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“We can still bring him,” Abby suggests. “Maybe the hospital can find his family for him.”
“No,” I say. “I don’t know what happened to me. What if someone tried to kill me? What if my family did that?”
Abby’s eyebrows furrow. “Surely, you don’t think…”
“It’s possible,” Mitch interjects. “Maybe that woman who rescued him brought him to a small, remote town like Summerset precisely because she didn’t want him to be found.”
Summerset? So that’s where I am. I’ve never heard of it.
Abby falls silent. I can tell she’s more troubled now.
“I’ll go and try to find out the truth myself when I’m better,” I tell her and Mitch. “Who knows? My memories might come back by then. Even if they don’t, though, I’ll leave and get out of your hair as soon as I can. I’ll find some way to pay you, too.”
“Oh, hush,” Mitch scolds me. “You’re my patient. You’ll stay until I tell you that you can go. And you don’t have to pay me anything. The town council pays me to take care of everyone in this town.”
“Just focus on getting back on your feet,” Abby adds as she places the leather necklace in my hand.
I nod. “Thank you.”
She squeezes my hand and stares at me. She’s smiling gently again, and yet she also looks like she’s about to cry.
“Is something wrong?” I ask her.
She shakes her head. “Nothing. It’s just… I can tell you’re a good young man. I hope you get better soon.”
Mitch stands up and places a hand on her shoulder. “He will. We just have to give it time.”
She nods and smiles more broadly. “Are you hungry? I can make you some soup.”
I realize I am so I give another nod. Abby leaves the room. Mitch pats my arm.
“Just rest. Try not to think too much.”
“Okay.”
He leaves the room as well. Alone, I lift my hand and stare at the necklace with the silver pendant, which is probably the only thing I have left right now, the only clue to my identity and my past. I read the name engraved on it once more.
Antonio.
As I bring the pendant closer to my face, I catch a glimpse of blue eyes staring back. It makes me think I should have asked for a mirror, but I decide it’s not important. Why should it matter how I look when I don’t know who I am?
I place the necklace on the nightstand and put my hand on my chest as I stare at the ceiling.
Like Mitch and Abby said, the most important thing is that I get better.
~
“There. That’s better,” Abby says after she cuts off another lock of my hair. Then she turns me around so that I’m facing the mirror. “What do you think?”
I gaze at my reflection. What do I think?
I think I look older than sixteen, although I’m pretty sure that’s my age. My memories still haven’t returned after nearly a month, but I’ve managed to remember four things – my birthday, the combination to a locker out there somewhere, the name of a dog I used to own – Apollo – and the fact that I can understand a little Italian. I’m hoping the rest will follow.
I think I look healed. At least the bandages are off, and not just those I can see in the mirror but all of them. My complexion isn’t pale. My eyes don’t look sunken. My cheeks, though not puffed up, look like they have some fat in them, which is probably thanks to Abby’s excellent cooking. If no one saw my scars, they wouldn’t assume I’d survived an explosion.
Also, I think Abby is good at cutting hair. Thanks to her skills, I can now see my eyes and my ears. I look cleaner, too, especially since she also gave me a good shave.
I touch my smooth chin. I guess I look more like a person now, no longer a mess.
“It’s good,” I answer. “You did good. Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me for your good looks.” She pats my shoulder. “Unfortunately, they’re not from me.”
There it is again. That longing in her voice. That sadness in her eyes.
I know the reason for it now. Abby and Mitch don’t have a child. They had a son once, David, but he had a congenital blood disorder and died when he was just four years old. Apparently, Abby had a hard time conceiving him, too, and they couldn’t have another child after. It’s been more than a decade since then and Abby still hasn’t overcome the loss. Once, I overheard her telling Mitch that if their son had survived, he’d be close to my age by now. She even said he’d probably be just like me – as tall as me, handsome, smart, kind. Mitch didn’t say anything. He doesn’t talk about David at all. Sometimes, though, I catch a glimmer of anguish in his tired eyes. I can only guess that it must be either because he, too, is still grieving over his son’s death or because he feels sorry for his wife.
