Could It Be Magic?. Melanie Rose
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‘I was with someone.’
‘Who?’
‘Why is it important, who I was with?’
The answer was almost immediate, although I didn’t realise its significance straight away, for at that moment the door opened again, and a group of excited children burst in.
I was so surprised that I sat open-mouthed as they bounded towards me, en masse, shrieking, ‘Mummy, you’re awake!’, and ‘Mum, we’ve really missed you!’ One of the older girls thrust some flowers into my hands. The younger of the two smiled and kissed me. A small boy was shouting, ‘Let me see her! I can’t see!’ until the older girl picked him up and deposited him at the foot of my bed. I glanced towards the door where another small boy stood silently, his eyes wide and his bottom lip quivering.
The nurse must have seen my shocked expression for she lifted the small boy back down off the bed and chivvied the children towards the door.
‘Mummy is still tired,’ she said firmly when one of the girls tried to protest. ‘I think you should wait in the playroom until Daddy has finished talking to the doctor. You can come and see her again later.’
The nurse closed the door firmly behind them and turned to face me.
‘You don’t remember, do you?’
I shook my head in confusion. ‘There’s been a mistake. They’re not mine, honestly!’
‘It is quite common for people to lose their short-term memories temporarily after a lightning strike,’ she explained as she smoothly checked my pulse and blood pressure. I watched her jot her findings onto the chart, her face coming closer, minty breath warm on my skin as she peered into my eyes again.
‘I’ll fetch Dr Shakir. He can examine you better now you’re awake, and he’ll explain what has happened to you. I think he’s talking to your husband right now.’ She smiled encouragingly at me. ‘Don’t worry, Mrs Richardson, everything will turn out all right.’
‘I’m not Mrs Richardson,’ I said again to her retreating back, but this time my voice held less conviction. As the door closed behind her I went to rub my hands over my eyes, forgetting the drip, and the movement caused a fresh burst of pain in my left shoulder. Carefully, I lowered my left arm down beside me then gingerly held my right hand out in front of me and stared at it. The hand was slim, with beautifully manicured nails. I felt a spurt of panic somewhere deep inside me. This somehow didn’t look like my hand, with its broken nails where my fingertips tapped away daily at my computer keyboard. And where was the small scar that I’d picked up the time I’d cut myself on a tin of Frankie’s dog food?
Tears prickled behind my eyes and I blinked them back, determined not to cry, but I had never felt so helpless and confused.
How could they have made such a mistake? It wasn’t possible that I had a husband and four children I couldn’t remember. I couldn’t have forgotten something like that! This simply had to be a bad dream after all—a very real-seeming dream that would evaporate when I awoke.
I could feel the hands that didn’t seem to belong to me shaking, and I tucked the right one alongside the left—firmly under the fold of the sheets. Soon, I told myself sternly, I would wake up and laugh about this nightmare. I’d wonder why I had been so afraid and I’d tell myself how silly I’d been to let it worry me.
Screwing my eyes up tightly, I willed myself to wake up, but when I opened them I was still in the same place and my shoulder still smarted painfully. A little voice deep inside me whispered that something terrible had happened to me, and I shook my head, refusing to believe that this could possibly be happening.
I heard the door open again, but I sank back down between the hospital sheets and closed my eyes. I didn’t think I had the strength to go on with this nightmare. My body hurt and I wanted to go home. Home to my little one-bedroom flat in Epsom, where I could curl up on the sofa with Frankie’s head on my lap and watch TV in my pyjamas, or call my parents and friends and tell them about what had happened to me while I indulged myself by eating spoonfuls of my favourite pistachio ice cream straight from the tub.
Cool fingers stroked my forehead. The sensation was somehow familiar, yet I couldn’t recall anyone ever doing that to me before.
‘Lauren? Lauren, sweetheart, are you awake?’
Clenching my eyelids tightly together, I remained obstinately silent. If this was a husband, father to those children, I wanted none of it.
Another voice filled the room, an Indian accent, firm and in control.
‘Mr Richardson, if you would excuse me for just one moment. I need a few words with your wife.’
The fingers found my hand and squeezed it. ‘I’ll be right outside the door, sweetheart.’
I waited until the door clicked shut before opening my eyes. A tall Asian doctor was gazing down at me, a reassuring smile fixed in place on his friendly face. ‘Good morning, Mrs Richardson.’ His eyes flicked down to the notes in his hand. ‘Er—Lauren. The nurse tells me you are experiencing some memory loss?’
‘My memory is fine,’ I answered somewhat belligerently. ‘It’s just that you’ve got me muddled up with someone else.’
The doctor shook his head, still smiling sadly. ‘I know this must be upsetting for you, Lauren, but I’m afraid that is not the case. There is a good man out there who assures me that you are his wife, and four young children who have been waiting since yesterday for you to wake up. In some cases a high-voltage injury can cause clouded mental status. It’s known medically as the Pat Effect, but don’t worry, it’s usually temporary.’
He perched on the edge of the bed and looked at me with dark eyes full of sympathy, and something else I couldn’t quite detect.
‘Lightning is a formidable force, Lauren, and you are on strong painkillers, which could be causing some of your confusion.’
I watched apprehensively as he opened a notebook and scanned its pages. His obvious belief that I was this Lauren Richardson person had me wondering what else he was going to tell me.
‘When you were brought in yesterday with burns to your back, shoulder and top of your scalp, I did a little research on the effects of lightning strikes. Yours is the first case I’ve seen personally, and I hope you will be interested to hear some of my findings.’
He glanced at me and I nodded, realising that the underlying gleam in his eyes was professional curiosity. Before I’d had time to draw breath, he plunged ahead with a deluge of information.
‘Apparently, lightning travels at astonishing speeds of between 160 and 1600 kilometres per second on its downward track to the ground. Or, in your case, on its way to you, Lauren,’ he told me with undisguised awe. ‘On its return stroke it can reach an amazing 140,000 kilometres per second, and the enormous spark heats the surrounding air explosively, creating the sonic boom we hear as thunder.’
I found myself thinking that he must have made an exceptional—if rather geeky—medical student with his enthusiasm for knowledge, but the facts were sobering when I remembered that the lightning had actually hit me at those speeds.
‘In some cases this spark can generate a temperature of thirty thousand degrees centigrade, Lauren—about six times hotter than the surface of the sun!’ he finished with a flourish.
The look he then bestowed on me was one of thinly disguised fascination, as if, after discovering and recounting how powerful lightning was, he was surprised to find I was still breathing.
‘So, you’re telling me I’m lucky to be alive,’ I commented quietly, watching his eyes for confirmation.
Dr Shakir inclined his head with a small dip that I took to be affirmative.
‘Although the scorching to your head appears superficial and the burns to your back and shoulder will heal without skin grafts, we must be careful