Me (Sydney), I think

"They said it would only be minor, the damage," I hear. "But I guess doctors make mistakes sometimes." Her cheeks are shining from the tears now as she looks at me.

The woman said that I was in an accident. She didn't know what happened, but she found me in the park a week ago and I was unconscious and bloody. She said thatshe had driven me to the hospital and the doctors saved my life. (It was then that I noticed she didn't draw attention to the fact that she had too, indirectly.)

"They said you might suffer some brain damage, and there was a high chance of paralysis," she continues, "but they didn't say it would be this bad..." The woman looks at me. "Not to remember anything..." she breathes. "Oh, Sydney..."

I figured I had to tell her what I knew. So I did. I told her that I couldn't remember anything. I could remember English and that was it. And now she keeps marveling about this about every five seconds.

She strokes my hair. In this gesture, I know she must be my mother. But I still don't want to call her Mom, so..."What's your name?"

She stops stroking my hair, then looks at me. I can see another tear in her eye. "Lianna," she says. "Lianna Marks."

She has a pretty name, I think to myself. "And my name is Sydney."

"Yes," she breathes. "Sydney Ribella Marks."

My name. Though I was hearing it for the first time I could remember, I liked it. "Ribella...what does that mean?" I could almost remember. It frustrated me how I could almost remember.

"It's Italian," she--my mother--replies. "It means 'rebel'. When you were born, you wouldn't let the nurses bathe you. I had to do it all myself." She smiles at the memory. "We already knew what we had wanted to name you, but we still hadn't thought of a middle name. You father is--is Italian, so it was decided." She falters
over the last sentence. Now I'm curious.

"Why isn't my dad here then?" I ask. "Since you are, I mean."

She gives me a sad look. "Oh, sweetie...your father, he--he left us when you were very little."

"You mean he died?"

"No, he left. One day he was here, the next he was gone." She wipes her eyes. "I don't really think he wanted to stay anyway after your sister was born. But then he had to stay for you. And then--" She takes a deep breath, then continues. "And then he left."

Oh. I understand her body language: Anytime your father is mentioned, I will cry until I can't cry no more. But she mentioned a sister...

"My sister?"

"Yes, Fiona. She's eighteen, four years older than you. She's on her way here; it just took her some time to book a flight. She's in college in Japan." The woman--I mean my mother--looks like she doesn't want to talk anymore, so I do the one thing I can do without being able to move my arms.

I fall asleep.