Page 12 of Manhattan State of Mind

Unless…

I gulp for air. “Have I been in a coma?”

I’ve been out cold for a whole freakin’ year?

“No, you were admitted three days ago,” she explains. “Retrograde amnesia refers to the inability to access memories. You’ve lived through the past year; it’s just that your mind isn’t able to retrieve those memories at the moment.”

The year she stated circles endlessly in my mind without making any sense.

“So you’re saying we’ve somehow fast-forwarded in time?”

She gives me a look, the kind one reserves for explaining complex things to a child. “No.” The year echoes in the room again as she repeats it.

Stop saying that,I silently scream at her.

I brace myself, waiting for the punchline of this sick joke.

When the punchline never comes, my chest tightens as the awful truth crashes into me like a tsunami: I’ve lost an entire fucking year?

I can’t breathe. Dr. Ramirez becomes a blob as the edges of my vision blur.

It’s okay. Just focus on breathing. They’ll be able to fix me.

“Will this electro… electro feeling scan… gram… fix me? Will it reboot me so I get my memories back?” I squawk, not capable of keeping a steady tone. “Turn me off and on again?”

To stop myself from screaming with hysteria, I laugh instead.

She indulges me with a sympathetic smile. “We’ll determine a treatment plan after testing. We don’t know the extent of your memory loss yet. We’re still in the early stages here. Just try not to worry too much for now.”

Easy for her to say; she remembers yesterday.

“We’ll be with you every step of the way.”

“I don’t think I can afford you to be with me every step,” I mumble, my mind racing with thoughts of astronomical hospital bills. “Am I really twenty-seven?” I ask in a tiny voice.

She responds with a gentle nod.

None of this makes any sense.

Yesterday was last year? The drinks with Matty, the meeting with Wolfe, the carrot cake I had before lunch, the meeting with Andy and his growly stomach—it all happened one year ago?

My heart hammers so hard in my chest I feel sick. I’m suffocating. My head’s spinning more now than when I first woke up.

I gawk at Dr. Ramirez, who seems unfazed by my meltdown. I suppose for her, it’s just another day at theoffice.

“I missed a whole year of my twenties?”

The tightness in my throat intensifies. I’m sweating, but I’m freezing.

“Did I miss Comic Con?” My voice squeaks out an octave higher.

“Just focus on your breathing, Lucy. Deep, slow breaths,” Dr. Ramirez instructs, resting her hand on my wrist.

“But… what have I been doing all this time?” My eyes are as big as saucers as I stare at her.

She smiles reassuringly. “We’ll help you figure that out.”

Deep breath in, deep breath out. Maybe, if I close my eyes and nap, this nightmare will be over when I wake up.