Waking Up: A Smith Family Story

Waking Up

_____________________________

A Smith Family Story

Meredith P. Beeler

Copyright © 2015 by Meredith P. Beeler.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 09/14/2015

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Contents

PART 1

Chapter 1

Waking Up

She’s Awake

Chapter 2

Andrew

Honolulu, Hawaii, Three Weeks Ago

Chapter 3

Eleanor

Chapter 4

Andrew

Chapter 5

Eleanor

Phone Conversation No. 1

Saturday, 7:45 p.m.

Chapter 6

Eleanor

Chapter 7

Andrew

Chapter 8

Eleanor

Chapter 9

Andrew

Phone Conversation No. 2

9:50 p.m.

Chapter 10

Eleanor

Chapter 11

Andrew

Chapter 12

Eleanor

Chapter 13

Andrew

Eleanor

Andrew

Chapter 14

Eleanor

Chapter 15

Andrew

Phone Conversation No. 3

Thursday, 8:30 p.m.

Chapter 16

Eleanor

Phone Conversation No. 4

Saturday, 8:30 a.m.

Chapter 17

Eleanor

Andrew

Chapter 18

Eleanor

Andrew

Eleanor

Chapter 19

Andrew

Phone Conversation No. 5

Wednesday, 3:45 p.m.

Chapter 20

Eleanor

Andrew

Chapter 21

Eleanor

PART 2

Trip around the World

Chapter 22

Eleanor

Andrew

Phone Conversation No. 6

Saturday, 2:00 p.m.

Chapter 23

Eleanor

Andrew

Chapter 24

Eleanor

Chapter 25

Eleanor

Chapter 25

Andrew

Eleanor

Chapter 26

Eleanor

Andrew

Eleanor

Chapter 27

Eleanor

Andrew

Chapter 28

Eleanor

Chapter 29

Andrew

Eleanor

PART 3

Homecoming

Chapter 30

Andrew

Eleanor

Chapter 32

Andrew

Chapter 33

Eleanor

Chapter 34

Andrew

Eleanor

Chapter 35

Andrew

Honolulu: Over Two Months Ago

Eleanor

Chapter 36

Eleanor

Chapter 37

Andrew

Chapter 38

Eleanor

Andrew

Chapter 40

Eleanor

Epilogue

Carmel, California Four Months Later Annie Smith

Acknowledgments

For Adam,

my biggest fan.

I have found the one whom my soul loves.

–Song of Solomon 3:4

PART 1

Chapter 1

Waking Up

The rough shadows on the walls and the constant dripping of water somewhere out of my vision cause me to shrink back into the darkness. A sudden scream pierces the black, and that is when I feel the warm sunlight on my eyelids and sink further into the covers. It was just another dream, thank God. Just a dream. With a satisfied smile, I sit up to enjoy the rays of warmth. Instead of feeling the lingering effects of sleep, however, the first thing I feel is pain. Why am I so sore? I hate to exercise; it’s never been my thing, but that is exactly how I feel—like I have been lifting weights and running hard.

As I stretch my sore muscles, I have the sensation of something stuck in my throat. I cough and try to clear it but gag repeatedly. My back arches with the effort, and I thank my lucky stars I do not vomit on the bed. I slowly reach up, and my whole body tenses as I feel a small tube running out of my nose. I follow its course and realize it is attached to my cheek by a small piece of tape. Without further thought given to the tube’s purpose, I tear the piece of tape off my face and proceed to extract the tube from my nose. It must run all the way from my nostril to my stomach because it takes a good five seconds to pull the cursed thing completely out. I fall to the floor with violent dry heaves and only then do the alien-ness of my surroundings process through my hazy brain.

I do not recognize the room I am in or the bed I apparently slept in last night. It is queen-sized with two large pillows, one mashed with the effects of sleep and another which looks untouched. The bedding is soft and plain—a white sheet and a large white down comforter. This is not my room. However, I cannot conjure up the image of what my room looks like. I continue to take stock in my surroundings as I toss the clear plastic tube, which is covered in some sort of slime as far away from me as possible. My nerves begin to build with what I recognize as fear.

The rest of the room is very modest: a wooden nightstand on each side of the bed; a chest of drawers, also wooden but more modern, against one wall; a dresser on the wall facing the bed; an empty closet. I see a large window above the dresser which helps confirm it is sunny outside. I see small vegetation and some palm trees. Where am I?

As I calmly try to assess my situation, I listen for sounds around me and hear none: no one walking around; no TV babble; no running water; nothing to clue me into what might await me if I open the only door in the bedroom. I slowly get off the floor, giving my aching body time to adjust and notice I have on a thin white nightgown made of a silky material. Although the fabric is almost see-through, the length and neckline make it fairly modest. Underneath, I feel something bulky around my waist and pull the nightgown up to reveal an adult diaper. Thankfully, it is void of any waste, and I make just as short work of removing it as I did the plastic tube in my nose.

As I make my way to the large window, I pick out small things about the room I missed before. There are some generic pictures on the walls consisting of palm trees and sea shells, a small clock, a candle on a pedestal. Other than that, the room is empty. The view out the window is what one would expect to see at the beach: lots of sunlight and the palm trees I noticed before. However, instead of seeing an ocean in front of me, I see gently rolling hills, fields—I realize belatedly—with rows upon rows of grapevines. Finally I recognize what I am looking at—vineyards. They are, as far as I can see, in all directions—to my right there is a long road, a driveway maybe, which looks to be gravel and well worn.

I look down at the small clock and it says four thirty-one. It has to mean four thirty-one in the afternoon. I stand still a couple more minutes trying to determine my next move. I have no idea where I am or how I got here. My body is even more sore standing up than when I was in bed. I am starting to panic. What should I do? I try to pump myself up, give myself a pep talk as I make my way to the door. But as I am about to open it, fear once again grips my body, and I am frozen on the spot, unable to take another step. The cause of my fear is not my unknown surroundings and the strange situation I have awakened to, well, not only that, but I suddenly realize I have no clue who I am.

How have I not realized this before now? I was so wrapped up in figuring out where I was that I didn’t think I needed to figure out who I was. My body starts to shake, and my fingers are numb. I stumble and find myself curled into a ball on the carpet. Lying there, I start with the most basic detail, my name. I try to picture it written on a blank piece of paper. But as I go through the alphabet—A, Alice, Amanda, Allison, Amber; B, Bethany, Becky, Brittany; C, Caroline, Catherine, Catelyn—nothing sounds familiar, and I realize I could be lying here for a long time and never get an answer. I try another tactic and begin trying to picture my parents’ faces—their hair color, eye color, smiles—but once again, I come up blank. I struggle to conjure up my favorite color and my favorite food, even my favorite movie, but I have no luck.

Panic begins to rise from my belly, and I start counting aloud backward from one hundred. By the time I reach ten, I have decided to take a different approach. I’m not sure how long I have been lying here on the soft carpet, but I do know I will not find out anything if I stay in this room. The panic and fear subside, and a fierce determination replaces it. I pick myself off the floor, turn the doorknob, and walk into the unknown.

It turns out the unknown is just a medium-sized living room with a small kitchen attached. The first thing I notice is the brightness of the room. Windows are everywhere, and all the furniture is either white or a version of off-white. The second thing I notice is how clean the place is—sparsely furnished like the bedroom, a few lamps dominate the side tables, a couple of magazines are on the coffee table, too far away for me to see their covers. The furnishings all seem to be comfortable and well worn. The kitchen is also clean with a bowl of fruit on the table, and a jar filled with utensils sits next to the stove.

I slowly make my way through it, trying to find some kind of clue to where I am and, more importantly, who I am. I look to the refrigerator, hoping to see pictures or cards or notes, anything really, to give me a clue. There is one of those magnetic advertisement calendars of the whole year, and from it I learn it is 2013. At least I know something now.

I turn to look out of a large window above the sink, and I can tell the house is in an L shape. I can see into what I am referring to now as my room. To the far right of my bedroom window, the side of the house which was not visible, is another house, an extremely large house. From what I can see, it has two stories, maybe three if there is an underground basement. It seems to be the length of half a football field with a four-car garage on one side, my side, and what looks to be an atrium or indoor pool on the other. I must be standing in what is the guest house. As I stare back out the window and wonder again how I got here, the front door opens, and in stream a group of people.

Men and women, all laughing and talking loudly at the same time, file in through the door. I notice a few things about them while their attention is still on each other: there are two men, young, maybe in their thirties, and three women, two of them older, one of them younger, but all of them dressed like they just came from a country club—lots of khaki, plaid, and pastels. Suddenly, I am supremely aware of my thin nightgown as well as the fact that I am being confronted by six strangers. It seems like my uneasiness radiates toward them because at that moment, they all stop and stare at me. I have no idea what look is on my face, fear or confusion, but I do notice the look on their faces.

The older women in the front have small guarded smiles; the young woman looks like she is trying to comfort me but failing miserably and instead burning a hole through my skull. One of the young men, who has dark hair, has a smile that stretches across his face, crinkling his eyes, which are shockingly green. And then I notice the other man. He was in the back of the group but is now making his way toward me. He is average height, blond hair, and, just like the other man, has shocking green eyes.

I process all these details quickly through my overwhelmed brain, but they don’t stick. What does stick is the strange sense I have seen him before. He is giving me a look like he is trying to let me know what he is thinking, and then his facial expression changes into one of overwhelming joy. His forehead ceases to crease, his green eyes open wider, he smiles at me, showing straight, white teeth. As he quickens his step toward me, he looks at me like I should know him; like he knows me, better than anyone, and I have that strange feeling again. A sensation I am unfamiliar with bubbles in my chest, and I feel my mouth turning up at the corners with a small tentative smile.

******************************

She’s Awake

Just like the first time I saw Eleanor, I think she is the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. And just like that first time, I know she was meant for me—my angel comes from dream to reality.

Chapter 2

Andrew

Honolulu, Hawaii, Three Weeks Ago

The weather is perfect, I realize as I walk back to my hotel. The warm breeze is one of the reasons I am making my way through the bustling city at almost midnight. I only have a couple more days here, and I want to enjoy every moment I can outside of the convention center where I have spent the last two days. The stuffy, crowded, and sterile center is full of fellow doctors who, like me, would rather be outside basking in the sun or surfing the waves at one of the most beautiful beaches and oceans in the world. Instead, we are stuck inside the very dull center listening to one lecture after another describing the latest in medical technology. Before I rein in my pessimism, I give myself permission to grovel a few more minutes.

If I am being honest, I came to Honolulu to get away from doctors, medicine, and anything sterile. But being who I am, the middle child of a four-child family, I am prone to the occasional feeling of guilt. My first guilty feeling occurred as soon as I walked into my hotel. At the front desk, I was handed the conference information packet. I was tempted to dump it into the waste bin right in front of the doe-eyed young girl who was greeting each guest individually with a very cheery Welcome to the Honolulu Hilton. Before she could continue with her prerehearsed speech of The first lecture is scheduled for seven, following a meet-and-greet starting at five…, I quickly thanked her and headed straight to my room, cursing under my breath the whole time. If she didn’t remind me so much of Annie…

However, I know that no matter who was handing out that packet, doe-eyed or not, I would have attended the meet-and-greet, at least to get a free meal. I was pleasantly surprised with my hotel room, not only its cleanliness and modern furnishings not my style but also still nice. But the most impressive thing was the view. If I was a betting man, which I’m not, I would have wagered I had the best view in the entire hotel. The large picture window contained exactly that, a picture. The beautiful beach with perfect colored sand and the blue ocean filled with gently rolling waves seemed so close, I stood there with my mouth hung open, knowing with certainty, coming to this conference was the best decision I had made in months.

Looking back on the past year, really, I can see the pattern of depression slowly taking its toll on my wonderful life. And there is no denying my life is wonderful. I am a member of a huge, loving, crazy, hilarious, interloping family. My job is (or should be) one of the most satisfying occupations in the world. I am reasonably healthy and active—I play basketball on the weekends with a group of friends. I meet some friends at a local restaurant after work sometimes. Like I said, a wonderful life, well-rounded, balanced. But even surrounded by friends and family and work, I was starting to get restless. I knew at some point this would happen.

After years of military service, during wartime, the life of an everyday, average joe gets to be monotonous. And the worst part was I could see the depression creeping in, and I was helpless to stop it. This trip to Hawaii was supposed to be a momentous turning point in my life: I came here to decide whether or not to continue practicing medicine. When you are a doctor, it is not only your occupation but your life. And my life had been on a downward spiral.

There were very few lectures I planned to attend while in Honolulu. The rest of my time was to be spent lying on the beach, taking stock in my life, and figuring out what I wanted to do with the rest of it. I know at thirty-five years of age, I should have decided by now. Being in the position to start anew if I so choose, I relished the possibility in front of me. I hadn’t felt this excited about my future since I graduated high school.

But here I am, walking away from the second day full of lectures with not one single minute of beach time under my belt. After the meet-and-greet on the first night, I have attended each and every lecture, like some sort of information junkie. Every time someone new took the podium, I was there, at least in body. I had not scribbled one line of notes or received one handout from the hundreds of tables lining the inside of the convention center. And even now, with the fresh air blowing on my face and the smell of salt water in my nostrils, I don’t know why. I honestly think sitting on that beach and facing my future is too much for me to handle. I have been in some truly horrifying situations but none more so than the life of uncertainty that is laid out before me.

At just the moment I start to mentally kick myself, I hear a strange gurgling sound coming from my right. I don’t know if it’s my want of a distraction or the gut-wrenching sound of something not quite right, which causes me to turn down the darkened alley.

Chapter 3

Eleanor

As the man draws closer, his right hand comes up and gently cups my cheek. His eyes show restraint, and once again, I get the feeling he is trying to communicate his thoughts to me. He leans toward me, but I stand still, rooted to the spot, frozen by his proximity. He kisses me gently, and as he pulls away, his hand lingers on my face, and his eyes burn into me. Then he straightens up, moves his hand to my shoulder, which is now covered in goose bumps, and turns us both to face the group.

I would like to introduce you all to my bride, he says with assurance.

I am starting to panic. His bride, wait, what? I don’t know this man, and now I belong to him. His words send a shot of trepidation through me. His smile is so genuine that for now, I go with it. Just so I don’t appear weak and unsure in front of these strangers, I tell myself.

Everyone, this is Eleanor. Hearing my name for the first time doesn’t ring any bells, and the fear which is churning my stomach begins to creep into my limbs. The smiles on the faces of the people become a little more relaxed. The dark-haired man moves toward me and folds me into an embrace that chokes off my breath and makes my already sore body feel like it is going to crack. Somehow my husband realizes this and steps in, saying, Okay, Josh, she is officially welcomed to our family in a joking voice. Josh looks to my husband and grins again, throwing his arms around him and squeezing him just as tight as he squeezed me. They embrace for a second and then step apart, their posture like school boys.

I’m sure Eleanor is tired, everyone, says the dark-haired guy. We should leave the newlyweds to some peace and quiet. With that, everyone looks to me one last time, smiles, and heads for the door. The young woman stays with her eyes on me, but when the man named Joshua grabs her hand, she follows everyone else. The door shuts, and I am left alone with my husband.

I instantly put distance between the two of us, walking all the way behind the kitchen table, and he does not stop me. He looks straight into my eyes, and I stare back, willing myself not to seem timid or scared.

First off, my name is Andrew Smith, and you are safe here.

As I stare at this stranger, I feel unsure about everything. If he was truly my husband, wouldn’t I feel more of a pull to him, some kind of relief at seeing his face instead of simply dull recognition? Let’s say he is telling the truth, then what? What do I do with the knowledge that I am a wife? I’m starting to get overwhelmed. My legs are weak and beginning to shake.

On the other hand, what if this man is not my husband? Does he intend to do me harm? He could be preparing to torture and kill you; he did shove a tube down your nose, my imagination so generously supplies. I quickly clear my head and shoo away my conscious, which is becoming increasingly distracting, and continue to look at the man. I notice his eyes seem to be trying to convey again what he is thinking, but I am a little more wary now.

If you want to take a seat, I think I can explain what you are doing here to a certain degree. I sit because of my aching knees and the fact that I want to know information, and this man seems willing to give me some. I keep my hands on the table so I can defend myself if need be.

Once again, my name is Andrew Smith. I am a doctor at Carmel Methodist Hospital. Three weeks ago, I went to a conference in Honolulu, Hawaii. I was walking back to my hotel from the conference one night, and I heard moaning in an alley. I went to check it out and found you. You had been severely beaten, so I brought you back to my hotel room to take care of you. Andrew stops there, seeing the question in my eyes.

I know you are wondering why I did not take you to the closest hospital, and I have no answer for you except this—he takes a deep breath, gathering his nerves, I guess. I had the overwhelming feeling I needed to protect you. Don’t ask me why I felt that way. I just did. Call it a hunch, call it intuition or even years of experience. He braces himself on the back of the chair opposite me and continues. The extent of your injuries had me convinced this was not the usual mugging. I knew if I took you to a hospital, your care would be out of my hands, and I had to ensure you remained safe.

He stops for a minute, giving me time to process what he is saying. That’s when I realize why I am so sore. I have been beaten. I look down at myself, and instead of focusing on what I am wearing, I see the bruises on my arms and legs, which are just starting to turn an ugly shade of pale green. This is the most fear I have felt since I woke up this morning with no clue to where I was or who I was. I look down at my shaking hands and then back up at Andrew questioningly, and he nods his head, like he understands my confusion.

Do you remember anything? he asks, looking hopeful and worried at the same time.

I find my voice. Nothing of importance.

Everything has importance at this stage in the game, he assures me.

I woke up so sore. I thought I had been working out, but then I remembered I hate to work out.

Andrew gives a little chuckle. Me too. Anything else?

I just shake my head.

How can I not remember—I almost died. If what he is saying is true, though, it may be a good thing I don’t. Andrew looks pained as he straightens up and walks across the kitchen to grab something. Whatever he is going for doesn’t look dangerous, so I stay seated. When he returns, I recognize what he is holding: it’s an ID badge.

This is my badge for the hospital. It has all my information. If you would like to call and verify my employment, there is a phone by the door. I look at the badge and study it quickly. There is his name all right: Steven Andrew Smith, MD. A badge number follows, and then the hospital’s phone number and address are across the bottom.

Do you really believe this? I ask myself, and almost immediately, I realize I do. While listening to him, I paid close attention to his eyes. They say that the eyes are the windows to the soul, and I truly believe that. This man’s eyes were filled with desperation. And my guess is his particular desperation was hoping I would believe his story and trust him. That may be exactly what he wants—to trick me into thinking I can trust him. However, why the elaborate story if he was planning to hurt me—he didn’t have to tell me anything. Why would he introduce me to his family? Why would he give me his credentials and then allow me to call and check, especially since the phone is next to the door? I could make a break for it… even if I could manage to do more than hobble along.

I look up into his staring eyes and decide to take a leap of faith, metaphorically speaking. I believe you. The look of relief floods his face, and he is smiling some.

But I have a few questions: Where are we? How long have I been unconscious, and why the story about being your wife? I recognize the sounds of a Southern draw when I speak, meaning I must be from the South. He seems relieved that my questions are fairly easily to answer.

We are in Carmel, California. We flew from Honolulu on my parents’ private jet and arrived two weeks ago. You were too sick to leave Hawaii any sooner. You have been in and out of consciousness most of the time, but because of your injuries, I have been giving you a lot of medication.

I have been unconscious for three weeks!

The story about being husband and wife is a little more complicated but necessary, I promise you, he quickly adds. Even though we used a private jet, I had to have a cover story about why I was bringing an unconscious, beaten woman onto an airplane headed for the continental United States. The story came out of that need. How else would the situation made any sense? He gives another strained chuckle and continues.

After that, I told the pilot and flight attendants the truth, or most of it, that you had been attacked and beaten while on your way to meet me for dinner. They were curious about our marriage, wondering why I arrived in Hawaii a bachelor and was leaving a married man, but I told them we had been secretly dating for months, and you agreed to meet me at the conference—I proposed to you the night before the attack. He pauses to catch his breath or his courage—I’m not sure which—and then he looks down at the table.

"Okay, I said I believe you because you do seem to be telling me the whole truth. But you’ll understand if I don’t shower you with gratitude. Am I really supposed to believe that you, a complete stranger, out of the goodness of your heart, would rescue me from an alley, put your life on the line to take care