Hedging (A Smith and Wetzon Mystery)

but the sadness lingered. She was in a chair in a green room, walls bare. A window faced another building. No blinds. The sad song seemed to have replaced the noise in her head. She was grateful.
    “Can you hear me?”
    She started. The voice was faint. Someone. A small, dark-haired woman was sitting opposite her, pen in hand, a sheaf of papers on her lap. The papers rustled. Why hadn’t she noticed before?
    “Can you hear me?” the dark-haired woman said again. “I’m Barbara Bullard.”
    “Yes, I hear you, but not well. Where am I?” Her head, even her cheekbones, throbbed; her eyes burned. She pulled the blanket closer.
    “You had an accident. You’re in Mount Sinai Hospital.”
    She moved her limbs slowly, testing. Her head hurt. “What kind of accident?” Something like what happened to the woman when the homeless man hit her with a brick? “What happened to me?”
    “You were found in Central Park during the snowstorm, without a coat, cut and bruised and suffering from burns and exposure.”
    “I don’t understand. How long have I been here?”
    “Three days.”
    “I think I’d like to go home.”
    “Where do you live?”
    “I—” Where did she live? “I live on—” The itch started behind her ears, traveled to her neck and arms. She tugged at her gown, washed her hands in air, then groped around her on the floor. “It’s in my wallet. Where’s my bag?”
    Barbara Bullard made notes on one of her papers. “You didn’t have it when they brought you in. That’s why you’re here. You had an accident. If you’ll give us your name, we’ll get in touch with your family.”
    Well, of course, wasn’t that ridiculous? “My name is—” She didn’t know her name. She staggered up, hands flailing, knocking over the chair. “I don’t know my own name. What’s happening to me?” Fear clumped in her breast, choking her. She gasped for air, straining her throat, tears streamed.
    “You’re hyperventilating,” Barbara Bullard said, righting the chair and helping her sit. A paper bag materialized and was held over her patient’s face. “Breathe now, slowly and deeply. It’ll stop.”
    It did stop, but the terror didn’t. It broke over her in gigantic waves. She surrendered.
    She awoke in sunshine, remembering the woman in her dream, standing up high, singing her sad song. The song faded. She lay still, getting a sense of herself, the odd metallic taste in her mouth. The bed was not hers. The room was not hers. The walls were a soft green. Her mind was empty.
    “Good morning. How are you feeling this morning?”
    The woman who came into the room had curly red hair and freckles.
    “You’re Dr. Hirsch.”
    “Good, you remember. We gave you something to calm you and you had a good night’s sleep.”
    “What time is it?” Her stomach gave a fierce growl.
    “Eleven o’clock. You must be hungry.”
    “I guess.” She tried to raise herself, but her elbows were sore and she was shaking again. “What I am is scared. What’s wrong with me? Why can’t I remember anything?”
    “You remembered me. You remembered my name. What you have is a dissociative disorder—temporary amnesia—caused by some kind of trauma.”
    She fought back the tears. It seemed that was all she was doing. Crying. “I’m sorry to be such a baby. What am I going to do? I have nowhere to go.”
    Dr. Hirsch handed her a tissue. “First, you’re going to have something to eat, then I want you to sign yourself in voluntarily. You’ll stay here. We’re going to help you find your way back.”
    “I can’t believe this is happening to me. Where is my bag? Was I mugged?”
    “You had no ID when you were brought in. Nothing in your pockets.”
    “In other words I am Jane Doe.” Bitter words. She forced herself to sit up.
    Dr. Hirsch reacted. “You get a gold star. Until we find your name, we’ll call you Jane, temporarily. Do you mind?”
    “Do I have a choice?” She threw back the blanket. “My God, I’m wearing a hospital thing. I can’t just lie here. Where are my clothes? I want to get dressed.”
    “You were wearing a black dress and black pantyhose. They’re not in good shape. We’ll have to find you something for the time being.”
    “Not in good shape?” She tried to remember. They’d mentioned her clothes ... something about blood. “Blood! It was blood!”
    “Your clothing was covered with dried blood and other matter.”
    “Blood? Mine?”
    “You had no wounds that would