The color red swamped my vision, and enveloped me in an icky warmth as it dribbled from my lips and cast the room in its sickly hue.

"Are you feeling well, Jovial?"

I blinked and the bright lights overhead reflected off of the clean, white walls and it took a few seconds for my eyes to adjust, only to see the doctor standing before me in his immaculate white lab coat. Confused by his worried stare and unblemished clothing, I looked past him at the large machines and their systems projecting lines and numbers on several screens.

"What just happened?" My sights followed the seams of his coat down to his hands where his fingers were perfectly intact as if the entire bloody, panic-inducing incident never happened.

It happened. Didn't it?

He moved closer, aiming the light that shined from the center of his eyeglass frames in my face. "I examined the soft palate of your upper jaw to confirm the stitch is still there. In fact, it is. However, I suspect you may be experiencing some sort of cerebral trauma that is interfering with your ability to remember."

"What is cerebral trauma?" I narrowed my eyes, trying to read his facial expression while forcing myself to remain calm. "Brain damage?"

"Injury," he corrected. "Due to swelling at the surgical site. It can be repaired by healing, so I wouldn't categorize it as damage. As I mentioned before, with time it will heal, and your memory will gradually improve. In the meantime, your mother will assist you with your recollections."

Mom. Once again, I tested the bed's grip but the straps remained in place. "Where is she? I wanna see her."

"I will bring her in shortly." Instead, he returned to the monitors, using his fingers in perfect rhythm to type and click away at the onscreen buttons.

What had just happened? It couldn't have been my imagination. It felt so genuine. Every jolt of pain, the wailing of the alarms, the taste of his blood had seemed so real. Had it all been a result of a brain injury or had I somehow been dreaming?

I searched my memory for Mom, sensing that she would know how to fix the problem or at least ease me through the experience. Her short, slim frame, dark hair with tighter curls than mine, and unblemished dark brown skin popped into my mind. It was Dad and his features that eluded my memories. The only thing I could recall was his pale, untanned complexion and immense height.

What color were his eyes? His hair? The more I thought about those details the less I cared.

"I want my mom." I stared at the dark, wispy hairs mixed with gray at the back of the doctor's head. "I want to go home." Where was home and why I wanted to be there was uncertain. I felt it in my bones that home was where I needed to be.

The doctor pressed a button and a beep sounded from his monitor. "Send Ms. Spencer back to room two-thirty-seven, please."

There was no reply or confirmation. Only the occasional beeps and whirls of the machines penetrated the silence between us and the click of the door opening and closing behind me. "Mom?" My mouth craved liquids and moisture, but I ignored it for motherly assurance.

"Jo?" The warmth of her voice embraced me before she did. Appearing from my left, she first peaked around the edge of the bed before wrapping me in a one-sided hug. "Oh, look at you. Are you feeling okay? How's your memory?"

My memory? What about the fact that I am strapped to a bed and have been in Deep Sleep for a year? "I wanna go home."

"You will," she nodded, running her thumb across my cheek. "Oh, you will. I promise." She turned to the doctor. "How is she doing? Did the treatment work?"

"The treatment was successful." He bowed his head. "She is suffering from a few side effects, but as we discussed, she should be back to her old self in due time." He smiled and a sense of unease crept through me. What was it about his smile that put me off? Could it be that his smile mismatched what I was expecting, being that moments ago I had a mouthful of his blood dripping down my chin?

The thought of chomping down on his fingers made my stomach churn and a lump of queasiness lay at the base of my throat. The pit of my stomach quivered, and I forced myself to swallow the excess salvia pooling in my mouth. "Mom?"

"What about the side effects, Dr. Schwartz?" She went on, ignoring my call. "When my neighbor's son came out of Deep Sleep a couple months ago, he was discharged immediately with no symptoms. They haven't had any problems with him ever since." She snapped her head to look directly in my eyes. "Ian Rodgers? You remember Ian, don't you?"

Ian? Not even the name seemed familiar.

"That was a different case, Ms. Spencer." He clasped his hands together before him. "Every patient is different inside and out. And every patient requires individual correction, tailored specifically to their needs."

Was I supposed to know Ian? Why didn't his name spark a memory? "Did you do something to my brain?" I sneered, finally allowing the details to sink in. "Is that why there's swelling or injury?"

"This was discussed with you both before the procedure was done," he glanced to me. "You are having a difficult time remembering that." He cocked his head toward mother. "Ms. Spencer, you signed the contract detailing the risks and side effects and what your responsibilities would be when the patient awakens."

"I know." She huffed, barely letting him complete the sentence. "I'm just glad you're okay, Jo." She was at my side again, petting my hair like a beloved pet. "We have to celebrate, don't we? We have to do something special for your rebirthday."

My stomach fluttered and once again I swallowed down the sensation to vomit. I wanted water, food, and home. Celebrating was the last thing on my mind.

Mom tugged at the strap placed across my chest, holding me snug against the angled bed. "How much longer for this?"

"Until we are sure she will not unintentionally harm herself or others, it is only a precaution for her safety."

I was reluctant to reveal my nausea in fear that the doctor would want to keep me tied to the bed longer in order to run some tests or have me recover, but the fluttering in my stomach grew and the taste of bile at the back of my throat became more unpleasant. "Mom?"

She turned to me. "What's wrong?"

"I need water."

"Nothing in the mouth until the incision site is fully mended," the doctor butted in. "Your complaints about smelling smoke is quite concerning." His spine was strong and lengthened as he spoke. "But you are getting liquids and electrolytes through your IV."

Surprised that there was an IV, I finally recognized the line when I stared down at my wrists looking for it. "Oh." But an IV couldn't rinse the taste from my mouth.

"I'll leave you two to catch up for now." He glided across the room toward the exit.

As soon as the click of the door opening and closing sounded, and his footsteps were no longer audible near it, mom pressed her lips to my ear. "What do you remember?" Her hot breath made my earlobe moist as she spoke.

I shook my head. "Not much." Should I tell her about the bloody incident that I experienced earlier, or would that urge her to keep me here longer?

"You don't remember anything at all?" She searched my face with wide eyes and for the first time I sensed her fear.

"Mom, what's going on?" I felt the hot sting of tears well up in my eyes. "I'm scared and just want to go home."

"I want you to come home too, Jo," she whispered, aggressively and absentmindedly rubbing the back of my hand. "If he believes everything is going as planned, he will let you come home."

"What do you mean?" I shook my head in confusion, taking in a whiff of stringent alcohol on her breath. "What's wrong with me?"

"Nothing's wrong except the stuff with your memory. That was the one side effect or risk we were afraid of." Deep wrinkles appeared at the center of her forehead.

She had nothing to worry about. "He said it will come back to me though."

"It will, but he needs to believe it already has." She wanted me to do something. Something I wouldn't be able to understand unless she told me, and judging by her behavior, speaking it aloud was the difficult part.

I stared at her in silence while she nodded, encouraging my participation. I gulped. "So, what do I do?"

"Tell him you remember Ian Rodgers, that you were in love and that you want to see him. That you miss him." She rubbed my shoulder reassuringly. "Can you do that, honey? Don't you want to come home?"

Ian Rodgers? "But—"

Before I could answer, a wave of nausea hit me. I tried to close my lips, but a stream of red tinged liquid spewed from my mouth and into her face. She didn't scream as I expected her to, instead she rushed around the room to collect clothes and clean it up in silence. After quickly wiping her face of the residue, she used a fresh cloth to dab at mine, repeating, "It's okay. You're fine. You're just fine."

~~~

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