In a Haze: A Romantic Thriller

  In a Haze

  Jade C. Jamison

  Copyright

  Copyright 2020 by Jade C. Jamison

  Cover image © serrrano/ Depositphotos

  Cover design © Mr. Jamison

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be constructed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author except in the case of brief quotation embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  For Mom

  1

  You know how sometimes you’ll wake up slowly, the edges of a dream persisting in the corners of your mind? Not the actual complete dream, but the fuzzy edges, like the wisps of a cloud? It’s a feeling, an emotion, and sometimes that damn dream will hang on well until you’re halfway through a pot of coffee.

  That happened to me this morning.

  You might be thinking, big deal. Happens to everyone. Sure, it does, but I don’t remember the last time it happened to me.

  I literally cannot remember.

  And, before I even open my eyes, the dream is gone, merely poking at my consciousness now. It wasn’t a good dream overall, but there was a little girl in it. Shiny dark brown hair cut in the cutest bob, doe-brown eyes, dimples in those chubby little cheeks.

  The dream was a fucking nightmare, but that little girl—she was like a beacon shining in the darkness.

  As I force my eyes open, though, even her face begins to fade.

  But that feeling—that feeling won’t let go. It’s a bag of mixed emotions—warmth for that sweet little girl but something sinister behind it, something I can’t shake.

  Getting up will help.

  As I sit fully up, I glance around the room. It’s pretty plain. And small. Off-white walls, no artwork. I’m in a twin bed—and there’s nothing else in this room. Not a chair, a desk, nothing. Behind me are some windows and in front of me is a door with a small pane of glass inside it. I can tell from here that it has those crisscrossed wires in it. You know, the kind that stays in place, even if you break the glass?

  I pause now, feeling really out of sorts. Groggy. I search my brain, scour it. Why the hell can I remember the function of that wire, but I can’t remember my name?

  I can’t even remember yesterday—or the day before or the day before that. I feel like I should panic but something I do know about myself is that I don’t do that. I’m calm, a port in a storm. Someone told me that once. As I sit in bed, my arms wrapped around my knees that I’ve brought up to my chest, I try again really hard to make my brain work the way it’s supposed to, fire up those memory centers. But nothing. About the only thing I can touch—and it’s elusive, mind you—is a shaky memory of fishing with my dad by the banks of a creek. I can see the glint of the sunlight on the trickling water. I can hear the gurgle it makes as it winds down the rocks. I can feel the cool air on my bare arms, my dad’s warm hand on my shoulder. I can feel that slippery trout as I finally give up and let my dad take it off the hook, and I can smell its fishiness. I can even feel the palpable relief as my dad tells me it’s not big enough to keep and releases it back into the water.

  But that’s it. That’s my whole damn life. One two-minute scene.

  And where is this? I decide that, small room or not, I need to adjust, figure it all out. All that’s on this bed is a set of crisp white sheets and a thin rust-colored blanket that wouldn’t keep me warm if it were cold inside. For a fleeting instant, I wonder about the thread count of the sheets, and then I shake my head. Rounding my shoulders to stretch a bit, I finally swing my legs off the bed. My feet touch the cool floor, shiny plain off-white tiles, nothing fancy. Finally, standing, I marvel at—at something, I don’t know what, but suddenly I’m almost happy to be alive.

  First, I decide to look out the window. It’s so strange. I don’t have to think about walking, breathing, stretching, and still I don’t know my name. So weird.

  What is this place and why am I here? I should know this.

  When I look out the window, I see that I’m up a bit. This window won’t open but, even if it did, I couldn’t just walk out. I’d guess I’m three or four stories up.

  How do I know that?

  Below me is a busy street, crowded with cars, three lanes both ways. Morning commute. Across that street is a lovely park. That is my whole world right now. All I know. All I can see. And my memory is short.

  Somehow, I feel reborn.

  *

  A few minutes later (again, how do I know this?), a lovely black woman with super short hair and coal eyes opens the door. “Anna. Look at you, up at this hour. I don’t know that I’ve ever seen you out of bed before I got here. How are you this morning?”

  Suddenly, my tongue’s tied. This woman seems to know me, but I definitely don’t know her. My mouth gears up before I can even think it through. “I feel pretty out of sorts.”

  “I know, honey. That’s just part of the whole experience. How do you feel otherwise?”

  She means my body maybe? “Okay, I guess.”

  “Are you ready for breakfast?”

  See, that’s one of those weird things. I know what breakfast is. Why? How do I know that and yet when she called me Anna, it felt foreign? I want to ask her all kinds of questions but something inside tells me not to trust her. “Yes. I’m sorry, but I don’t remember your name.”

  “Rose.”

  “Named after your grandma.”

  “That’s right. You remember.”

  I didn’t even know I remembered until it popped out of my mouth.

  We enter the hallway, not quite bustling with activity like the street outside, but there are a few people moving around. It’s then that I notice we’re divided. Most of the people are dressed like me—white t-shirts, gray sweatpants—and the rest are wearing powder blue scrubs like Rose.

  As we make our way down the hallway, I take in the repetitiveness of it. All the doors, like mine, are metal with rectangular wired windows, the walls that same shade of off-white, the floors all shiny tile, appearing to be the newest part of this building. As we make our way down farther, I notice places in the walls where the paint has peeled—come off, rather, like something was scraped along it.

  We begin to pass an older woman in a wheelchair. She’s overweight, her hair turning into a salt-and-pepper mix, her blue eyes looking as if they’re covered in feathery clouds. My emotions around her (because that’s all I have right now—feelings without words) are encased not in fear but in apprehension. Again, I have no idea why. And, as we pass by her, she lifts her head and her eyes take me in. I see the slightest hint of recognition and then she says, her voice frog-like, “Rep.”

  This is one of those things I know somewhere deep down. As we continue down the hall, both Rose and I ignoring her, I know she’s going to say “resent.” She says the part of the word represent as if they’re two words—rep and resent—follow by some mumbling. And she’s only ever said them to me. I don’t know why or what she means. I only know she freaks me out, gives me the creeps.

  At the end of the hall, we enter a big room. There are bathroom stalls and, just beyond, a large area with tiny blue tiles of various hues on the walls and floor and showerheads hanging a few feet apart. Rose says, “Go ahead and do your business, honey,” and I understand she’s letting me have a little privacy in the bathroom stall. Already, I’m consumed by a sensation of humiliation, somehow recalling deep down h
aving to be watched while I had to urinate and defecate and while I showered. Deeper, though, I know that somehow those are preferable to bedpans and sponge baths. Somehow, I know I’ve experienced it all.

  It's a feeling.

  Soon, I’m under the warm water of a showerhead, wishing the pressure was better, praying the water could wash away the blanket on my brain. That’s what it feels like—as if all the answers are there, buried, almost under lock and key, and I can’t get to them. I can almost taste them but they’re out of reach.

  The husky woman who was showering near the corner moves closer to me, taking the showerhead next to me. Once more, I have an emotion associated with her. Like the woman in the hallway, I don’t want to associate with this female, either. Both have left me with negative emotions but this woman here makes the fear run deeper. “Ah, my favorite friend Anna with the creamy skin and perky little titties.”

  My eyes dart over to her as I swallow hard. Another memory prods me with images of this woman pressing me up against the wall, trying to shove her hands down my sweatpants. My skin crawls as that tiny glimpse floods my brain and I huddle under the water, no longer interested in shampooing my hair.

  It’s then that I realize it’s short—my hair—like the woman I’m standing next to, and I also think mine should be much, much longer.

  “Bobbi, back off.”

  “I was just saying good morning to my favorite friend.”

  “I said back off, Sanders. You want detention?”

  “No.” As she scowls, she at least stops leaning over me, but she otherwise stays where she is. I shut off the faucet and walk across the tiles. At one point, the bottom of my foot digs into the round drain in the middle, but I keep taking small steps until I get to the bench where Rose has already set a towel and fresh clothing.

  No underwear.

  I think I miss underwear, but I don’t know that for sure. I dry off quickly, wrapping the towel around my head, and then put on the shirt and sweats, struggling as my damp skin refuses to let them slide on. And we move through my morning routine as other people come and go throughout the space. I brush my teeth and comb out my hair while Rose stands nearby, and it’s then that I consider she might be an ally of some sort. Maybe not an ally so much as a neutral party, someone perhaps looking out for my best interests.

  As I wash my face, I pause. It’s familiar, this visage looking back at me, but also foreign. I’d expected something a little different. My face looks so plain. My skin is pale, and the deep emerald of my eyes contrasts with it. My hair, light brown, should be longer, but it’s as short as that person Bobbi’s was, almost like a crew cut. And there are lines in the corners of my eyes that shouldn’t be there.

  How long have I been here?

  And, if I were to leave, where would I go?

  Soon, we’ve shuffled to the dining hall and it’s then that I tell myself I have some of my strength back. How do I know that?

  What the hell does that mean?

  And why, when I see the man with dark blond hair and royal blue eyes, does my heart start pumping like it never has before? I’d swear, even without remembering anything else, that he is the most gorgeous man I have ever seen. When he begins walking toward me, my heart starts thudding so hard I can hear it in my ears. As he gets within a few feet of me, my breath catches in my throat and my knees grow weak.

  Whether that is from fear or desire, I don’t know. I have no context.

  2

  The man is marching across the room toward me. I look around and behind me and, suddenly, Rose is nowhere to be seen. My savior has left me in my biggest moment of need.

  But as he gets closer, I think he seems like he has a friendly face. The way he’s smiling at me—kind and happy, not vulturous and depraved like that woman named Bobbi—helps me let go of the breath I’ve been holding in.

  “Anna, something looks different about you today.” I cock my head. I’m going to have to take his word for it. “Do I know the reason?”

  I have no idea whatsoever what he might be talking about. Someone behind me says, “No cutting, Dublin.”

  “Yeah, get t’ the back of the line, man!”

  He’s trying to tell me something with his eyes, but he doesn’t realize I don’t know him from Adam. I would love to get to know him, but the timing’s off, and whatever he’s trying to say is lost on me. With a frown, he shrugs and goes away.

  Whatever they’re cooking in here smells good. There’s a scent of sausage and maple syrup, and I can’t remember if I like those things or not. My nose definitely does.

  I glance around the room. It’s noisy but bright. If there were windows in here, it might even be cheerful. The buffet line makes me think of a university cafeteria while the brown café tables with comfy looking green dining room chairs feel like the continental breakfast area of a middle-class hotel.

  How the hell do I know all this stuff? And why does that all come to mind easily while everything else in my head is covered in cobwebs? It’s disconcerting, making me feel like I’m in a strange movie. All of a sudden, when I hear someone yelling, I turn around to see a woman sitting at one of the tables all by herself. She keeps shouting, “No! No!” over and over, covering her ears and shaking her head. Someone behind me starts laughing and, soon, Rose is back there with someone else dressed in the same powder blue scrubs.

  “Denise, honey, it’s okay. Take a deep breath.”

  “No! No! Nooooooo!” She’s screaming now like someone’s pulling her fingernail off with a pair of pliers.

  “Denise, look at me.”

  “No!”

  Rose looks at the other worker, a huge white guy. He hunches over so he can make eye contact with the woman named Denise. He says, “Denise, it’s okay.”

  “No!” This time, she lashes out at the guy, grazing his cheek with a fork. It’s a plastic fork, but I imagine it could still do some damage if it connects.

  Then I hear a tray clatter somewhere behind me and, in the instant it takes me to turn, look, and then spin back around, there’s another person in scrubs joining Rose and the white guy. “Denise,” comes his soft, soothing voice. “What have we talked about?”

  Still screaming at the top of her lungs, she yells, “Lots of stuff!”

  “Talk to me. What’s going on?”

  “Alice won’t shut up. She said the pancakes are poisoned.”

  “How does Alice know this?”

  “She said she talked to the cooks.”

  One older guy is finished going through the line. When he picks up his tray of food, he finds a table as far away from the commotion as possible.

  “Is it possible she’s lying to you?”

  “Probably.”

  “Can we go to the rec room to talk? We can get you something else to eat later.”

  For some reason, Denise trusts the man with the gentle voice. Nodding, she follows while Rose and the other person who nearly had his cheek pierced begin cleaning up her mess. In a couple more seconds, I’m up next in line. Watching the person just in front of me, I do what she’s doing, taking a plastic tray and placing on it a fork, spoon, and napkin. Then I set the tray on the rails in front of the buffet and begin sliding it down.

  “Pancakes?” asks the friendly server with her brown hair in a bun.

  After what I just witnessed? “No, thank you.”

  “Eggs?”

  The tray of eggs looks runny, slimy, and completely unappealing. “No, thanks.”

  “Sausage?”

  “Yes, please.”

  It looks greasy but I need to eat something. I think I’m hungry. Once I’m past the hot food, there’s a refrigerated section, and I find a slice of watermelon. I carry the tray, continuing to follow the person I’m copying, and we set them in the next station. There I see some cold cereals, a few different types of bread and a toaster, plus milk, water, and juice. I have to move farther down to find coffee. I fill a small glass with apple juice, another with water, and then get a cup of
coffee before I wander out into the land of tables.

  This is so surreal, having hardly any history in my head. I don’t know any of these people, but their eyes tell me they know me. It’s unnerving. But one thing at a time. I’m going to try to eat some of this food and then attempt to figure out what to do next. This place has to have a psychiatrist or a psychologist, someone who knows my history and might be willing to fill me in, explain why, all of a sudden, my brain is a blank slate.

  After I sit at a table closer to the back, I take a sip of the apple juice. I find it comforting that it tastes exactly the way I expect it to. Same with the sausage. I’m taking a bite out of the wedge of watermelon when the guy who’d talked to me when I first got to the dining area sits next to me. I’m kind of thrilled that, of all the females in this place, he’s chosen to sit by me. What makes me so special?

  He asks, “So you did it again, Anna?”

  “Did what?”

  He looks around to make sure there’s no one close to us, and then he lowers his voice. “Stop taking your meds like we talked about.”

  “I have no idea.” His eyes scan mine but he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he cuts a bite of the short stack on his plate with his fork as I continue. “What’s your name?”

  “Joe.” He chews on the bite of pancakes as I take another sip of juice. After swallowing, he says, “I’m no expert, Anna, but I know you’re gonna start feeling better now.”

  “How can you be so sure?” I’m feeling so out of sorts, so confused I can’t imagine ever feeling better again.

  “Well, for starters, you’ve talked to me more this morning than you have this whole time.”

  It occurs to me then that he might be able to tell me something about myself. “How long have I been here?”

  “Two years, I think, but it’s hard to keep track.”

  “What about you?”

  “A long damn time. I don’t even know for sure.”

  I have so many questions, like what’s wrong with me, but I don’t know that he’ll be able to answer any of them. At least he’s already helped me feel a little more grounded.