LIGHTNING RIDER

by Maree Anderson

CHAPTER THREE

Voices pierced her consciousness, needling her brain like buzzing mosquitoes. For the most part she ignored them, but one voice—the one the others called Jake—piqued her slumbering senses. This one didn't chatter about people she didn't know, places she didn't remember, things she didn't recall doing. It described different things—intimate things. Remembered smiles and laughter. Sweat-soaked clothes and aching muscles and fierce joy at difficult challenges overcome. Hopes and dreams that couldn't possibly be hers... could they?

A tiny, restless part of her was curious, eager to know more. She tried to swim through comfortable darkness and claim the light, but she was too weak.

Her failure provoked a helpless frustration that woke something inside her. She split apart at an elemental level to accommodate a slowly unfurling alien presence. Even though she didn't consciously understand what was happening to her, some part of her instinctively fought the benign invasion.

Be calm for Light's sake! the thing inside her muttered. You're not making this easy. It wrestled with her, snatched control and set to work bolstering her strength and coordinating her body to perform the tasks her brain was desperately signaling it to do.

When her eyelids fluttered open, the alien presence recoiled, overwhelmed by a riot of too-bright colors. She blinked, and when she could finally focus, realized that she lay with her head lolling to one side, gazing at a table laden with bunches of colorful flowers. Hence the major visual overload.

"Lovely," she croaked, then coughed and groaned because her skull throbbed and pulsed, threatening to explode. Before she could voice another groan the pounding headache eased to a dull, bearable ache.

"Drink this." Cool, capable hands gently turned her head and popped a straw between her lips. She sucked up a few mouthfuls of water, whimpering as it soothed her parched throat.

"Enough?"

She nodded and the straw was withdrawn.

She concentrated on the face hovering above her, blinking at the blotches dotting the man's nose and cheeks, wondering what was wrong with her eyesight.

Oh. The blotches were freckles. "Who are you?"

"I'm Dr. Ross. And you're a patient here at Saint Mark's Hospital."

"Oh. Okay." Where the heck was that?

"Do you remember your name?" Dr. Ross flicked on a tiny penlight and shone its beam into her left eye. She opened her mouth to respond but not a word came out.

As he waited for her response, his forehead creased. He flicked off the penlight. "First name? Surname?"

Her stomach twisted with panic. How could she not know her own name?

The creases on the doctor's forehead deepened to furrows.

She sucked in a deep breath that shuddered through her body. Her own name. How hard could it be to remember? Her gaze darted round the room, seeking inspiration.

Your name is Andrea Marie Brennan.

The words echoed in her mind and she grasped them like a lifeline. "Brennan! Andrea. Marie. Brennan. That's my name." The syllables flew from her mouth in staccato bursts that ended with a gasp of sheer relief. But the relief choked off as the wrongness jolted her.

The name didn't feel right, it didn't fit her.

Her gaze skittered to Dr. Ross's face. He appeared satisfied by her outburst, so Andrea Marie Brennan would do for now. It would have to.

"Very good." He switched the beam to her right eye. "Do you remember what happened to you?"

Andrea's body remembered. That cellular memory was visceral and overwhelming. It rounded her eyes and overflowed them with horrified tears. It dug icy-cold fingers into her spine, and clenched her gut into a tight, agonizing knot. She widened her mouth in a silent plea of denial but the words spilled from her throat regardless. "I died!"

The instant she uttered the words it was as though a switch inside her flicked, cutting her off from the emotional trauma. She sank back against her pillows, drained and numb and confused.

Dr. Ross awkwardly patted her arm. The shocking intimacy of his fingers on her bare skin grounded her. "You didn't die, Ms Brennan. At least, not permanently. You were struck by lightning and your heart failed. But one of your companions gave you CPR. He kept you alive until the medics could get to you. You owe that man your life, Ms Brennan. Utah has the second highest number of fatal lightning strikes in America. So in my opinion, you had a lucky escape. Do you remember anything at all about what happened to you?"

"I—I remember bits and pieces. But there's a few, uh, blanks." That statement didn't come close to describing the terrifyingly huge blank where her memories should be.

"Don't fret about it," Dr. Ross said. "Aside from being... ah... unconscious for four days, you're recovering nicely. Now, please follow the movement of my finger with your eyes."

She dutifully did as she was told.

"Good. In fact, excellent. Your recuperative powers are nothing short of miraculous. Even the welts on your skin have healed with no scarring." He shook his head. His eyelids drifted closed and he pinched the bridge of his nose. Firmly. Hard enough to leave finger marks.

"If I hadn't seen you with my own eyes when you were first brought in, looking at you now, I'd find it impossible to believe you were the same woman."

That last was muttered under his breath. He blinked, focused on her again, and grinned—rather too brightly for her comfort. It seemed too forced to be genuine. And despite the grin his brow was wrinkled, like she was some strange and unusual puzzle to be solved. "If you're feeling up to it," he said, "there are some visitors who would like to see you."

Uh oh. She pleated the sheet with her fingers. "O-okay. Sure."

Dr. Ross strode to the doorway and beckoned. "I'm afraid I can't allow you to stay long. She needs her rest."

Four people surged past him, only to catch themselves and halt in an untidy bunch at the foot of Andrea's bed. Raw tension thrummed about them as they waited, their eyes shadowed with concern, facial muscles taut and stiff, bodies screaming barely constrained anxiety.

Andrea scanned their faces. These people were important to her, that much she instinctively understood. But although their faces tormented her with I-know-you-from-somewhere-and-your-name-is-on-the-tip-of-my-tongue recognition, she came up with nothing but blanks.

Panic blossomed into nausea so acute that she pressed her palms to her stomach and clamped her lips shut. Within seconds, the nausea—like her headache—eased. But she had no opportunity to ponder that strangeness. She had visitors. And from their raised eyebrows, nervous chewing of lips and fluttering of hands, they were waiting for her to do something, say something.

Andrea hazarded a guess a delighted smile was what these people wanted from her. She delivered, and the effort it took to force that smile made her facial muscles throb and ache.

"Hi." Her greeting sounded more like a thready sigh than a word.

She cleared her throat and tried again. "Hello."

The older woman's red-rimmed eyes blinked back tears as she moved closer to tuck a stray lock of Andrea's hair behind her ear.

Andrea forced herself not to shy away from that gentle, intimate gesture.

"Andie. We've been so worried about you, sweetheart."

Andie?

Ah. It must be a diminutive of Andrea.

Andie. She liked it, preferred it. This name fit. The knowledge lightened her heart, and she smiled again—genuinely this time.

"How are you feeling, sweetheart?" the woman asked, all maternal concern and misty-eyed tenderness.

Andie's stomach knotted again, and her throat felt raw and tight. She was supposed to know this woman. But instead of memories there was only that frightening nothingness.

She felt an uncomfortable probing sensation inside her head, and then the helpful voice inside her head whispered, Her name is Jane Brennan. She's your mother. Everyone calls her Janie.

Thank you, God! Her subconscious was filling in the blanks and—

Hang on. Why did her subconscious sound like some sexy starlet of yesteryear with a pack-a-day habit? Weird. But then, everything about this situation was a little weird.

Andie fixed her gaze on the woman who was supposed to be her mother, searching for something familiar in the worried green eyes, the facial features with their cap of curly dark brown hair.

Nothing. Zilch.

"I'm okay," she finally said.

An awkward pause lingered. The unsaid word hung over her, shamed her, but her tongue balked at forming the word "mom".

"Oh, sweetie!" Janie—her mother—caught her in a gentle hug.

Andie fought to relax and accept the embrace from a virtual stranger.

"It's so wonderful to have you back with us." Janie sniffed and the threatened tears spilled over. "When we heard, we were so afraid— We thought— We never should have pushed you into taking that bike tour. We should have respected your wishes and let you be. This is all our fault."

"It was just a freak accident," Andie croaked. "Could have happened to anyone."

"Lord." Janie squeezed her eyes shut and clasped her hands together. "I don't profess to be a religious person, but thank you! Thank you for bringing our little girl back to us."

This experience, this moment, was both incredibly touching and horrible. On the one hand, Andie basked in a sense of belonging. Having someone care about her so much the prospect of losing her had been agonizing was a comfort. But she also felt like a huge fraud. She didn't deserve to be cared for so deeply because she didn't remember Janie Brennan, the woman who was supposed to be her mother. Heck, she didn't remember any of these people. To them, she looked like Andrea Brennan, sounded like Andrea Brennan, maybe even acted like the Andrea Brennan who liked to be called Andie. But she wasn't that woman.

Not yet. But I'm working on it.

Andie jerked and bit back a gasp. That thought had definitely not been hers. And yet it had been uttered inside her mind, as clear as day, by that husky alto.

No way was that her subconscious. It was too alien, too unlike her. Too much like....

Too much like a fully cognizant, separate personality. Which could only mean—

Ohhh crap. There was no other explanation. She was nuts—the victim of a lightning strike who'd died, been resuscitated, and developed a split personality from the trauma.

Stinging, horrified tears trailed down her cheeks, dampening her hospital gown and mingling with those shed by the woman who was her mother—the mother she didn't remember having, but yearned to remember so desperately it hurt.

Panic compressed her chest like a vice. Her breathing hitched and faltered. Her vision wavered, mirage-like. She couldn't think. She couldn't move.

She. Couldn't. Breathe.

Be calm.

That voice. It rolled through her and her panic receded—washed away and faded like some calming drug injected into her veins had just taken effect.

The male visitor, a grizzled bear of a man with piercing green eyes and iron gray threaded through his auburn hair, offered up his gruff brand of comfort. "Now, now, Janie. Crying all over her won't do her no good. Our girl's gonna be just fine. Got the constitution of an ox—gets that from my side of the family."

His gaze seemed be pleading for Andie to do something—anything—to ease Janie's distress.

The big man is Dave. He's your father.

The panic over hearing that voice in her head surged, threatening to break free of whatever held it leashed and overwhelm her. Again it was smothered and soothed, along with her crazily tripping heartbeat, and the adrenaline that had been zinging through her veins and leaving a metallic taste in her mouth.

She did her utmost to ignore the implications of that too-helpful voice and the physical reactions she could not explain away. She had to concentrate on what was real and true.

Janie was her mom, and this sweet, older guy was her dad. They seemed like nice people—good people. Their concern for her warmed the chill of fear frosting her heart.

Okay. She could do this. She could pretend that everything was peachy keen. She was good at pretending. She didn't know how she knew that, but she did.

"I'm okay. It's all right... Mom. I'm okay."

Dave winked at her. "Told you we didn't need to book the Candlewood for an entire month," he said to his wife. "The way Andie's recuperating, she'll be outta here, and we'll all be back home in Moab in a coupl'a days."

Janie rolled her eyes. "Yes, dear. But Dr. Ross did say it would be longer, and we did get an emergency accommodation rate when we booked for the month. Really, who could have imagined our Andie would recover so quickly?" She slanted Dr. Ross a sideways glance, as if begging for reassurance.

"Not me, that's for certain." Dr. Ross's smile was a tad rueful. "But this is one of those times I'm very pleased to be proven wrong. No more than half an hour, okay? Your Andie might be making a miraculous recovery but she still needs to take things easy." To Andie he said, "I'll check in with you a bit later, Ms Brennan."

"Thank you, Doctor, for everything!" Andie's mother was quick to say.

The other two people in the room—both young women—took the doctor's exit as permission to crowd around Andie's bed and grin down at her.

Your younger sisters, Sherrilyn and Marnie, the voice whispered.

Andie didn't know whether to be grateful for the knowledge, or whimper because the way it was being delivered scared her spitless. She swallowed and tried to force her frozen-with-shock facial muscles into a welcoming smile.

"Hey, sis, couldn't you've come up with a better excuse to take time off work?" The question came from the one who, so far as Andie could tell, seemed to be the younger of the two women.

Her hazel eyes sparkled with mischief. "Your hopefully-soon-to-be-ex boss, Supreme Asshole of the World, was none pleased when I told him you wouldn't be coming back for a while."

"Geez, Sherrilyn," the older of the two piped up. "Maybe he wouldn't have gotten quite so riled up if you'd told him Andie almost died before you told him she wasn't gonna be back at work on Tuesday." She sniffed, nose in the air and nostrils flaring, the gesture successfully conveying disdainful superiority. "I told Mom I should've been the one to ring him. I'm much more professional on the phone than you—being almost a fully qualified receptionist and all."

 "Yeah, and being almost a fully qualified receptionist and all—" Sherrilyn mimicked her sister with devastating accuracy "—you would've just told him straight out. Whereas my way was heaps more fun. Andie, I wish you coulda heard ole Dickwad ranting and raving about how much you were 'inconveniencing' him. It was a massively impressive load of codswallop."

The older girl—Marnie—opened her mouth, as if to make some pithy retort, then promptly dissolved in giggles. "Gosh, Andie. Did Sherrilyn ever wind Dickwad up something chronic. She had him on speaker-phone, and I swear he sounded like he was gonna have an apoplexy."

"A what?" her dad asked.

Marnie giggled. "Pop something in his brain, Dad."

"Oh," Dave said, pursing his lips and nodding. "Dickwad nearly had a brain-fart. From what I hear, the man has 'em quite often." He winked at Andie. "Ain't that right, Sweet-Pea?"

Huh? Sweet-Pea?

When you were a little girl, you loved eating peas straight from the pod.

Andie bit her lip to prevent herself from screaming aloud, and begging that terribly knowledgeable voice to shut up and leave her in peaceful ignorance. She noticed Dave's expectant expression and made a real effort to pull herself together. "Uh, yeah. He, uh, sure does."

When Dave Brennan smiled he smiled with his whole face. It was infectious. And Andie couldn't help it, she smiled back without any effort at all.

"Dagwood misses you something dreadful, sis," Marnie said. "Pity you're not allowed dogs in that fancy schmancy Salt Lake apartment of yours. He's just not been the same since you upped and moved." Her tongue lolled out and her eyes rolled sideways as she whimpered a truly pitiful imitation of the dog.

"I-I miss him, too." Andie wondered what sort of dog Dagwood was. And why she'd left him behind.

He's a soppy ole black Labrador.

God. She clenched her fists and counted to five beneath her breath. She was not going to lose it in front of these people—her family. She'd put them through enough already.

"Maybe when you're discharged, you could come home with us and stay a spell." Janie's tone was trying for casual, as if she didn't mind either way, but her expression was so hopeful it was painfully obvious she wanted Andie to agree. "Just until you're fully recovered," she blurted, dropping her gaze and picking non-existent lint from her skirt.

Janie's suggestion was greeted with such enthusiasm by the rest of her family, that Andie found herself nodding and smiling in agreement. And wondering why it meant so much to them that she came home.

Had she left under a cloud and torn this close-knit family apart? She wished she could ask. But she didn't have a chance to brood, because her family's joy washed over her, warming her heart while she strove to follow the conversations, to keep track of who was who, and commit all their names and faces and quirks to memory.

Janie and Dave. Mom and Dad. My mom and dad.

Sherrilyn. Youngest sister.

Marnie. The middle child. Almost-qualified receptionist.

And herself, Andrea-Andie. A woman with a dog named Dagwood, and a boss named... Dickwad?

While its Host was distracted, the entity inside her chipped away at the mental barriers Andrea Marie Brennan had erected—the protective barriers that walled away her memories, her hopes and her dreams. It was easier going when the Host's mind was distracted.

And then—

Success.

Andie's heart rate monitor hiccupped, and then resumed its steady blipping. She barely registered the strange little anomaly, for in the blink of an eye, twenty-five years of memories and knowledge gushed out to take up residence in her mind. Everything she had ever learned, everyone she had ever met who'd made an impression on her, memories of the child she had been, knowledge of the woman she was now and the woman she yearned to be—

This immense information dump might well have tipped Andie over into true insanity, except that the consequences to her frail human psyche were tempered by the entity trapped inside her. It helped Andie assimilate and endure everything she had experienced, every significant encounter that had molded and shaped her. And it helped her to cope with the remembering—especially the one memory that was so heartbreaking, Andie had not yet come to terms with it. The entity could have erased that memory-thread, but although it wished its Host could be spared the pain of loss, it knew that grief and endurance and acceptance were an essential part of being human.

It did hold something back, though. After all Andie had been through, it believed it would be harmful for her to face the truth about one significant person in her life. So for now, it reduced