to speak. I tried to clear it, but that only seemed to make it drier.

When I opened my eyes, the white walls of a typical hospital room greeted me. I scanned the space, absorbing the details, which weren’t many: minimal decorations, a mounted TV in the corner, and a table tray over my feet.

My first instinct was to sit up, so I did, but a sharp pain in my spine forced me back down.

A gasp followed by “Savvy! Don’t do that!” brought my attention to the raven-haired person I now noticed sitting on the right side of my bed.

The sight of my best friend almost brought tears to my eyes. Shelly Jones and I had known each other since we were children. We were more like sisters than friends. “Shelly,” I croaked out, attempting to sit up again.

“Savvy, seriously, stop doing that.” She placed a hand on my shoulder to hold me down. “Did you forget these beds are fully automatic?” Smiling, she lifted a large remote and pressed a button.

The mattress slowly tilted upward, and when I was mostly upright, my eyes fixed on the pitcher of water sitting on the tray. I pointed at it. “Please…water,” I said in a raspy whisper.

“Oh, of course.” Shelly filled a cup and brought it to me, placing the straw in front of my chapped lips. “Drink slowly. Doc’s orders.”

Grateful for her help, I drank. The cool water soothed my throat before trickling down to my empty stomach. “Thank you,” I said, my voice still rough.

After Shelly put back the cup, she turned to face me—and just stared at me. I was about to ask her why, but the tears building in her eyes told me enough.

I certainly looked like shit; I’d probably been out for a while, and I likely could’ve died.

“Savvy, I…,” she started, but the words caused her emotional dam to burst. She wrapped me in a sudden, tight embrace.

Wincing from the pain, I fought to hold back my tears. One of us needed to stay strong. “Shelly, my back… that hurts.”

She released me immediately. “Sorry! I’m just so happy you’re finally awake. I’ve been here every day checking on you. Even though—”

“Every day? How long have I been here?”

Shelly fidgeted in her chair, her discomfort causing my stomach to twist. “Three days.”

“That’s not so bad. Why do you look so… sad? And serious? Other than a headache and back pain and general fogginess, I feel fine.” I smoothed the blanket and wiggled my toes. “Looks like I still got all my limbs.”

“How about that fogginess?” she asked, her face still registering concern. “Doc said you got knocked pretty hard. You may have some problems recalling memories.”

“I’m pretty foggy,” I said, wincing again as I touched my forehead. “Ow! Is this a cut?” Shelly nodded, and I ran my fingers over the bandage beneath my blonde bangs. “Well, why don’t you test me? Ask me some questions.”

This suggestion lifted Shelly’s spirits. She perked up in her seat and smiled, likely seeing this as a fun game. Unhappy Shelly was a rare sight, and I was glad to help her get back into her natural fun-loving state.

She started with typical background questions, and I answered them easily.

My name was Savannah Monroe, I was thirty-five, and I lived in Montgomery, Alabama. I worked admin in a call center—the most boring job in the world—and did volunteer work when I could.

My parents were gone, and I had no siblings or extended family. I lived alone, except for my cat, Chuckles, who was currently staying with Shelly. I’d moved into a new apartment because I’d recently broken up with my boyfriend of five years, Patrick Majors.

I didn’t have any trouble with my memory until she brought the questioning nearer to the present.

“What’s the last thing you remember before the crash?” she asked.

Closing my eyes, I focused on the images that came into my mind. “We were at my place. Getting ready to go out. And then…” Releasing a sigh, I shook my head. “Nothing. That’s it.” Out of nowhere, a sense of unease swept into my psyche.

“Okay, that’s good,” she said. “We did do that. But then we—”

The door opening cut off her words, and both of our attentions shifted to the tall man with salt-and-pepper hair who entered the room.

He shot Shelly a glance, pulled out a pen from his white coat pocket, and read through my chart before acknowledging me. Adjusting his glasses, he said, “Ms. Monroe, I’m Dr. James, your attending physician. How are you feeling?”

“Confused, honestly.”

Seemingly unconcerned with my response, he said, “I mean in your body. Are you experiencing pain anywhere?”

“Oh, yes. There’s a sharp pain in my back, and my head hurts.”

“That’s to be expected.” He jotted something in the chart. “You have a slight fracture along your spine and a gash across your forehead, which has stitches. All things considered, it’s a miracle you’re not worse off.”

My injuries didn’t concern me, but my inability to remember what had led to them did. “Thank you, Dr. James, but could you tell me what happened? I know I was in a car crash, but do you know what caused it or how I got to the hospital?”

He walked toward me and waved a bright light in front of my face, which I instinctively followed with my eyes. In a fluid motion, Dr. James dropped the light into his pocket. “Tell me what you remember. Every detail you can recount.”

My eyelids flickered as I looked around, wishing the answer could be found somewhere in this cold, brightly lit hospital room. My panic returned, and I opened my mouth to respond, but true to form when she saw me in distress, Shelly spoke for me.

“Doctor”—she spun to face him—“she can’t remember anything from that night. Is that normal? Is she okay? Will she get those memories back?”

Addressing me and not Shelly, Dr. James responded professionally, “Memory loss is not uncommon after a head injury. It’s most likely linked to trauma from the wreck. The scans do show some swelling, which will come down in time.”

“How long will that take? And when it does, she’ll remember what happened, right?” Shelly pressed. “It’s not permanent, right?”

I couldn’t blame Shelly for her pushiness. Dr. James’s vague answers were annoying me too.

Seemingly unaffected by her brusqueness, he scribbled in the chart. “There’s no way to answer that. It depends on the person, the trauma they suffered, and other factors. You might recover those memories today.” He clicked his pen, locking eyes with me. “Or never.”

With a gasp, I covered my mouth, noticing Shelly do the same. My throat tightened, and I croaked out, “I’m sorry, Dr. James, but are you saying it’ll be permanent?”

“No, I said it might be. There’s no way to tell at this moment. All you can do is rest. Your body and mind need to heal.” He gave me a flat smile and closed the chart.

“Thank you, Doctor. I’ll try to rest,” I said. “But I just… I have so many questions that—”

His exaggerated sigh and raised hand interrupted me. He then removed his glasses and swiped his forehead with the back of his hand. “There’s nothing I can say about the wreck itself—only about your injuries.”

For some reason, a desperate need to know what happened took over me. Tears welled in my eyes, and I was about to plead with him to tell me anything, but Shelly did it for me.

“Please, Doc,” she said, “there must be something you know! Can’t you see how distressed she is? Withholding information is hurting her! Isn’t it your job to do no harm? She needs to know what happened!”

Dr. James pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. “Ms. Monroe, you must rest now. I’m not legally allowed to tell you anything.”

“Legally?” I bolted upright, and a piercing pain stretched across my back, but I ignored it. “What does that mean? How is it illegal for you to tell me what happened to me?”

Sighing, the doctor stepped to the left side of my bed. “You need to rest, and all this movement is bad for your injuries.” He pressed a button on a machine, and liquid dripped into my IV line. “I’m giving you some morphine to help you sleep and ease your pain.”

“No, I don’t want to sleep,” I started, but the drugs worked in a flash. My eyelids grew heavy.

Before he left the room, Dr. James added, “The police will be here tomorrow. They can answer your questions, and you can answer theirs.”

“The police?” Shelly asked. “Why would they be involved? Is that really necessary?”

Grateful that she was here to fight this battle for me, I struggled to stay conscious to hear his answer. The way his face darkened, though, made the blood freeze in my veins.

“Miss,” the doctor started, his expression cold and his hand tightly gripping the chart, “you were in an accident. Of course the police will have questions. But it’s also standard procedure for me to report my findings to them if I think there’s a case to be made.”

“A case?” I managed to say through my drowsiness. “What case? I don’t…understand…” My world began to fade, but I caught the doctor’s last words.

“Yes,” he said, his voice stern. “I must report it when any driver has alcohol in their blood.”