Identity Crisis (Sam McRae Mystery #1)

Chapter 8

I was in the bottom of a well, looking up. It was night. I could see the stars. I was cold. I was wet. It was a long way to the top. Voices. The sound of voices echoed down the well. They made my head throb.

I tried to yell, but nothing came out.

Someone's beeper went off. Voices and a beeper. They were driving me crazy.

At the top of the well, a woman's face appeared. She smiled at me.

"Melanie?" I called out. "Melanie?"

A spotlight blinded me. Not again. Please, don't hit me again. Please ...

"Melanie," I mumbled.

"Shhh. Lie still." Words spoken in a low and reassuring tone. Someone touched my wrist, someone with cool hands. I opened my eyes. I wasn't in a well. I was on my back, a nurse standing beside me. She was taking my pulse. I lifted my head a bit. Curtains hung around me. Where they parted, I could see people in white coats and hospital scrubs. Machines beeped. I put my head back down.

"Hello," I said, the word stumbling off my tongue.

"Hello," she said. She looked me over in a way that was both appraising and concerned. She seemed to exist in a zone of calm, which she shared with me.

"Will I live?" My voice sounded bizarre and unnatural. It seemed to be out of sync with the movements of my mouth. My own voice dubbed into the movie of my life.

She smiled. "I think you have a few more years left in you." Her voice had a Midwestern twang making me think of apple pie.

"Yay. I'm gonna live." My voice came out in a singsong. Far away, someone laughed. Suddenly, I felt very tired. I drifted off into a dreamless sleep.

I woke up again in a hospital room, my mouth so dry, I could have sworn there was dust in it. When I tried to sit up, my head and abdomen protested. It was light out, but it must have been early evening. The TV was turned on low to Access Hollywood. Russell slept in a chair.

"Russell?" I croaked. His head snapped up, and he opened his eyes, blinking. He appeared to be as disoriented as I was.

"Oh, thank heavens," he said. He rubbed his face, as if to wipe the fatigue off.

"How long have you been here?"

"Since the ambulance brought you."

I felt swelling in my belly and probed it. Tender. "Where am I?"

"Laurel Hospital."

"You look awful."

He did an exaggerated double take. "You should talk, missy."

I chuckled, then cringed. God, my throat was parched.

"You're kind, Russell. Go home. You shouldn't do this to yourself."

"Who else is there?" he snapped.

He glared at me, in that disapproving way of his, then his look softened. He never stayed mad for long. "I thought it was important for someone to be here when you woke up," he said.

"You're a real friend, you know that?" I whispered.

He stood and walked over to me. "We all need friends." He stroked my hair, looking at me with a mixture of concern, gratitude, and relief.

For a moment, I feared I'd burst into tears.

A nurse came in to take my vitals. She had water. I wanted to chug it all, but she made me sip it. Then a doctor joined us. He said intestinal bleeding caused my abdominal swelling. A bruised kidney was the worst of it. I had a mild concussion and a serious knot on my head. In short, I was extremely lucky.