Page 2

"She’s coming out of the medication, Doctor," the nurse says.

The white-coated woman – the doctor – nods. "How are you feeling?"

I try to open my mouth, and after a couple of attempts part my lips. My tongue is an unfamiliar heavy log, which doesn’t want to move at first.

"Give her some water," the doctor says. The nurse nods, leans over with a dropper. Cool moisture seeps into my mouth.

"Where..." I manage. "Where am I?"

"You’re in hospital, of course," the doctor says. "Can’t you remember, Monica?"

"Can’t remember...anything." My tongue is moving more freely now, but I can’t recognise my voice. It’s not just because of the hoarse whisper that crawls up my throat. It is not my voice. I know that much. "What...happened?"

"Your car was in an accident." The doctor looks at a clipboard she’s carrying and back at me. "It was pretty bad, your body was just about broken into pieces. You don’t recall anything at all about it?"

"No." How can I explain that I don’t even know if I am this Monica person? "Did – did you save me?"

"In a manner of speaking." The doctor’s air gets suddenly brisk, businesslike. "You’re to try and rest now. I’ll be back later." She looks at something out of my field of vision, writes on the clipboard, and leaves. The nurse goes with her.

I lie on my back and stare at the ceiling, trying to remember something, anything. The pain in my head washes back and forth in slow waves, but not so badly that I can’t bear it. The rest of my body has no pain at all. This is strange, if I’ve been so badly hurt that everything was broken.

Or maybe I’m paralysed, and that’s why it doesn’t hurt. The possibility is terrifying. I try to move my fingers, my toes. I can’t feel anything at all.

I’d better think about something else.

Monica. I think about that for a bit. Who is this Monica? If I’m she, then what do I have to rediscover about her – about myself? Who am I?

If I can’t remember anything about me, ever, what will I do?

I hear a sound of a door opening. People come into my field of vision, several of them. The woman doctor is one of them, and another one in a white coat, a thick-faced man with glasses and a moustache.

"I hear you’re awake and able to talk a little," the man with the glasses says. I recognise the voice – it’s the one who’d been speaking the first time, when I’d been in such pain. "You’ve been through a lot, so don’t panic if things seem hard at first. It’s going to take time."

"Who am I?" I ask. It’s not what I meant to ask, but the question pops out.

The two doctors exchange quick glances. "Don’t you know?" the woman asks.

I try to shake my head. Give up when I start feeling nauseous as soon as I try. "You’ve been calling me Monica. That’s all."

"Well, yes," the woman says. She looks slightly nonplussed. "You’re Monica Singh. I thought you’d remember that much –"

"It’s the medication," the male doctor breaks in. He smiles at me, a tight-lipped twitch of the mouth which is not reassuring at all. "Give it time."

The woman doctor bends down at the foot of the bed. I see a flash of white sheet.

"Can you feel this?" she says.

I have no idea what I’m supposed to feel. "Yes," I lie.

"How about this?" I think she’s doing something to my feet, assuming I still have feet.

"Yes," I lie again. "Faintly." Actually, I think I can feel something now, like a line drawn down the sole of one foot, but it’s like feeling it from a light year away. The doctor gets her clipboard and begins scribbling.

"Can you move your arms and legs?" a third person in white interrupts, craning over the shoulders of the others. "Can you lift your head?"

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