The Becoming

Chapter Two

I don't want to wake up. I'm in a warm, dark cocoon, floating, safe.

Still, a blinding light intrudes on the darkness. Someone is forcing my eyes open. I push the hand away. It comes back. From far away I hear my own voice. “Will you shut off that damned light?"

A chuckle. “She's back, Doc."

The voice is familiar. I open my eyes. “David?"

"Right here, sweetheart.” A gentle hand finds mine. “How do you feel?"

I try to turn my head, the pain stops me. I reach up to touch my face, feel a huge, painful lump and wince. “Not too good. What happened?"

He doesn't answer. I struggle to focus, struggle to turn my head slowly in the direction of his voice. I know that I should be remembering something—something that triggers a spasm of alarm even through the haze of confusion.

David is seated beside me in a wheelchair, neck bulging out of a brace that looks so tight it bites into his skin. “That looks comfortable,” I say grimly. “Where are we?"

But someone steps between us. He's tall and thin with a disheveled mop of red hair. He's in scrubs, a stethoscope dangling from his neck. He smiles down at me. “You're in County General Hospital, Anna,” he says. “My name is Grant Avery. I'm the doctor who has been taking care of you."

"Me? Why?” As soon as I ask that, something dangerous and threatening flashes again, like a foggy image in the back of my mind, and I flinch without knowing why.

David pushes himself closer. “It's going to be all right."

Dr. Avery nods. “David is right. You're both going to be just fine. Do you remember what happened to you?"

My temples throb with dull repetition. I bring up a hand to press away the pain and notice the needle sticking out of the back of it.

Bright red blood flows through the tubing. I let the hand drop. “No. Have I been here long?"

"Since before dawn yesterday,” the doctor responds.

"Yesterday?” I glance at David. “I've been out since yesterday?"

David's slow, sweet smile doesn't quite reach his eyes when he says, “You went a little crazy in the ambulance. You've been sedated since then."

"The ambulance?” I keep repeating things. I can't stop myself because nothing he tells me makes sense. “What ambulance?"

David looks up at Dr. Avery. “Maybe you should tell her."

"Someone should tell me.” I try to make that sound convincing, though I'm beginning to wonder if I want to remember. Whatever happened is obviously not good.

It's Dr. Avery who breaks the silence. “You've been through quite an ordeal, but I want to reassure you that the physical damage inflicted on you will not, in any way, be permanently disabling.” He glances at his watch, then back at me. “You were badly beaten.

You've got a nasty contusion on your forehead—that's what's causing the headache. It's also why you seem to have lost your memory. But it's what we call retrograde amnesia—short term. You have two black eyes, but no concussion. Your eyes are not damaged.” He pauses, again with a glance at his watch.

"You have somewhere else to be?” I ask, irritation spiking with each glance at his watch. I have the distinct impression that there's more and the good doctor is stalling.

He has the grace to flush slightly. “No, of course not. I was just hoping the counselor would be here before I—"

"Counselor?” The fear reasserts itself. David pushes himself up from the wheelchair and moves to my bedside. His hand tightens around the fingers of my left hand, but I push it away. “Why would I need a counselor?"

Dr. Avery peers down at me. I see the hesitation on his face, but it's not his decision whether or not to continue—it's mine.

"Tell me."

"Are you sure? The counselor will be here in a moment or two. You might feel better having a woman here with you. Or we could call someone from your family.” A glance at my partner. “David seemed to think you might want to wait on that, but it's really your call."

I look over at David, too, but his expression is so solemn and sad it makes me all the more afraid. “David is right about the family thing,” I say quietly. “Now tell me what the hell happened."

I pull my eyes away from David and wait for the doctor to continue.

"You were sexually assaulted, Anna.” His voice is matter-of-fact, controlled. Now his eyes never leave my face. “You've suffered considerable trauma to the lower part of your body. Your arms are badly bruised. You've lost a lot of blood from a cut on your neck. The police think whoever did this may have tried to slash your throat. Luckily, he botched the job, but you required a transfusion. Do you want me to go on?"

My fingers are on the bandage at the side of my neck. Someone tried to rape me and cut my throat? How could there be more? I realize Dr. Avery is waiting. Numbly, I nod. “Go on."

He nods once, too, those unblinking eyes holding me captive. “Because there was evidence of penetration, we had to run pregnancy tests. They were negative. However, there are other tests that will take longer to process. We'll screen for sexually transmitted diseases, hepatitis...” A brief hesitation. “HIV."

He runs through the laundry list of horrors in a detached, mechanical way. When his voice drops away, so do his eyes, releasing me from their hold.

There must be a mistake. I sneak a look at David's face. The truth is stamped there in stark relief. “I can't remember it,” I whisper.

“Maybe that's a good thing."

David and Dr. Avery exchange a look. Then the doctor picks up a chart from the foot of the bed and moves toward the door. “I'll give you two a few minutes,” he says.

David watches until the door closes behind him. “Anna,” he says softly, “I'm so sorry."

I press the palms of my hands against my eyes, mindful now of why I'm here, but still unable to call up the how. “Tell me what happened."

"Are you sure you're ready?"

Will I ever be? “Yes."

David perches himself carefully on the edge of the bed. He picks up my left hand again and strokes it gently. “I'll tell you what I know."