"Beep."

"Beep."

The noise is deafening in my ears. Every tone makes my head feel like it's being slammed against a brick wall. I've only been hungover twice in my life: once when I was a freshman and we snuck a bottle of scotch from Chloe's parents, and again when I was a junior and drank a little too much champagne at my cousin Kyra's wedding.

This pain surpasses both those times. I try to crack an eye open, but it's the wrong thing to do. The light is blinding and makes my head pound. I squeeze it shut against the pain and instead rely on touch. Using my hands, I feel around to get an idea of where I am, but I'm already annoyed. Waking up in unfamiliar places is getting old.

I'm in a bed again, but the sheets feel foreign. They're scratchy and stiff, unlike the silk ones I was under this morning. I reach out until I feel railings on either side of me and use them to hoist myself upright. Settling against the pillows, I hesitantly squint. The pain isn't as bad this time, and my eyes eventually adjust to the light.

I curse the minute they do.

To my left is a window, the curtains pulled back to let morning light stream in. There's a bench tucked below it, situated next to a cabinet stock full of medical equipment. Across from my bed is a countertop and sink, with the door to the right that's covered in posters advertising the latest in medical advancements. Long point short, I'm clearly in a hospital, and unfortunately, I'm not alone.

Carter slumps awkwardly in a chair pulled up to my bedside, fast asleep. His face is propped up in his hand, and he snores softly, his lips slightly parted. Twisting my body carefully so I don't wake him, I find the source of the beeping; an IV and heart monitor are set up right behind me.

Seeing him brings the morning rushing back. He's still an older version of himself, ruling out any chance that this is all a dream. Then, I recall the surprise that landed me here in the first place, and I get lightheaded all over again. The idea that she's real too and not some horrifying figment of my imagination has my temper rising. Not only did Carter bring me to the one place that freaks me out the most, he's still keeping secrets from me ten years later. Any trust he's built with me over the last couple hours is gone.

Scanning the hospital room, I start forming a plan of escape. I don't want to talk to him — I can barely look at him — so stealth is key. There's a remote right by my hand, and while still keeping an eye on Carter, I press the call button for a nurse.

"Ding!"

A sign flashes above the door, chiming each time the light comes on. Carter stirs and I freeze, hoping that he's just adjusting in his sleep, but of course, no such luck. His eyes flutter open, but it takes him a second to register that I'm awake. I hit the button rapidly, stealth be damned. The damage has been done, and all I care about is getting a nurse in here so I can get out of here.

"You're up." His body jumps into action. He leans forward to take my hand, but I pull it back.

"Get away from me, Carter," I say hoarsely, wincing from the dryness. I add finding water to my list of priorities.

His face drops. "Shit, do you remember what happened this morning?"

I understand his fear; I wouldn't want to relive this morning for all the money in the world.

"Yes, Carter, I remember it all very clearly. Especially the special guest at the end you 'forgot' to tell me about," I grit out, squinting through the headache coming back full force. I lift a tentative hand to the back of my head and find a large bump.

"Don't touch it, Amber. The doctors think you may have a concussion."

"Don't tell me what to do," I snap. "I'll let the doctors tell me that themselves. I never thought I'd say this, but I trust them more than you." I go back to hitting the call button.

He gives me a tired look. "Amber—"

"Why did you bring me here after I told you not to?" I decide to tackle the easier argument. My head hurts too much to breach the whole 'daughter' conversation.

"You hit your head on solid marble. What was I supposed to do, leave you unconscious on the dining room floor?" His voice is a little too loud for my liking.

"I know you're not yelling at me right now. I just know that's not what's happening."

"Sorry," he says, his tone much softer than before. "Look, you passed out and I couldn't tell whether it was connected to the memory loss or..."

Or if it was because you saw our living, breathing child, I finish in my head. "I imagine Google is still around after all these years. A quick webMD search couldn't tell you to lay me down and let me sleep it off?"

"I'm not going to have you slipping into a coma because of some irrational fear that — news flash — you're past at this point in your life," Carter throws back. I can tell he wants to yell again, but he keeps his temper controlled, the one thing I'm grateful for right now.

The door opens before I can come back at him.

"Alrighty, how are we doing in here?" a chipper voice interrupts, followed by a balding man in pale, purple scrubs. A wide smile takes up his face as he comes around to fiddle with my IV. I try not to gag as the line tugs at the needle stuck in my forearm.

"Just fine, just swell. One thing, though. Can you please have this man removed?" I ask politely, gesturing towards Carter. He gives the nurse an annoyed look.

"Ignore her." Carter points to a chart hanging off the edge of my bed. The nurse flips through it quickly before understanding fills his eyes.

"Mrs. Hayes, this is your husband." He emphasizes the word as if I've aged backwards instead of forwards. "The doctor will explain everything when she comes in."

"The doctor can explain everything without him in here."

He just gives me an apologetic look. Reading the name tag attached to his scrubs, I work my mouth into what I hope is a pleasant smile.

"Look, Graham is it? I've had a long morning, longer than you could ever imagine, and my patience is razor thin. So I think we can both leave this conversation happy if you just escort Mr. Hayes out into the hall."

The nurse looks from Carter, to me, and back again. He must come to a decision in his head because when he turns back to me, his face is full of pity.

"I'm sorry Mrs. Hayes, but your husband is your power of attorney. With your fleeting memory, it might be best for him to hear what the doctor has to say." I open my mouth to argue, but he cuts me off. "The doctor will be in soon." He scurries from the room without another word.

"Traitor!" I yell before the door closes behind him. "HIPAA will be hearing from my lawyer!" I throw myself back against the pillows and cross my arms, careful not to pull at the IV.

"Technically, you are your lawyer," Carter says after a minute.

"Oh, he thinks he's funny now."

"I don't think any of this is funny, Amber," he admits, sobering up. "Look, I'm sorry I brought you here, but I didn't know what else to do. I'm trying my best under the circumstances."

I turn away from him and stare pointedly out the window. We both fall quiet, wrapped up in our own thoughts. The rational part of my brain knows Carter did the right thing. He'd be an idiot to leave me unconscious on the floor, but it doesn't change what he kept from me.

While marriage was an idea I tossed around growing up, becoming a mom was never even a thought. It doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure out why; my own never painted a pretty picture of what motherhood was like. I asked her about it once as she sat in the living room, her lap filled with documents, eyes glued to the pages. I was doing homework at the kitchen table only a few feet away when I was struck with a question for her. I couldn't have been older than six, so homework back then meant coloring inside the lines and getting my letters right — my mind wandered a lot.

"Do you like your work, Mommy?"

She had jumped at my voice breaking the silence that was common between us. "Yes, Amber. I like my work."

"Do you like being a mommy?"

I don't know what made me ask, and she definitely wasn't expecting it. In fact, it left her speechless. Being young, I thought she hadn't heard me.

"Mommy—"

"Have you finished yet?" she asked curtly, her attention turning to the papers in front of me. "Color quickly so I can get you in the bath."

And that was it. She went back to her work and I went back to mine. I remember getting points off my work because of the tear stains.

I can't imagine someone with a mother like mine growing up to be a great mom herself. The closest I've ever come to being maternal is with Ben, but that's different — I didn't push him out of my vagina. I shudder at the thought of what childbirth was like; for the first time since waking up, I'm thankful not to remember something.

"You should have told me about her," I say finally, eyes still out the window.

"I know," he sighs. "I'm sorry."

The room is silent when the door opens again and a woman dressed in dark blue scrubs bustles in. Her hair is pulled back severely from her face, and her demeanor screams professionalism. She doesn't seem like the type to enjoy jokes — so I'm sure she'll just love me.

She goes over to the sink and rinses her hands before acknowledging us. "So, Mrs. Hayes—"

"Amber," I correct her quickly.

"Sorry," she makes a note on my chart, "Amber. My name is Dr. Sanders. How are we doing today?"

"Well I'm just right as rain, doc. You ever just go to bed eighteen years old and wake up damn near thirty? Let me tell you, it's the most relaxing way to start the day. Highly recommend it to all teenagers everywhere."

"So to make sure I understand, you have no recollection of the last ten years?" Her brow furrows with uncertainty.

"Yep. Yesterday, I was a senior in high school. Now I'm practically a senior citizen." I catch Carter rolling his eyes in my peripheral.

"And was anything out of the ordinary yesterday?" She's talking about me but poses the question to Carter. I guess I wouldn't know.

"She seemed fine to me. It was like any other day, then this morning, she's terrified of her own reflection."

Dr. Sanders takes notes as Carter recounts the details, then settles onto the stool near the sink. Laying her clipboard flat across her lap, she gives me her full attention.

"Well, we ran some tests while you were still asleep. So far, the results coming back are clear, and other than a minor concussion from the fall, we can't seem to find anything medically wrong with you."

News like this would normally be great, but of course, not for me. No diagnosis means no treatment. No treatment means I'm not getting my memories back any time soon.

Dr. Sanders must gauge the energy in the room because she leans over and lays a hand on the bed. "This isn't bad news, Amber. You're not the first person to wake up with memory loss, although it is pretty extensive."

"Just a tad," I mutter without meaning to.

Surprisingly, the corners of her mouth lift up into a soft smile. "We have seen cases where memories come back without any medical help. Patients who exposed themselves to familiar things have experienced better results, but it's a gamble what will stick and what won't. The best thing you can do is rest. You've had a long day, and it's not even halfway done yet."

My eyes wander over to a clock just above the door that reads nine. This has got to be the longest morning in history.

"And what happens if they don't come back?" Carter asks hesitantly. He tries to catch my eye, but I don't let it stray from the doctor.

Dr. Sanders' face dims. "There is a chance they won't ever come back. We won't know for sure until more time has passed. Unfortunately, the only thing we can really do is wait."

Quiet falls over the room. I peek over at Carter and find his head hung low. It hits me again just how much older he is; it seems like this conversation alone has aged him ten more years. It hammers in the reality that I may never recover major milestones of my life, but I fight to hold back tears. Letting them fall means admitting defeat.

"I'll give you guys some time, but you're all set to go whenever you're ready. Just ring the nurse and he'll bring the discharge papers." She grabs my chart and gives me a final nod before exiting the room.

Carter breaks the silence first. "We're gonna get them back, Amber."

"You don't know that," I say, sharper than intended.

"We just have to find the right trigger." He continues as if I didn't say anything. "I'm not giving up on this, and neither are you."

I let my head lull to the side and stare out the window again, my eyes going heavy. Just the mention of rest has made me want to curl up and sleep another ten years away.

"Alright, Carter. Where do you want to start?"

I can hear her from outside the door. Her giggles grate painfully against my nerves, a thought that twists guilt in my stomach like a knife. Carter's right next to me, one hand placed encouragingly on the small of my back. I'm still mad at him; we barely spoke on the drive home from the hospital, and we haven't said a word since we got off the elevator.

But right now, I need him. I let his hand stay where it is and fight the urge to hold my grudge. I've never considered myself a coward, yet here I am, palms sweating and heart racing at the thought of walking through the door of a child's bedroom. My child's bedroom.

"What if I say something wrong?"

"You won't," Carter reassures me.

"How do you know?"

He rubs my back in tiny circles. "Because she's a baby. She doesn't understand most of what we say."

I try to let his efforts comfort me, but I can't shake the stiffness in my shoulders or the way I flinch every time I hear her squeal through the door. The waiting is making it worse, like standing on the pool's edge on a hot summer's day, dreading the cold of the water. Reluctantly, I reach for the door handle, ready to take the jump. Standing here won't change what I have to face. Not seeing her doesn't make her nonexistent.

The bedroom is bigger than my own at home. On the left hand wall sits a crib, while opposite that is a changing table and dresser. Pale yellow paint gives off a sunny atmosphere, accented by gold and orange curtains sheer enough to let the light in. A mural of monarch butterflies acts as an accent behind the crib, their wings so real they look ready to take flight.

An older woman sits in a chair on the farside of the room. Brynn babbles on the floor by her feet, moving dolls through a large playhouse in the corner. As soon as she notices me in the doorway, she drops everything and flies across the room, giggling the whole way.

"Mama!" she squeals, barreling into my legs and squeezing them tight.

I freeze. Torn about what to do with my hands, I let them hang awkwardly at my sides. Glancing over my shoulder, I find Carter watching us, blatantly worried. Caught, he tries to give me a reassuring smile, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes.

"I fed her breakfast just before you arrived," the woman says, getting to her feet.

"Thanks again for coming on short notice, Kerry." Carter holds the door open for her and hands her a stack of bills before she goes.

"Mama," Brynn says again, grabbing my hand with her tiny one. She pulls me to the dollhouse and tugs my arm down until we're both sitting. I'm too stunned to do anything but follow the instructions of a toddler.

She climbs into my lap without prompting and picks up two dolls nearest us. Her playing resumes while I sit motionless, as if she's a baby bear instead of a baby person. I catch the familiar scent of coconut coming off her hair, reminiscent of my conditioner back home. Tentatively, I stroke her curls, thinking it best to at least try. It comforts me a bit when she leans into my touch.

"Ben got her that," Carter says from the door. He walks across the room to sit in the chair Kerry previously occupied. "Second birthday present. He couldn't make it to her first party, so he went all out for number two."

"Mama," Brynn says again, pointing to a doll just out of reach. When I grab it for her, she babbles something incoherent before going back to playing.

"When's her birthday?" I ask, a question forming in the back of my mind.

"She'll be three in June." Carter studies me, his eyes searching. "You're wondering about her vocabulary."

"Yeah," I admit, my attention back on her. I don't know much about kids, but I remember Ben at her age. He was definitely talking in basic sentences by the time he was almost three.

"She's been tested. The developmental specialists have been concerned she isn't picking up more words, but they're hoping speech therapy will be enough to get her talking more. We're waiting until she's three before we reevaluate her."

"Mama!" she shrieks, throwing the dolls in the air.

"How many words does she know?"

There's a beat before he eventually answers. "One."

Brynn rolls out of my lap and wanders over to a toy box near her crib. She pulls out each toy carefully and sets them up in a line, making sure none of them touch. Something about it strikes a chord of familiarity. I want it to mean it's a memory trying to break through, but something in the back of my mind is gnawing at me. When I look at her, instead of feeling warmth and love, all I feel is dread. The thought fills me with overwhelming guilt, and a voice, soft and cruel, whispers in my ear.

This is how your mother feels when she looks at you.

I stumble to my feet, tripping in my haste. "I can't do this."

Carter's face morphes into one of panic. "Amber, it's ok—"

"No, Carter. I can't." It feels like my throat is closing up. "I can't be in here."

Brynn stops what she's doing, sensing the shift in my mood. "Mama?"

"Just give it some time," Carter pleads, reaching out a hand to stop me. I brush it away and cross the room, my eyes zeroed in on the door. I hear her trying to follow me, and against my better judgment, I look back.

Carter catches her around the middle before she can reach me, and her face crumples. Tears cascade down her cheeks as she beats at his arms; the happy little girl playing moments ago is gone.

The pain in Carter's eyes is too much. Pain for his daughter, who doesn't understand what's happening. Pain for me, who he can't help. Pain for himself, for not being what either of us needs right now.

Steeling my heart against it all, I race from the room and down the hall, Brynn's screams echoing in my ears until I reach the master suite and slam the door behind me.