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Remembering I’m here to find answers, I ask, keeping my tone nonchalant, “Have you remembered anything about where you came from?”
Her stiff form becomes even more rigid, and it takes her several seconds to answer. “No,” she says bluntly.
I drop the section of hair I just untangled and pick up a new one.
“What’s the last thing you remember?”
My hands pause in her hair as her hands fist the material of her gown in her lap. I force my hands to keep working.
“Walking down the street and flashing blue lights,” she answers, her voice quiet and hesitant. She’s lying, but I don’t call her on it, not wanting to push her. I get the sense if I do so, she’ll close down.
“Do you know why you were barefoot?”
“I don’t have any shoes,” she replies lightly, telling me, to her, it’s no big deal not to have shoes.
“You don’t remember how you got to that neighborhood?”
I’m not ready to tell her she was in my neighborhood, so I keep that bit of information to myself.
“No.”
The brush gets snagged on a tangle, and I accidentally tug on her hair. Her whimper has me stilling my movements. I’m opening my mouth to apologize when she jumps up from the chair. The brush is still stuck on the tangle, so I let it go so it doesn’t pull her hair even more. Astounded by her intense reaction to a slight tug on her hair, I watch as she turns and scurries away several feet. Her chest heaves as she looks at me with both fear and anger. The brush dangles from her hair, and although I’ve brushed out some of the tangles, it appears wild right now as the drying strands lay over her shoulders, partially hiding her face.
I hold my place and tell her softly, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“It didn’t hurt me. I’ve felt pain, and that wasn’t it. But you still pulled my hair.”
I gesture to the brush. “The brush got tangled in your hair, and I didn’t realize it.”
She spots the brush lying against her chest, picks it up, and yanks it from her hair. I wince because I know that couldn’t have felt good. She shows no reaction to the harsh move.
“I want you to leave please.”
Pissed at myself for fucking this up and not wanting to leave with her angry with me, I point at the items on the table.
“Can I show you what else I brought you first?”
She doesn’t answer right away, just looks at me with accusing eyes. Finally, after what seems like hours, her expression loses some of its heat, and she gives a short nod. I keep as far away from her as I can and walk to the table. I pick up the book.
“Have you read Call in the Wild?” I ask, holding it up for her to see.
“No.”
“I know how mind-numbing it can be in a hospital, so I figured you would enjoy having something to read.”
I set the book down and reach for the candy.
“I-I’m not sure if I remember how to read many words,” she says next, stalling me.
While not surprised by her statement because of all the other shit she has no clue about, it still pisses me off to hear them. Even not knowing the extent of whatever experience she’s endured, it’s obviously been a place of hell.
Feeling like an asshole but not letting it stop me, I decide to use this to my advantage.
“Would you like me to read it to you?”
Once again, she’s quiet as she thinks about my question. Interest lights her eyes, and she bites her bottom lip. I’m glad to see some of her rigidness has dissipated.
“Yes,” she finally answers.
