Page 68 of Exposed

A moment of silence. And then your voice, cold and distant as you stand up. “Dr. Frankel is here. There’s a clinic a few floors down. He’s setting up there.”

I stand up, let the blanket fall to the floor at my feet. “I’m ready. Let’s go.”

“Do you want anything to eat?” you ask.

“Do not suddenly begin pretending as if you care, Caleb.” I breeze past you.

You seize me in a vise grip. Spun around. Fingers pinch my jaw, as if to pry the mandibles apart. “You willnevercomprehend how deeply I care.” You release me.

“No, I will not.” I stare up at you. Your eyes are blazing, hot, open, wild, glinting with fury and agony. “Nor do I wish to.” This is a lie.

You stare down at me, jaw muscles clenching and pulsing, eyes darting, seeking something in my gaze. Not finding it, I do not think. “I do not know how—I don’t know how to make you understand. I am not that man.”

“You have not tried.”

“I have. For so long, for—”

“How long, Caleb? How long?” My understanding of my own life’s time frame doesn’t make sense.

The years, the dates, how long I was in a coma, how many years of memory I have, how reliable the memories I do have are... all of this is in doubt. Nothing I know, nothing IthinkI know, is necessarily true.

“How old am I?” I ask.

“They weren’t sure exactly how old you were when the accident happened,” you say.

“And what year did the accident happen in?”

“In 2009,” you say, immediately.

“And I was in a coma for how long?”

“Six months.”

I push past you. “I think you are a liar.”

“Isabel—”

“Take me to Dr. Frankel.”

Your teeth click together, your head tilts back, your eyes narrow. “Very well, Ms. de la Vega. As you wish.”

We wait for the elevator in tense silence. As the doors open, I turn to you. “Tell me the truth, Caleb.”

“About what?”

“About me. About what happened. About everything.”

You twist the key. “Dr. Frankel is waiting.”

Not another word is spoken. We transfer elevators one floor down, and go from there to the thirty-second floor. Bare hallways, featureless, identical doors differentiated by alphanumeric designations. A sparse white room, a bed with white paper laid over hard, plasticky leather. Dr. Frankel is a short, pudgy man at the unforgiving end of middle age, a man to whom time and gravity have not been kind. Jowls hang and sway, a pendulous belly covers a belt buckle, khaki pants are tight around thighs and loose around calves. Brown eyes reflect a quick mind, with hands that are small and quick and nimble and gentle and sure.

“Ah. The patient. Very good.” A pat of a hand invites me to sit on the paper, which crinkles and shifts under my weight. “Yes, yes. I remember you. A rather remarkable work I did, if I say so myself. Not a trace of your old injuries remains. Very good, very good. This will be quick and easy. A local anesthetic, a quick incision, and it’ll be done. No pain, no mess.”

I lie down on the bed. “Let us proceed then.”

A clearing of the throat. “Well, the incision is in your hip, you see. So I’ll, ah, need you to disrobe. From the waist down, at least.”

Without hesitation, I hike my dress up to my waist, staring at the wall, and work my underwear off. “Better?”