Billionaire's Single Mom

The intercom was busy calling doctor this and doctor that. I didn't know how anyone was supposed to rest in a place when the incessant noise carried on? All I wanted to do was sleep, but it was like everyone tried their hardest to keep me awake. The doctors checked in on me, and nurses pampered me, and most of all Peter questioned me to see if I remembered anything about my crash. The worst part was, the more I racked my brain, the harder it was to get anything at all.

I tried very hard to think about what happened, yet my mind was still blank, and nothing had come to me except for apart the strange voice I heard in the hallway. And, “Mark my words” was the only comment that sounded familiar.

I finished eating my gooey hospital breakfast, and Peter poked his head around the door. “Hiya sport, how you are feeling?” he crowed in excitement.

“Pretty much the same as last night. I’m, unfortunately, still drawing a blank,” I replied as I knocked back my medication the nurse had so kindly included on my breakfast tray.

“The doctor says, we can take you home later today once he has given you the all clear,” Peter said with a smile as he dragged the chair closer to the bed.

“Where is home? Do we live close to each other?” I asked.

“No, I live in a quiet community. And the houses are well, you know, ordinary, with white picket fences and all that, but you live in a home of opulence closer to the city,” he uttered.

“I feel nervous about going home. It will be foreign to me,” I said as I adjusted my favorite pillow out of the two I had been given.

“So, you have no recollection of where you live at all Elijah?” Peter flicked through the channels on the ceiling-mounted TV.

“None at all, and why is it a point of interest of where I live?” I said quizzing him.

I waited for Peter’s reply. I laid there confused because he had asked questions that left many blanks as my mind. What was wrong with where I lived? Or even the place I worked? And was he ashamed of my situation for some reason? I said

nothing and felt lost again.

“It’s nothing. It’s just your home. You will see it soon enough,” he replied as he gestured with his hand to forget what he said. “You can stay with me tonight, and then tomorrow we’ll get you settled at your place Mr. Forgetful.” I hated that new pet name.

The doctor came and gave me the final all clear. Apparently, it was hospital policy that I had to leave in a wheelchair, so Peter pushed me from the hospital toward where he had parked his car. I smelled the perfume of the flowers and heard birds as they sang. I had only been in the hospital for a week or so, yet it seemed I had been gone for years.

We arrived at Peter’s car. He had a silver Subaru station wagon, a good family car I thought, as he helped me struggle into the passenger seat.

“Do I have a car?” I asked Peter as he exited the hospital car park like a grandmother. Cautious and slower than a snail.

He coughed as he answered, “Yes, you do. You don't remember that either?" I was annoyed by his question.

“I told you, I don’t remember anything!” I replied as I gazed at the surroundings. It all looked very strange, none of it looked familiar at all.

“You have a fondness for cars, and for motorcycles,” he said as we hit the freeway. “Maybe when you get home, you will remember something more.”

We eventually passed the tree-lined avenue where Peter lived. Children were running and playing ball; they stood and waved at Peter as we passed by in caution.

“You know those, children?” I asked Peter as we slowly turned into his driveway. His house stood before us, with teal colored sidings and bright white window frames. It looked like a poster home for the American dream.

“Yes, everyone knows everyone in this street, they are all really friendly,” he replied in concentration.

“Cool, it sounds nice,” I added as the car finally halted, and I clambered out of the car. God, I was stiff.

Peter made a pot of coffee in his shaker-styled kitchen, the aroma filled the air, and it tasted even better than it smelled. Peter started to tell me stories of us growing up, and how Dad used to take us to the office where we played hide and seek on the weekends.

“You remember you always hid in the same place, and I pretended not to find you?” Peter commented as he picked a picture from the fireplace and handed it to me.

“Nothing comes to mind of when we were kids. Is this Dad?” I asked looking at the old photo.

“Yeah, that’s him,” he teared up. “He always had a soft spot for you.” He removed a photo album from the cupboard shelf.

I flicked my way through the album. The photos went back to when we were toddlers. And we looked close, but, I could see Dad always held me up if we were in the picture together. I wondered why this was, and how it had affected our lives.

“Ah, that photo was taken on vacation just before mom and dad died, it was our last family vacation, and it was when everything changed,” Peter said looking at the photo as he wiped his eyes.

“We looked happy,” I said as I closed the album. I didn't like to see him sad.