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Remember Me? [CH4]

Title: Remember Me?

Timeline: Post season-6 finale.

Summary: When Liz wakes up in the hospital having lost three years of memory, she’s about to find out just how much things have changed. Inspired by Sophie Kinsella’s novel of the same name. All belongs to her and Tina; I own nothing!

Pairing: Jack/Liz


A/N: Sorry, this is kind of a filler chapter. Jack will show up soon, I promise!!

“Ms. Lemon? Ms. Lemon…” The red haired girl glances at the nurse nervously, who simply shrugs in abdication, and leaves the room to make her rounds.

LIZ!” Angelique finally shouts, effectively startling Liz from her thoughts.

“Oh. Sorry.” Liz clears her throat, and smiles apologetically. Clearly this person is someone close to her, though she looks completely unfamiliar.

She is also trying to help Liz, which means that she may not know her too well.

“So, um, Ange—?”

“—You call me Angie, usually,” she breaks in, nodding. A hint of hurt dances across her cheerful face, and Liz feels bad that she can’t remember her.

“Uh huh. Angie, then. What do you do for me, exactly?” Liz asks, thinking that maybe this isn’t so bad. It’s not like she’s never bossed anyone around before.

“I handle all of your appointments, both professional and personal, as well as organizing transportation, hotels, activities and so forth when you are abroad. I also perform small tasks around the office during your daily workday; errands and such.” Angie recites this all with brisk certainty, and Liz is impressed at both her obvious competency and the fact that her (new) job requires such a person to ease the load.  

“Oh, uh, wow. That’s great. I think.” There’s something on her mind, but she’s embarrassed to bring it up. She doesn’t want to sound vain.

Aw, the hell with it. “Can I, um, ask you a question?” she begins, wincing.

Angie beams back. “Of course!”

“Have I ever…um, on my face…have I had work done?” she whispers the last part. Liz had Botox that one time, but come one, it was on a whim! She would never do actual surgery.

With a bubbly laugh, Angie hands over a compact mirror. “I think you probably just had a reaction to some anesthesia or something, Ms. Lemon. Look, the swelling’s already going down.”

She’s right; her mouth is pretty much back to normal (besides the alien teeth). Liz was obviously just exaggerating in her brain, which is not unusual for her. She gives a sigh of relief and hands the mirror back.

“Thank god.”

She has a million other questions, but only casts her eyes around the room while she tries to organize her thoughts. Her gaze lands on the abandoned briefcase, and at her questioning look, Angie claps her hands.

“Okay, let’s get started! I’ve brought some things that will hopefully jog your memory. I hope this works,” she says eagerly. The girl is a real bundle of energy, much to the delight of Liz and her still aching head.

The first object that Angie removes from the briefcase is a magazine. Liz can’t see the title yet, and she figures that it’s just to help her with some more current events.

“What’s that?” she asks.

Angie flips the cover over with a pleased grin, and Liz’s eyes widen at what appears to be the current month’s issue of Forbes.

“It doesn’t come out for another few days, but they sent you a copy, of course. The phone has been ringing off the hook!”

Liz doesn’t respond, and with good reason: she can’t breathe.

The caption reads 20 of the Decade’s Best Executives. The subject of the cover is photographed in partial profile, wearing a serious expression and her hair a severe French twist.

It is also, unmistakably, her.

“What the what?” she mutters, and grabs it.

Angie gives her an admiring look. “You’ve come a long way, haven’t you?”

Liz tears herself away from the magazine and looks up. “What?”

“When you first hired me, about a week after you moved on from that comedy show, there was no way you fit the position—yet. You were scraping by on the good recommendation of Jack Donaghy, and sheer luck! But we worked out the kinks, and now you’re absolutely outstanding,” she winks, tapping the magazine.

Liz narrows her eyes at the mention of ‘that comedy show’. “Really.”

“Yep. You were fine at the nuts and bolts of the job—which I recall you being surprised at—but we had to phase out the manly sweaters and scrunchies,” Angie says matter-of-factly. “You know, work on your image.” Her face turns pensive as she tries to remember what else they changed. “That’s when you had your teeth done, and the Lasik,” she finishes.

She doesn’t need glasses anymore? Liz isn’t sure how the feels about that. She’s worn them since she was five. They’re practically a part of her.

Next, Angie pulls some photographs out of the briefcase, and Liz leans forward eagerly. This is it—these pictures will tell her missing story. They’ll show her transformation from ol’ Liz Lemon into…whoever she is now.

“Fire away!” She puts down the magazine, suddenly excited. “Show me my life!”

“Okay, this is you formally accepting the position at NBC,” Angie says, holding out the photo. Liz peers at it with interest, and sees that it’s a picture of Jack shaking hands with her, in what looks like a dining room. She’s dressed rather business-y, smiling seriously into the camera. She’s disappointed to find that she doesn’t remember it at all. Why can’t she remember her show ending?

“This is several months later, when you had them close down the Kouchtown factory after declaring it a waste of resources,” Angie flips over a photo of a factory surrounded by construction equipment. “Wisely, I might add,” she winks.

Well, duh. Of course Liz would clean up Jack’s messes after he’d left. Again, she wonders what happened to him. He looked very much alive in the other photo, to her relief.

“And this is you at a charity ball…” There she is again, wearing a slinky black evening dress, dancing with a tuxedoed man in a grand-looking ballroom. Wait a moment. Doesn’t she…know him from somewhere?

She does! She definitely recognizes him! At last.

“Ms. Lemon?” Angie has noticed her expression. “Is this jogging your memory?”

“Yes!” she can’t help a joyful smile. “I remember that guy. I’m not sure who he is exactly, but I know him.” She jabs at the handsome man in the photo.

“That’s George Clooney,” Angie says gently. “He was a fellow guest at the party.”

“Oh.” Liz bites her lip, frustrated. “Right.”

George Clooney. Of course it is. She flops back onto the pillow, annoyed that she doesn’t remember dancing with George freaking Clooney.

Speaking of handsome older guys…

“You mentioned Jack before.” Her brow wrinkles. “What happened to him?”

Angie frowns back. “Your boss? What do you mean?”

“He’s still my boss? But I thought…” Liz says with a hint of apprehension.

“Mr. Donaghy is Kabletown’s CEO. If I recall correctly, you took on his position as VP less than a day after he was promoted. I’m sorry, it’s easy to forget that you’ve, you know, forgotten,” Angie says with a strained smile. (No doubt thinking of all the “progress” that’s been undone.)

Something isn’t right here. Liz remembers the diabetic episode with Don Geiss all those years ago, and it was definitely decided that she was not fit for the executive position. What changed her mind? God, she needs to talk to Jack.

When she voices this to Angie, the redhead shakes her head vigorously. “No, no, no, you are not to step foot in the office until you’ve had at least a week at home to rest.”

Liz frowns; she wasn’t planning on going to 30 Rock. She knows where Jack lives, and heaven help him once she has the chance to grill him on his whereabouts throughout her little hospital visit.

But her head does hurt. Liz has always had a low threshold for pain. And some time in her apartment sounds really good.

“Okay, I guess,” she agrees.

“I’ve brought you some clothes,” Angie continues, and pulls a pair of dark denim jeans and a blouse from her bag. Liz glimpses the tag (Rag & Bone, whatever that is) and can’t help exclaiming with wide eyes.

“I’m a four? Wow!”

When she looks up, Angie is studying her.

“It’s strange,” she says at last. “You’re not yourself.”

“What do you mean?” She certainly feels like herself. Besides the external effects of the…time jump, anyways.

“You’re more…cheerful, I think.” Liz’s eyebrows shoot up. “Not that you’re ever bad-tempered. Just serious, usually,” the girl adds hastily.

Interesting. Maybe her pleasure center had been hammered out of her by the new job or something.

After a few minutes of silence, her thoughts flit elsewhere; since Angie brought up her apartment a few minutes ago, Liz has been itching to leave. Fortunately, at that moment, a nurse walks in.

“Elizabeth, some flowers for you,” the nurse says quickly, rolling a cart full of enormous bouquets.

“No way, from whom?” She grabs a few cards.

Best Wishes and get well soon.

From the microwave programming department.

Wow, entire departments are sending her flowers.

Liz, get well soon! You’ll soon be back to three hundred reps! From all your friends at the gym.

Three hundred reps? Her?

Well, that accounts for the muscular legs. She reaches for the next card—and at last, it’s from people she actually knows.

Get well soon, Liz. All best wishes from Jenna, Pete, and everyone at America’s Kidz Got Singing.

Okay, so that’s what happened to Jenna and Pete. As she reads the familiar names, she feels a warm glow. It’s stupid, but she almost thought her friends had forgotten all about her.

With that, Liz looks up from the flowers.

“When can I leave?” she asks the nurse impatiently.

“Well.” The nurse flips through her notes. “You’re in good shape physically. I would say you’ll probably be discharged by this afternoon. I’ll make an appointment for you in a month’s time as an outpatient. Until then, the best place for you is home.” The woman’s tired face molds into a smile. “I’m sure that’s where you want to be, too.”

Angie finds her a meatball sub, and a few hours later, Liz is allowed to leave. As they head out the door, she pauses in her steps. When she exits this hospital, she won’t be able to hide any longer.

“What if I never remember?” she asks in a small voice. “What if all of these memories are lost for good?”

As she looks into Angie’s concerned face, she suddenly feels very vulnerable. It’s like that time Frank downloaded porn on her computer and it crashed and lost all her emails and stuff, only this is a million times worse. The tech guy kept telling her she should have backed up her files. But how do you back up your own brain?



( 2 comments — Leave a comment )
Jul. 26th, 2012 03:28 am (UTC)
This is turning into a long one! Can't wait for the next big reveal.
Jul. 26th, 2012 05:26 pm (UTC)
Thank you for the comment. Yes, I do tend to go off on tangents despite my efforts to keep it short and sweet...
( 2 comments — Leave a comment )