After a terrible accident, Gemma is left with no memory of the first twenty years of her life and nobody to turn to who can help her remember. When she loses her job, Gemma sets out on an adventure to find something worth living for. What she doesn'...
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ADAM BARKLEY IS getting married next month. He's going to wed the woman with perfect golden ringlets and an angelic smile, who he's holding close in what looks like an engagement photo displayed on my phone screen. One day, probably soon, they'll have children, and I should be upset. My heart should be racing and pounding against my chest as I burst into tears thinking about the future we could have had together. About what marrying the handsome Adam Barkley and raising a family together would have been like. That's how all the heartbroken women in romantic comedies cope with an ex seeing someone new.
But, unlike them, I'm not upset. Maybe I would be if I could remember our relationship. But I don't.
I don't remember anything that happened before the accident.
When I awoke, I found myself in an unfamiliar, strange-smelling bright room. That was when they told me about the accident. They being doctors clothed in ghostly blue uniforms and a dark-haired man clothed in black pants and a tweed jacket, who introduced himself as someone from Social Services.
The train I'm on shrieks as it comes to an abrupt halt. I'm thrown forward and out of my seat. In the process, my phone slips out of my hand, falling onto the mauve carpet, and I'm suddenly glad I'm alone in this compartment. I can only imagine the colour my cheeks would have turned if anyone had witnessed my little acrobatics show.
As my heartbeat returns to normal, I bend over to pick up the device from the floor. It's impossible not to notice the large brown spots on the slate grey floor. I'm pretty sure they're not part of a pattern, and I cringe as I grab hold of my phone, quickly checking for any damage to the screen before pocketing it.
I look out the window to my left and see that we're stopped at a railroad crossing. The barriers are down, and an incessant ringing sound warns traffic that a train is blocking the street. Only a few cars are behind the red and white-striped barriers, but I watch as the vehicles begin to pile up while the train remains still, like a forgotten toy.
Then the sirens start. There's a moment's delay before I observe cars struggle to pull over to the side of the now congested street so the ambulance can pass, its blue and red lights making dizzying patterns on the vehicles around it.
As the ambulance tries to maneuver its way through the tight maze, I lean over as far as I can to get a better idea of what's going on, pressing my forehead against the dirty train window. But my vision is restricted, and I can't see past a few compartments ahead.
A plethora of excited voices draws my gaze to the hallway, where passengers have begun to gather, talking amongst themselves and speculating the reason we've stopped. A few of them decide to march to the front of the train to find out. I'm about to join them when, overhead, the intercom crackles, followed by a man's voice.
"This is your conductor speaking. We're going to be stopped here for, um, a while." There's a pause filled with static as the driver mumbles incoherently, probably to somebody in the front car, before he returns. "We ask that you please remain seated in your designated seats while we sort out this, uh, matter. Thank you."
