Unspoken Memories (Unspoken Series) Read online

  While she goes over the lecture about needing my rest before leaving, I block out their bickering at each other.

  This is when I start reciting a number in my head, 951-555-2945. It comes to me naturally, like I’ve called it regularly.

  That’s weird, why would I be thinking of a phone number at this moment? I’m happy that at least something is coming back to me.

  “Bill, what’s your number?” I ask, loud enough so they both can hear me.

  They both snap their heads in my direction in confusion for asking such a question, but Bill automatically answers. “555-6213, why?”

  Mmm, not the answer I was expecting, so I try again, “Is there any other number I would call you at?”

  I must have excited the doctor because her face is beaming. “Are you remembering something Abigail? Whatever it is, it might help. What is it you remember?”

  Bill looks excited as well, but knowing that it isn’t his number, I just fib. “I thought I remembered, but it was only a glimpse of an area code, then it disappeared.” I lie to both of them, keeping the number to myself.

  “By the way, what is the area code here?”

  The doctor is the first to speak up, “206.”

  That is definitely not the area code I’m remembering. They’re both still patiently waiting for me to say something, so I answer with the only excuse that I can think of at the moment. “That’s why I asked Bill to recite his number hoping it would spark something, but I was wrong… I’m sorry.” I look at them, disappointed.

  Seeming just as irritated about the whole situation, Bill turns to the doctor, barks at her to order more tests, wanting to know why I’ve lost my memory.

  The neurologist decides to steer the conversation by saying, “Although she has a bit of a memory loss, she might get it back in time, especially once she goes home and begins to see things more familiar to her. Give her time; she’s just woken up,” she says before her lips go into a frown of disappointment as well.

  “Then how soon can she go home so she can start remembering?” he barks at her, making me flinch from the anger in his tone.

  He turns to me and with a nicer voice says, “Baby, your name is Abigail Adams. You’re a famous model. Is it ringing a bell?” he questions with desperation.

  I shake my head and pick at the imaginary lint on my blankets. The name doesn’t ring a bell at all. I want it to, but it doesn’t.

  Bill notices my lack of response and begins fumbling with his phone like he’s looking for something and once he’s found it he brings the phone close to my face for me to look into the screen. On it is a photo of myself with a whole bunch of make-up, and I’m half-naked.

  “See, that’s you at your last photo shoot, it’s for Vogue!” he says with enthusiasm. “Of course you know who you are, you’re legendary since this cover came out.” The phone is still in front of my face as if he expects the light bulb to turn on in my head.

  When I shake my head at him he only sighs again, clearly disappointed. I think I’m really beginning to irritate him.

  He moves to the corner of the room dragging the doctor with him, by the arm, and in hushed tones he begins speaking with her. The nurse walks in at this moment saving me from having to look at both of them, knowing that they are discussing me and leaving me out of the conversation. The nurse entertains herself by fluffing my pillows, in an effort to make me more comfortable, but I know she’s really just trying to be nice about the whole situation.

  They both stop talking and look over in my direction and he smiles. The only trouble is that his smile is worrying me and I want it to go away. It’s the type of smile meant to reassure me that everything is okay, when in reality it’s not.

  Knowing the situation is not going to get any better until my memory comes back, I bring up the excuse that I’m tired so they will leave me alone. Right now I want to be alone and sleep. My body feels drained, even though I just woke up a couple of hours ago. What I really want is for Bill to leave, so whatever excuse I can give them to make him leave works for me.

  They all leave me to get my rest and as I’m left alone with my thoughts. I wonder again if I’m wrong about Bill. I keep trying to convince myself that maybe it was someone else, or maybe I had dreamt the whole conversation. I begin to get drowsy and my eyelids start to feel heavy, dragging me into sleep once again.

  In my dream, I feel happy, and I see this guy who's laughing with me.

  He’s young, early twenties, good looking, and really fit. He’s taller than me, enough so that I have to look up at him. He has a narrow looking face, his hair is a dark color, with dark chocolate brown eyes, and thick lashes that are long, curl, and make you jealous that he has them. But what really catches my attention is his smile. He has a smile that just makes you melt inside and it makes you smile with him. He's all sweaty and I note that he looks like he just finished working out. Or has done something that has made him breathe really fast and heavy. His shirt is soaked and he's chugging water from a water bottle like he's dying of thirst. I look at my surroundings and notice that we are in a park, at the end of what I think is a trail, and in the background there are a lot of tall trees. He then throws his arm around my shoulders and says, “Keep up that pace and we’re definitely going to PR this race.”

  What race and what PR event is he talking about? My dream begins to fade away, and I'm trying really hard to ask him what’s going on, or who he is?

  Unfortunately, I can't get the words out of my mouth. I want to know his name, but he quickly fades away.

  As I open my eyes, I notice it's morning again, with the light coming in through my hospital room window and a new nurse is taking my blood pressure, which is what must have woken me up.

  Now that I’m awake, I take the time to focus on trying to bring back some type of memory. When the nurse sees that I’m awake, she informs me that Bill came by early this morning while I was still sleeping and dropped off my stuff.

  I turn my head and notice an iPad on the side table and I reach over and grab it. Wanting answers fast, I start to Google my name, “Abigail Adams.” Right away all kinds of articles and images come up.

  According to the Internet, I’m not a world famous model, but I am in high demand in the states. Thanks to my current fiancé, slash agent and manager, I was on the way to becoming the most highly sought after model in recent history. Before my accident, I had wrapped up an interview and photo shoot with Vogue that was going to get me those international shoots I was working towards.

  I was born in Seattle, but raised in the foster system. My mother died when I was twelve, leaving me to be raised by the state in different foster homes until I was discovered at the age of eighteen. I had begun with small photo shoots for a local agency that kept me financially above water for a couple of years, until I met Bill, making him my current agent and manager.

  On the Internet there were a ton of pictures of me, some from different interviews, photo shoots, or pictures that must have been taken by paparazzi when I was out and about. There were so many, it's almost like I wanted to be constantly photographed or spoken to, which feels a bit disturbing.

  After reading a couple of articles and flipping through what seems like thousands of photos, I feel even more confused than when I started. The only thing it’s proven to me is that I was a shallow and conceited person who only cared about herself. For some reason this makes me feel like crap.

  After sitting in my room for most of the day, I notice that I start to feel jittery and stressed. Eventually, I start twitching my leg, swinging my foot back and forth and feeling trapped like I want to get out and do something. It is driving me crazy.

  I blame it on being immobile for so long.

  On this second day since I've woken up, the doctor is in my room giving me my routine daily check-up. Bill showed up this morning, but most of the time he’s on the phone barking commands at someone about a deal that he's trying to close. He's been coming to visit me as often as he can, but I ha
ve a feeling that he'd rather be at his office than with me.

  He claims that he is really busy at work, but that he misses me badly and wished that he could spend every waking hour with me, but I doubt it. It takes all of my willpower not to roll my eyes at his response. Even when he kissed me that first day, it didn’t feel right. There was no emotion in it on my part. As if to confirm that my body didn’t really know him. It had worried me, but I had made it a point to Bill that I just needed time and space, giving him an excuse to stay at a distance.

  Before I could even allow him to think things were back to normal, I had to figure out what normal was.

  “SO EVERYTHING LOOKS okay with your test results, the fact that you’re up and moving around shows excellent progress. I'm ordering you not to take it too fast for the next couple of days. Make sure you have the nurses continue to assist you with everything while you’re here,” Dr. Kumar says, looking very satisfied with my progress.

  The memory loss hasn’t improved, but what can I do at this point? That’s not under my control that I know of.

  “Okay. When can I go home?” I ask enthusiastically, hoping once I get home my memory will come back automatically the moment I walk through the door. I know it is wishful thinking, but honestly, the only reason I want to go home is because all I can think about is that phone number and the young guy in my dream. I hoping this number will answer a lot of questions for me.

  I tried calling the number from the hospital, but since it was a long distance number, the call wouldn’t go through. I also tried googling the number, but I got a dead end there as well. So now I have to learn the art of patience until I can get to a phone that would allow me to make the phone call.

  Hanging up the phone, Bill looks my way and says. “Yes Doc, when can she go home? I've already scheduled several exclusive interviews and we need to figure out when those will take place.”

  Rolling my eyes at his remark, it doesn’t surprise me that he’d already be trying to make money out of me. That must have been the deal he was barking about on the phone. I look at him, but he's not even looking at the doctor or me anymore, he's just messing with his phone.

  Figures, if I can't make him any money at this moment, I'm not important to him

  The doctor gives me the normal sigh and sympathetic look when it involves Bill and tells me I should be able to go home within the next couple of days. As long I take it easy at home.

  This excites me and I start thinking of what I need to do when I get home. First thing I plan on doing is hiring a private investigator to help me figure out this whole mystery with Bill. If he were cheating on me, a PI would definitely be able to tell me.

  THE TRIP HOME ends up being a circus in itself. Somehow it was leaked that I was being released from the hospital, so there is a crowd of paparazzi outside the hospital as we are leaving. Still, thanks to the hospital security and a private bodyguard, who Bill apparently has on staff, we’re finally able to get out of there and back to our apartment safely.

  As we enter the elevator in our apartment complex I notice that Bill has to enter a card and code into the panel. The mechanical voice then states, “Penthouse.”

  I look over at Bill and think, of course, anything less for this guy just wouldn't do.

  As the elevator doors open into a foyer, the first thing I notice is that the sitting space is all decorated in black and grey, and it’s got a modern feel to it. There is no color in this place at all; even though there is furniture in the room it feels empty of life. Even the pictures on the wall are in black and white, and I notice they’re all of me. See, self-absorbed.

  “This is the living room,” Bill immediately starts giving me a tour, “the dining room, as you can see, is to our left, and the kitchen is further down through that door.” He points in the direction of the dining room.

  “The bedrooms are down the hallway to the right and my study is through this door over here.” From the windows leading out into a balcony, I can see the Space Needle and the view is breathtaking. The sun is beginning to set and the buildings surrounding us are beginning to light up.

  “I have to go out tonight for a business meeting. Since you probably want to rest, I won't ask you to come with me.”

  I nod at him thinking, I don't care where you go at this point as long as I’m left alone.

  I start to walk down the hallway towards the door at the very end of the hallway. As I walk in I realize this must be the master bedroom. It has a huge king sized bed making it the focal point in the middle of the room. When I turn to the right, I see the entrance to a bathroom and head straight in there. It's large with marble counters and a huge white marble bathtub that could easily fit two people. Across from it is a walk-in shower with different showerheads coming out of the ceilings and walls. Why would anybody need that many showerheads? I look ahead and see two doors next to each other. I continue walking to the door on the right and my breath stops.

  I'm walking into the biggest closet I've ever seen, with rows and rows of clothing and shoes. The closet looks like half the size of the bedroom alone.

  “You did always complain you never had enough clothes and shoes, but this isn't even half of what you've got waiting in boxes,” Bill states behind me.

  I turn around looking at him. “Why would I need all these clothes and shoes?” I’m totally confused why this wouldn't be enough.

  I'm beginning to think that the look that Bill keeps giving me is the only look he knows how to make, which implies that I’m an idiot.

  “You refuse to wear anything twice. You keep a stylist on the books to come and rotate your wardrobe out every couple of weeks. Designers send you their stuff just so you can be seen wearing it.”

  This isn’t making any sense. “So what happens to the stuff that I've already worn, does it go to charity?” I ask him, at a loss for words.

  Bill throws his head back and laughs, “You’re funny Abigail, but since I don't have to pay for any of it, I really don't care.”

  Dumbfounded, I say, “Now, that sounds stupid.”

  Bill gives me that look again and he shakes his head while walking out of the closet.

  Feeling very overwhelmed at this point, I leave the closet, following Bill out into the middle of the bathroom. When I reach up to him, I see he is beginning to remove his clothes and he’s about to start unbuttoning his pants when I stop him.

  “What are you doing?” I ask with hesitation.

  He is standing next to the shower doors and looks up at me shocked. “I’m undressing so I can take a shower, what does it look like I’m doing?” Then with a mischievous look, drawing his eyes to a hooded slit. “Do you want to join me?” he asks.

  “No thank you, I'll just go look around the apartment and hope that it will trigger my memory.”

  He places his hands on his hips. “What? You love taking showers with me, especially because you love having sex halfway through.” This makes me look away as I begin to blush. I push past him into the bedroom, leaving him chuckling behind me.

  He might claim I like having sex in the shower, but right now the last thing I want from him is sex anywhere.

  Ignoring him, I begin walking down the hallway, leaving Bill to shower alone. Strangely, the pictures of myself make me feel uncomfortable, so I look away from them, trying really hard to absorb the setting. However, it feels cold and sterile, like nothing is supposed to be touched, or lived on. When I take a seat on the black flat leather sofa it feels very stiff, just like I had imagined it would.

  Why would I want to live here? It doesn't feel like me.

  Bill enters the living room, dressed once again in a designer suit most likely custom made for him. He walks over in my direction, stops in front of me, with his hands in his pants pockets, and stares at me.

  I’m beginning to feel very uncomfortable with him standing there analyzing me, like I’m a child in need of a reprimand. I hate that he makes me feel like this.

  “Mary left you something to
eat in the fridge. Your cell phone is also on the counter with my number in it if you need me, but only if it's an emergency since I'll be in a business meeting after all.”

  Of course, I wouldn’t want to bother you, I think. I’m pretty sure he’s planning on meeting with the mystery voice, so no interruptions would be wanted. Or, he really is going on a business meeting, but most likely so he can figure out a way for me to make him more money now that I’m awake.

  Then it occurs to me that I don’t recognize the name he’s mentioned either, the name doesn’t sound familiar. “Who's Mary?”

  He takes in a deep breath, closing his eyes in frustration. Judging by his reaction, he’s obviously mad, but what does he expect? For my memory to just turn on like a light bulb?

  Although, at this point even I’m wishing it would.

  He lifts his head to look at me. “Mary's our housekeeper. She comes three times a week, but she usually doesn't cook since we eat out most of the time.”

  He stands there still staring, with his right eyebrow raised. He's making sure I absorb every word he's saying.

  Raising my eyebrows right back at him I respond, “Of course,” with a nod of my head.

  Bill takes his hand out of his pocket and looks down at his watch, checking for the time. “Okay, if you don't need anything else I'll just head out.”

  Without waiting for a response Bill turns away straight into the elevator, leaving me there in the apartment alone.

  I sit there wondering whether I should feel relieved, or saddened, that he’s already leaving me. Either way, he’s gone for now, and I can now try to figure out who the hell I really am.

  I head to the study first thing, but as I try to turn the doorknob I discover that it’s locked. Why would it be locked?

  Giving up for now, I head to the kitchen counter and pick up my so-called cell phone and begin to scroll through the contacts, but I don't recognize anybody's name.

  I enter the number I have been thinking about for the last couple of days, but it doesn't match anybody in my contact list, so I decide to send the person a text with a simple, “What's up?” I’m hoping to get a response.