Prologue
Twenty years ago
A relentless throb pounded in the hollow of her skull, a rhythmic drumbeat that drew her from the comfort of unconsciousness. She forced her eyes open, wincing against the antiseptic brightness. Stark-white walls towered around her, impersonal and cold, the ceiling sprinkled with tiny fluorescent lights that flickered like distant stars. She was lying on a bed, machines nearby, a thin hospital sheet barely covering her. How’d she end up here? Her breathing quickened, and her heartbeat picked up speed. Her clammy skin threatened to soak the sheet. She couldn’t remember.
She blinked two figures into focus—men dressed in white coats.
“Welcome back to the land of the living.” The younger, Middle Eastern-looking one leaned closer, thrusting his angular cheekbones and well-defined jaw into view and exuding a sense of strength.
Her brows furrowed. Did she die?
“You’re awake.” The older white man perused the hospital chart. “You’ve been in a coma. Because of the angle, the caliber, and perhaps distance, the bullet didn’t cause any major damage. But your brain still needed time to heal. I’m Dr. Lester Cook. This is Dr. Michael Khoury.” He gestured toward the young man. “Your vitals look good. Let me have a peek. The police haven’t been able to identify you. What’s your name?”
Her lips moved, but no sound came out. Did he say bullet? And what was her name?
Dr. Cook did a check on her head, the bandages wrapping it making her feel like she was wearing a turban. He then asked her who the president was, what year it was, how many fingers she saw, and similar questions. She had no trouble answering them. “Now, how are you feeling?”
She tried to reply, but her throat was parched, her voice a mere croak. Dr. Khoury fetched a glass of water from the bedside table, held it to her lips, and helped her to take slow sips.
“I–I don’t remember anything,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. Why was she struggling to say a simple sentence?
The two doctors exchanged glances[LJE1] . Then Dr. Cook scanned the medical chart, his brows furrowed. “You’ve been through a traumatic ordeal. You don’t remember being shot?”
The words hit her like a gut punch, her heart pounding a frenzied tattoo against her rib cage. “Shot?” she echoed, a trembling taking over her body. “But… why can’t I remember anything?”
Neither answered right away. Then Dr. Cook touched her hand. “The human brain is a fascinatingly complex organ. When it undergoes severe trauma, such as a gunshot wound, it sometimes shields itself by temporarily blocking out memories. You’re fortunate to be alive.”
I’m not feeling lucky! “Will I… get my memories back?”
He gave her hand a comforting squeeze. “In most cases, yes. Memory loss after head trauma is usually temporary. Your brain needs time to heal, and as it does, your memories should begin to return.”
“But… who am I?”
When Dr. Cook turned to his young colleague, Dr. Khoury cleared his throat. “We haven’t been able to identify you yet. You had no identification when I found you. But don’t worry. We’re here to help you.”
He found her? Her eyes welled up. She clutched the bedsheets, searching for answers that seemed to slip through her grasp.
“Where… did you… find me?”
Dr. Khoury hesitated. “My brother and I and some friends were out on a boat on the Intracoastal Waterway. When our friends dropped us off at the dock, we found you nearby.”
Had she been on the Intracoastal Waterway? The blankness in her mind failed her. “Are we… in the Outer Banks?”
“No, we’re in Durham. We had to airlift you here because of the seriousness of your injuries.”
“How long… have I been out?”
“Ten days.”
Ten days!
The room’s door swung open, breaking the heavy silence that settled upon them. Her heart quickened. Could this bring a breakthrough or a glimpse into her unknown history?
No. Just a nurse carrying a tray of medications. He exchanged a glance with the doctors, perhaps apologizing for interrupting.
Her chest tightened, but her recovery couldn’t be rushed. She took a deep breath and then pushed out words with the air. “Thank you, doctors, for everything you’re doing to help me.”
“Don’t mention it.” Dr. Cook wrote some notes on the chart. “That’s our job. Remember, healing takes time, and in due course, we hope to piece together the puzzle of your identity. When you feel better, we’ll have, uh, a specialist to come and talk to you.”
She nodded. What kind of specialist would she need to see? Surely, a difficult journey lay ahead, but she would reclaim her past, no matter how arduous the path might be.
As the nurse finished his task and left, her gaze lingered on the closed door. The weight of her forgotten memories pressed upon her, urging her to seek answers beyond her hospital room.
Dr. Cook said, “Do you have any other questions?”
So many! Starting with her name, but it wasn’t the doctors’ fault. Her focus was on the sterile white ceiling when she heard:
Clara, Clara!
Was that—? She thought she’d seen her grandfather, but that couldn’t be. He died years ago. The hazy figure was retreating, and she tried to stop him. Come back. Don’t go!
Clara, you need to stay there. It’s not your time yet.
Concerned voices murmured around her. She opened her eyes—she hadn’t realized she’d closed them. Doctors and nurses now surrounded her. “What happened?” she asked.
“You gave us a scare,” Dr. Cook said.
“I thought you’d drifted off to sleep until the alarm started to go off,” Dr. Khoury added.
“Clara,” she repeated, turning to look at the doctors. “I think… I think that’s my name.”
A spark lit Dr. Khoury’s dark eyes. “That’s a start, Clara.” The encouragement in his gentle voice warmed her. “Every journey begins with a single step. This is yours. Rest now.”
Dr. Cook smiled. “Your memory should start to come back.”
As the doctors left, Clara stared at the ceiling, her mind a whirlwind that refused to calm. But amidst the storm, a single thought stood out. She had a name. Clara. And with that name came a glimmer of hope, a tiny flame in the all-encompassing darkness. She wasn’t just a gunshot victim or an amnesiac. She was Clara. And she was alive. That had to count for something.
Exhaustion tugged at her consciousness, pulling her toward sleep’s comforting embrace. But before she succumbed, she sighed. Dr. Khoury had found her and likely saved her life.
***
Dr. Michael Khoury, formerly known as Amir, stepped into the doctor’s lounge, away from the bustling hospital corridor. He fumbled with his phone, needing to update his brother on the condition of the girl they rescued.
That fateful weekend replayed like a vivid filmstrip. His brother had given his statements to the local police while Michael had been preoccupied with saving the girl’s life. After she’d been airlifted to University Hospital in Durham, Michael had gotten the chance to provide his account to the authorities.
Now, in the relative calmness of the hospital corridor, he dialed his brother’s number.
When the call connected, Majid’s voice broke through the static. “Amir, how’s the girl doing?”
Michael had given up trying to make his family call him by his Christian name. He leaned against the wall, finding solace in his brother’s presence, even if only over the phone. “She woke up. Still here at the hospital.”
“Oh, good. Allah is looking out for her. Come on, what are the odds a neurosurgical fellow just happens to find her?”
“I was there at the right time. But yes, I do feel God’s hand in this.”
“It’s been a few weeks now. Found her parents yet?”
“Nah. I’m more concerned about the cops. They got her fingerprints, but they didn’t find anything.”
Unspoken worries and shared understanding filled the pause before Majid spoke. “I saw a news report. The coast guard busted a boat full of illegal immigrants from Asia close to where we found her. Do you think she’s one of them?”
Michael’s brows furrowed as he recalled the news images—the desperation and hope on the faces of those who had risked everything for a chance at a better life. He exhaled, but he couldn’t lift the weight from his chest. “I don’t know. She’s Asian, but she speaks English quite well, with the slightest accent. British, I think.”
“Well, we speak English quite well too. And we weren’t born here.”
“Point taken. So, maybe she is educated, but… I don’t know. Anyway, people don’t embark on such dangerous journeys unless they’re fleeing something unbearable, whether it’s war or political oppression. Maybe that’s what she was doing.” He rubbed the tightness between his brows. “By the way, her name is Clara, and she doesn’t remember anything. So, I can’t ask her. The cops think it’s a robbery gone wrong.”
“Really?”
“What I heard.”
“Maybe they won’t look too closely, then. And you said she didn’t remember anything?”
“Yup.”
“Oh, wow. Imagine that. To end up here, injured and with no memory of who she is or where she came from.”
Michael nodded, though Majid couldn’t see him. “You and I understand what it’s like to seek a better life, to escape the horrors of war. While these immigrants may not have come from a war zone, their journey is born out of desperation and longing for a chance at a brighter future.”
[LJE1]Glances
