Chapter One

Chapter One
Naomi

Shadowed dreams flee in the dim light of dawn, yet the foggy haze that coexists with every day anew lingers still, stiff and rife in the chill of morning air it exhausts. My eyes flutter open slowly to the thin blanket of light, taking the space around me all in.

Walls a hauntingly familiar shade of lavender surround me in the early shadows of the morning, sturdy beneath the similarly familiar view of photos, posters, shelves and an alarmingly strange display of clocks on one side of the room. Several analogues stare me down relentlessly, every single one of them providing the same number with their hands - seven o'clock. I feel like there's something I should be doing right now, but when a whisper of vaguely identifiable doubt and questions taunt my concentration through the cloud, I lose any resolve to focus. Partially because I can't. I don't know where I am; I don't know where I'm supposed to be. I can't remember any part of myself.

I can't remember anything.

But like so many of the times before, I remember exactly why I can't.

Awaking each morning with the same recurring realization shouldn't be so heartbreakingly bitter, yet it is. Five days, two hours and thirty seconds have plagued us; five days, two hours and thirty seconds and still no miracle, but it's exactly what I expected. I've been gone for so long, it may take just as long for my memories to catch up with me. If ever at all. I mean, they might as well be buried six foot in the ground with the body of a vampire, because, right now, there's no way to tell if they even exist anymore. I can't tell if anything bad should come of it if they do, but I don't know what's worse: the fact that I desperately want to remember them or the little sliver of fear that I will. 

Who am I without them? Metaphorically speaking, lost. I am a lost, empty soul; truthfully, I can't remember one single day of my life before...before the accident. That's what they're calling it now, as unsolved as the case may be - an accident. No explanation. No peace. Just an accident - wrong place, wrong time.

It's always about the timing, though. If nothing is ever done at the right time, then what would become of the future? Who would we become without that split second decision or moment of truth?

I glance at the vast display of clocks on that wall again. I've been sitting in this bed for days, unable to eat or move. I haven't taken a shower since coming home from the hospital. My mind hasn't functioned as it should for the past week, though, that's no excuse. At least, it shouldn't be, according to Dr. Bryce.

*

"I want you to continue your everyday activities, Naomi," he instructs, handing me an orange prescription sheet. "Start small, and, eventually, the memories will return."

"How long do you think it will take?" I ask, scratching the part of my head that's not been repeatedly wrapped in gauzes. 

"It will take time, kiddo," he replies honestly. "But that doesn't mean you get to sit on the sidelines waiting for it to happen. Eat. Sleep. And live like there's no tomorrow."

"There's not even a yesterday for me. So I don't know how to live."

"Then make up for the time you've lost by figuring it out," he laughs, scribbling down something on the paperboard he'd drawn from the end of my bed. "Time is everything, Naomi. If you can remember nothing else after this, always keep that in mind. It's not very often that we get second chances."

*

A second chance. A second chance for what? What had my life been like before the accident? What had I done? Who was I?

Who am I?

I can't think, not like this. There are way too many distractions. 

Throwing a thin fleece blanket from my lap, I crawl from the bed to my feet, scraping my hands over the taut muscles of my face, over my head to rid myself of the questions plaguing my mind. When my hands reach the knot of my hair, I yank out the band, toss it on my nightstand, and pace the room searching for a towel. 

Under the spray of warm droplets, there's enough time to think - and I do. I think about everything. Time is everything. I have to remember that. I'm in the bathroom for what feels like hours then, pretending the words of my thoughts are the thousands of drops that sprinkle my skin, soaking into my pours. Finally, once my tense, aching muscles have relaxed under the heat of the water, I step out to snatch the towel off of the rack outside the curtain. 

I'm not entirely sure what's on the agenda for the morning, since this is really my first official day of getting out of bed, but I know the day's going to provide me with a lot of visitors, so I dress in something casual but appropriate enough for the early November weather. I find a pair of dark skinny jeans in the bottom drawer of the dresser in my room, topping it with a pale blue cashmere sweater that dangles loosely from a hanger in my closet. Cashmere. I wonder to myself momentarily before walking out of my room if I'd been rich before I went into a coma.

Downstairs, where my parents have been consistently waking within the wee hours of the morning to check in on me, it's quiet and eventless. No sign of life inside the walls. Outside the windows in the kitchen, though, a bird perches itself on the branch of the tree shading one side of our house, welcoming me with a soft melody of chirps. In spite of myself, I smile towards the blue feathers, thinking of a way to describe this moment. Serene - I think it's a perfect name for the bird; it reminds me of what mornings should be like and so much more.

Swallowing away the haunting thoughts of the unknown, I glance around the kitchen carefully, noting the new surroundings that greet me. The walls - a soft, lily color of yellow - look as though they've just been repainted again, with their sheen so bright and unfaded. Polished, wooden floors smile a faint reflection back at me, and, glancing around, it look likes there's not even a chip in the wood. 

It takes me a while to find what I'm looking for, as everything about the place overwhelms my sense of sight. The coffee pot sits untouched, unfilled, glossy and barely used on the counter between the toaster and microwave. Shuffling forward, I take the filters from the cupboard above; at least I'm able enough to make an educated guess.

I don't know how long my parents usually sleep, or at least before my homecoming, but I've almost already finished an entire pot of coffee when my dad stumbles down the stairs, lazily scratching the scalp of his head. His robe is still on.

I think he's more than surprised to see me, if the dumbstruck look on his face explains anything. Even though it's barely bright out, his green eyes glint as the sun's rays, which have finally made an appearance in this ungodly hour of the day, dance through the window pane, focusing their energy past the empty branches of the tree outside.

"Morning, sunshine," he says, raising his hand to shield his eyes, and I don't know if he's actually talking to me or the sun itself. I manage a smile anyways. He offers me a grin of his own, skipping down the last step. "You're up a little early."

It's vague, because the sun does change it's cycles every now and then, but I know that he's talking to me. I mean, who talks to inanimate objects like that? I nod slowly and knock my knuckles against the table repeatedly to an inaudible tune, glancing down at the empty mug before me. It feels so awkward, this exchange between us. I barely know this man. "I'm surprised I'm even up at all."

My dad chuckles from his new place at the counter. I lift my head to see him pouring a cup of coffee for himself. Catching my stare, he holds the pot up for me and smirks at the unbalanced rhythm of my tune, but I shake my head, quickly tucking my hands under my thighs to keep from annoying him further with my futile attempts at relief. "No, thanks. I've already had, like, two cups."

Shrugging a shoulder, he sets the pot back down on its burner, coming to join me at the table. "Can I ask you something?" he says, and I think it's a strange question, because it's not like I could give him any certain answers. Unsurely, I nod, meeting his gaze. I notice, as I remember the reflection I've seen in the mirror these past few days, we have the same shape of eyes. "You made coffee."

I narrow my eyes in his direction. "That's not really a question."

"You're right," he replies, taking a sip from the rim of his mug. "My question is, how did you know you liked coffee?"

I open my mouth to respond, but no sound comes out. Holy crap. Is it possible that I remembered something from before? I swallow stiffly. "D-did I drink it a lot before the accident?"

My dad grins wickedly. "Sweetheart, we couldn't get you back on milk after your third birthday."

"You let me try coffee when I was that young?" I sputter, eyes wide.

"About two, yeah." He nods in amusement. "Not on purpose, mind you," he adds to save himself from my disapproving glare. "You traded your sippy cup with me at breakfast one morning, and I gave you my thermos, just to be fair. It was filled with ice, so it wasn't that hot, anyways, but next thing I knew, your mom was screaming at me to give you back the milk."

"Oh." Would I have remembered that with my memory? Me, at such a young age? "Did you get in trouble with my mom?" I ask in turn.

"S**t, Nae," he laughs, but I tense at the nickname, unsure of what to think. How do I respond to it? My dad continues telling the story as though he's completely oblivious to the silent battle going on inside my head. "To be honest with you, she wouldn't speak to me for the entire rest of the week. Whenever we went to truck stop diners, there for a while, none of us were about to order coffee."

"None of us? Like, as in, more people joined us?

"Well," my dad broaches the topic slowly, swallowing another mouthful of his drink as though he's taking time to consider his response. "Our family did." His eyes scan the room, searching with reason until recognition glints inside their lens. Pushing back his chair, he sets his mug down and walks across the room to a portrait that hangs on the wall in the connecting hallway. Funny. I hadn't even noticed it or any of the other photos there before.

When he rejoins me, sliding the framed picture across the table, I have this terribly absurd notion to apologize. It's such a big family, this one behind the glass. I should know them. Names, birthdays, relations. But I don't. I look up at my dad, noticing for the first time, though, that no one from our family of three is actually in it.

"Who're they?" I ask softly, glancing away because the question mortifies me. I should know this. 

My dad points to a round man in the left corner of the photograph. He's got huge, square glasses, thick frames and all, like he's never really gotten over the sixties. "This is your grandfather, a couple of years before his passing last September." 

"Your dad?" I guess. He nods. I smile at the man in the picture. "You kind of look like him."

"Well, like father, like son." A flash of sadness creeps into the blemishes of his face, and I wonder where it's come from, imagining that it could have something to do with the death of his father. It has to be that.

I smile to myself in that moment, holding onto the sliver of familiarity that presents itself behind those words. "I think I've heard that before, actually."

"Probably," he agrees, laughing. I'm thankful to see that the pain has now subsided. Maybe it's resided, somewhere deep inside his soul, but I wish it would never resurface. "Only, in your case, you've heard me say like mother, like daughter." 

"Yeah, probably." A quiet minute passes before I slide my fingers over the portrait, setting it back against the table. I study it for a long moment, trying to come up with names for these faces that seem so close yet so far. Glancing up at my dad, who's watching me intently with green, unreadable eyes, I point to a random person in the shoot. She's a little bit younger than me in the picture, but the picture is obviously old enough that she's quite possibly changed her looks. "Jennifer."

Confusion pulls his smile into a frown until understanding dawns. He shakes his head with narrowed, amused eyes. "Guess again."

I beam at him, grateful he's letting me do this my way. "Rebecca."

"No, but you're getting closer," he admits. "Starts with an R."

"Ruth."

"Sweetie," he chuckles, shaking his head again, "that name hasn't been popular for a long, long time."

"Reese."

He makes a face at that one. "I should hope not."

Laughing, I offer up another. "Raleigh."

"Think biblical."

I frown. "But I said Ruth."

"Try again."

Twisting my lips to the side, I search for another name. "Rachel?"

My dad grins. "Easier than you thought, huh, Nae?"

Again, the nickname fazes me, but maybe it never truly affected me before like I thought. Maybe it's just one of those things. I bite my lip to seize the smile taking root, closing my eyes. "Rachel. Right."

"Rachel is your cousin," he goes on, standing to take his coffee mug to the sink. "She's actually your age, I believe, a senior at the high school you attend...ed."

"Attended?" I stiffen, sucking in a breath. School. I completely forgot about an education. "I don't go there anymore?"

"Well, you went into a coma, Naomi, so we had to - "

"But I've only been gone for, like, a few weeks, right? It's not too late to catch up, is it?"

"Naomi." His tone is uneven, hoarse and hard.

"It's been, what, like, four weeks?" I press, starting to feel the panic churn somewhere deep down in the recesses of my stomach. "I mean, if it were any more than that it would mean..." My eyes cut to his. "Dad, how long have I been gone?" Nothing. "Daddy?" Was I even allowed to call him that?

"Since June, honey." It isn't my dad, though, who speaks this time, but I know just by the sound of her voice who does. I turn my head towards the stairway, my eyes heavy with tears. "You've missed three months of school," my mom says, bowing her head as she folds her hands. Is she praying for forgiveness? Because I can't be sure. "You were so far behind that we had to pull you out." 

I quickly do the math in my head. My breath hitches in my throat. "Six months? I've been in a coma for six months?" 

"Naomi, we were going to tell you, but - "

"No, don't," I shake my head furiously, trying to clear the raging thoughts inside. Six months. Summer had just been starting when the accident happened. How the hell could I have been so free one moment, then under constant surveillance the next? It didn't make sense. 

"What happened to me?" I turn to both my parents with large, stinging eyes. My mom, who now stands next to my dad over by the counter, opens her mouth, but, changing my mind, I hold my palm up to stop her. Baby steps, Naomi. "Never mind, don't answer that. I don't - I don't want to know right now." Clearing my throat, I let my hand fall back into my lap. "Is it - Is it too late to catch up?"

Both of them look away from me. "We really didn't think it would take this long, Naomi," my dad offers pitifully, drawing my mom in a close embrace. "You were doing so great and then..."

"The doctors said you'd fallen under a coma," my mom finishes for him. "A month, then two. By the fifth month, we pretty much gave up every last remnant of hope."

I swallow through a fistful of tears, closing my eyes against the sting of emotion. "And there's no possible way that I could go back?"

A moment of silence slips through the air with the breeze that drifts from the window. "We may be able to pull some strings, Naomi," my mom says quietly, "but even on the off chance that we could, you should know that - "

"You can?" People hated school. I don't know if I used to be one of them, but here, now, I had to hold onto whatever bit of normalcy I could. School was normal enough. 

"Possibly, but it's too - "

"Please?" I feel my lips tremble and quiver under the soft cry of despair. "I need this, Mom. I need a reason to get out of bed in the mornings, other than to take a shower." 

My parents exchange a look, something secret and fierce passing between them. My mom narrows her eyes at the words my dad whispers. I lean closer to the edge of the table, running my fingers over the wood, pretending to be transfixed with its pattern, of all things. I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear to open the valves, but still, I can't make out a single syllable. When they finally do turn back to face me, I quickly slouch against my chair, trying to look casual. My hands twitch nervously under their sudden scrutiny, and for the briefest fraction of second, I wonder just how often my parents had punished me for eavesdropping on them in the past. 

"We're not making any promises, Naomi," my mom sighs, scrubbing a hand over one side of her face. She doesn't look too well, with her matted hair, pale skin and unreadable eyes, wearing the same robe she'd adorned last night before bed, but I know better than to mention any of this right now.

"But," my dad concludes for her, pursing his lips thoughtfully, "we'll see what we can do." My dad looks at me, too, with thin, expressionless eyes. Quiet for a couple more seconds, as though trying to hold back whatever else could emit from the split of his mouth. Finally, he says, releasing the breath held behind his earlier concentration, "We owe you that much."

I blink up at him, trying to make sense of his rather abrupt confession. They owe me? "Um, okay, I guess," I whisper, nodding slowly. What in the world? I'm still trying to keep my mind from spinning with all the questions swarming inside. "Thank you."

Without another word, they settle themselves into two of the kitchen chairs across from me, just as if this were an everyday thing for us to do, sit and bask in the presence of one another - as if it had sort of been this way before, without the caution channeling our every thought.

I just hope, if and when the time comes that I remember everything, it won't matter that they haven't told me what it is that they're so desperately trying to hide - and I know they're trying to hide it; it's in every quick, cautious glance they send my way. Maybe they're just worried about me. And it's not like I know enough about them at this point to decipher anything otherwise behind their every word or deed.

For now, I'd just have to trust them - even though, after all this chaos and inability to remember what caused the accident, I don't know if it's at all safe to be trusting myself.

****

My fingers gently trail over the faces of each image, memorizing with their fingerprints every plane and feature. My dad hands me another sheet, and I carefully take it from him, placing the other beside me on the pile I'd already started to collect. 

"Two summers ago, when you'd just turned sixteen," he explains, peering over me to get a better look. "This," he adds, pointing to the redhead that's got her arm around my shoulders, "is your best friend, Arielle. You've been together ever since - "

"I started drinking coffee?" I finish with a smirk, glancing over at him. 

He laughs, raising his eyebrows suggestively. "Or maybe after she started calling you the honorable nickname of Joe."

My smile fades and I look up from the picture, narrowing my eyes. "Are you serious?"

He nods, smiling at my less than subtle disgust. "It may or may not have been picked up by me, but yes, I'm dead serious."

I frown. "I think that's called child abuse."

"It's actually called fatherly love," he corrects with an amused grin. Slipping another picture from a pocket of the photo album, he slides it across the table. I pick it up with gentle fingers, catching the flash of red before anything else. It's another one of Arielle and me, when we were about fourteen. "You guys were inseparable back then."

"And now?" I ask softly, almost afraid of the answer. She'd been my best friend. Staring down at her face, past the freckles and early signs of acne, my heart crumbles beneath my chest. Green eyes plead for me to remember even the smallest bit of information about this girl, but I can't. Guilt coils through every blank attempt.

"She came to the hospital almost every day up until three months ago," my dad says now, carefully extracting the image from my grasp. Gazing down at the photo of us, he adds, smirking, "Nobody else had a chance to talk to you when she was around, it was that bad."

"Why did she stop coming? To the hospital?"

My dad doesn't say anything for a long moment, but when he does, there's a certain look in his eyes, as though it pains him to say anything at all. "School started up again."

"Oh." My gaze quickly switches from his dark, wary eyes to the picture he wields in his hands. Inseparable? I didn't think so, not anymore; there's just no way to be friends with a person you hardly knew.

"She begged us to keep you enrolled, you know." 

I glance up at him through eyes that are swelling with tears. "What?"

"Arielle." My dad smiles patiently, tapping the photo with his finger, directly over Arielle's face. "When we were trying to make a decision, Arielle kept begging us to keep you enrolled in school," he explains, adding with a slight frown, "told us she'd do every single assignment for you if she'd have to."

"Really?" Swallowing, I take the picture from him, shaking my head in disbelief. I lock gazes with that familiar yet distant pair of emerald eyes, squinting hard at the brown, speckled blemishes of her skin, the fire of her short, cropped hair. Not a single memory resurfaces. Begrudgingly, I toss the image into my pile.

I don't know exactly how much more of this I could take. If it hadn't been obvious to me just within this last week, then it definitely is now. There's no way to understand how long this amnesia thing will last, but I want it to end. Desperately. Except...

Time is everything. Give it time, Naomi.

Right. I almost forgot. Oh, all the irony in that one.

Clearing his throat, my dad glances at the clock on the wall, looking almost saddened by his realization. It's time for him to get back to work. He closes the cover of the photo album and then rises to his feet, tucking the small book under his arm. "By the way," he says gingerly, glancing down at the last photo in my pile. He smiles to himself as he reaches deep inside his pocket, pulling from it a thin, rectangular device. Why hadn't I noticed he'd been carrying something like that before? "We weren't able to save your old one," he comments sheepishly, shrugging his shoulder as he offers me the phone, "but we managed to get in contact with the insurance company. Your contacts obviously couldn't be saved, either, but your mom's, mine and Elle's numbers are already programmed in here."

I narrow my eyes at his remark as I take the object from him. "Elle...who?"

"Arielle," he corrects himself quickly, smirking. "Elle is what we all called her. Hates her name. So remember. It's just Elle."

"Just Elle," I repeat, snorting a laugh. I glance up at my dad. "Hey, isn't that a movie about a princess or something?"

"Or something. Oh, hey, that's another thing." My dad winks at me. "Acting is sort of her thing. So she'll pretend to be any princess you want her to be."

Pursing my lips, I turn my new phone over in my hands, considering it all to be a little cliche. Yet I still find myself smiling behind the confusion. "Even a mermaid?"

He laughs, backing towards the stairway that leads to his office. Of which I haven't even seen yet. "Especially a mermaid, Joe. Especially a mermaid."

Biting my lip, I stare down at the phone once he's gone, debating. On one hand, it'd be the smart, sincere thing to do, send her a message and tell her how I'm doing. But on the other? I barely know the girl. I mean, as of right now, all I do know is she's supposedly my best friend, loves to act, and possibly has a slight obsession with princesses. She probably knows everything about me, too. My darkest secrets, my greatest fears. I'm the one in the position for blackmail, if nothing else, and the worst part is, I have absolutely no idea if she'd ever stoop to that level or not. Did she really use to care? Does she still?

Something vibrates suddenly beneath my grip. Stunned, I squint at the screen in my hand, focusing my eyes before I finally take notice of the blinking message, arriving as if on cue. The name reads Elle. 

r visitors allowed yet? :)

My thumbs twitch instinctively where they hover over the glass. Should I respond? How do I respond? Closing my eyes briefly, I take a deep breath. My fingers slide against the screen.

can u meet me somewhere? this is a new kind of 'home sick'.

Seconds later, I open up her response.

anywhere. u name it, joe.

Chewing on my lip, I type, somewhere close. cars r not my thing right now.

understood. u hungry?

only a little...not really.

coffee at magic wand then? ;)

I don't recall ever going there for drinks, but then, I don't recall much of anything else people mention these days, either. Swallowing, I power my phone down after giving Elle an answer.

i'll be there soon.