“Don’t need a memory to see how uncomfortable you are right now.”

  John moves to the edge of the seat, his gaze sharpening. “There are some things…about your past. Our past. We need to wait until we are home to discuss them.”

  A tickle of anxiety rides up my spine. “What kind of things?”

  “Just some…” He takes in another breath. “Can you trust me? Just trust that I love you and will do everything in my power to protect you and James. Trust me and I will keep you safe. I promise.”

  His eyes are holding mine. Anchoring me into this moment, into this place. “I do trust you,” I say.

  John’s lips twitch into a half-smile. “Thank you. I promise, I will explain everything to you.”

  My gaze drops down to James again. “You love us,” I say, sensing it so deeply. “You love me and James with all your heart.”

  John nods. “Yes,” he says, his voice firm.

  “But you didn’t kiss me goodbye?” I look back up at him.

  John’s brows raise and his eyes widen, like he’s surprised at the suggestion. “No,” he admits.

  “Is our marriage on the rocks?”

  He huffs a laugh. “Not exactly. Just…trust me.”

  “Don’t ask questions? About anything?” My voice is unsure. What the fuck is going on?

  “Not until we get home, can you do that?” I don’t answer right away. It’s a big ask. Confusion swirls in my mind—like I’m trying to build a puzzle but have no reference picture or helpful starting points. If I can’t even find the edge pieces, how will I figure out the whole?

  John stands, paces away, looks out the little window in the door as if checking if anyone is coming. He turns back to me, his jaw firm, eyes intense. “I’m sorry, I really am. But,” he glances at the door again, then comes to my bedside. He puts his hand on the armrest and meets my gaze. “You’ve trusted me with your life. And I need you to keep doing that. I will explain everything when we are home.”

  His intensity is infectious. Fear tingles over my skin, but also excitement. I bite my lip. John’s eyes drop to it for a moment and then race back to my eyes, as if he’s not allowed to look at my lips. “Okay,” I say finally. He lets out a breath and his shoulders drop.

  “Thank you,” he says, leaning back and running a hand through his hair, pushing it off his forehead. A flash of something—fingers running through dark hair splashed with silver flickers across my mind’s eye. A surge of grief swells inside of me. I take in a sharp breath, the pain so intense it’s actually physical.

  “You okay?” John asks.

  I blink at him, coming back into this moment. “I don’t know,” I answer honestly. I don’t know anything.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Dr. Smith comes in the following morning with good news. My brain is not bleeding!

  “So what does this mean in terms of her memory returning?” John asks. The bedding he used last night is neatly folded over the back of the chair. His hair is messy and his eyes are puffy. Stubble coats his jaw. The whole look is mussed morning man, and I’m loving it.

  James plays in his crib, babbling to himself as he scrunches a cloth book about animals—it’s got tails and ears and he seems to enjoy tasting each one.

  “I’m not sure,” Dr. Smith admits, her tone mildly annoyed. This is not a woman used to unsureness. Try losing your entire history, lady. “I’m going to refer you to a specialist. A neurologist colleague of mine.”

  John nods, then glances at me. I offer a small smile. Sure, we’ll go see the specialist…after you tell me what the fuck is going on. “So can I take her home?” he asks, turning back to Dr. Smith.

  “Yes,” she says.

  “What about the rest of the rabies vaccine course?” he asks. Good question.

  “Obviously, there is a concern that she will have another reaction. But rabies is incurable once it takes hold. And fatal.”

  Dum. Dum. Dum.

  John looks over at me, a smile playing across his lips. Did I just make that sound out loud?

  “So what do you suggest?” John asks, returning his focus to Dr. Smith.

  “I’d move forward with the vaccine course under close observation and with premedication. The follow-up shots are not the same as what Mrs. Johnson reacted to, so you may be fine.” Comforting… “We can give you the first one now and then make follow-up appointments with your primary care doctor.”

  “Sure.” I smile. “Not that I know who that is.” I look over at John.

  “I’ve got you,” he says with a smile. My heart does a little pitter-patter thing. Jeez, my husband is cute.

  A new nurse brings in the premedication—a bag of antihistamine that goes directly into my vein through one of the IV tubes. John takes James out of the room so they can give me the shot. If I have another seizure, or other allergic reaction, my son doesn’t need to witness it. So it’s just me and a nurse I don’t know when she plunges the needle home and I wince.

  But that’s it. Nothing else happens. I’m totally fine. And a few hours later a nurse is wheeling me out to the curb. John pulls up in an SUV and I get into the passenger seat. James coos from the back. “He’ll be asleep in about two minutes,” John jokes. “Loves napping in the car.”

  “How far is our home?”

  “About ten minutes.” John pulls out of the hospital drive.

  “Is that enough time to explain what’s going on?” I ask.

  “I’d prefer to wait until we get to the house,” John says, as he navigates through suburban traffic. The sky is overcast and the landscape a mix of strip malls, woods, and fields. Nothing particularly beautiful about it.

  “Why do we live here?” I ask. “It doesn’t feel like me. Is it for your job? My job? Do I have a job?” It doesn’t feel like I have a job.

  “Let me explain when we get home,” John says. “I’d like to be able to sit down and talk.”

  “It’s that big a deal, huh?”

  “Yes,” John says. “It’s a very big deal.” He reaches forward and pulls a plastic case out of the front console. “Here,” he says. “Your contact lenses.”

  “I can see fine,” I say, looking around, checking to make sure I can read all the signs around me. SudsNStuff CarWash. “Why do I need contacts?”

  John takes in a breath like he’s preparing for a speech. “I want to ask for your trust.” He clears his throat. “Your blind trust.”

  My bottom lip pushes out and my brow scrunches. “What?”

  “If you would just put these in,” he says, holding the contacts out, pushing them into my personal space, “I’d appreciate it.”

  “Okay,” I say slowly, taking the case from him. Inside are two brown contacts. I flip down the visor and use the mirror to slip them over my gray irises.

  “And please put this on,” John says, holding out his palm. In it sits a gold necklace made of three Js.

  I stare down at it for a long moment. It’s not that I recognize it, but that the object brings up an emotion inside me. It’s almost like it comforts and scares me. So weird. Taking it from him, I turn my gaze to the mirror again and latch it around my neck. It hits just below my collar bones. I meet my own brown gaze. There is nothing familiar about the woman who looks back at me. “Is this my real hair color?” I ask, my fingers twining in the shoulder-length brown locks.

  “I’ll explain everything when we get home. Please, just for this moment, trust me.”

  Silence descends in the car. A few minutes later we turn into a development. A sign welcomes us to Hidden Bush. My skin crawls as we pass beige and gray houses that all look the same. “This doesn’t feel like me,” I say.

  John nods. “It’s not really you.”

  “Do you like this kind of thing?” I ask, my eyes roaming over the matching shrubbery and flower beds.

  “It’s fine,” John says noncommittally. He turns into a driveway, stopping before pulling into the garage. The house looks like all the others. “This is it,” John says.

  I turn to him. “Doesn’t feel like I live here.” The whole place makes me feel squeezed, like it’s a dress that is too tight in the chest but too loose in the arms. Just all wrong.

  John nods, his lips pressing together. “That actually makes sense. I can explain everything once we get inside. James is asleep. I’ll carry him in. You okay to walk?”

  “Yeah, I lost my memory, not my muscle tone.”

  John smiles and nods. “Of course.”

  I open my door and stare at the totally unfamiliar, and to be honest, alien facade of our house. It’s two stories tall with gray siding. The front door sits under a portico held up by beige brick pillars. There’s a big picture window on one side shrouded in a gauzy white curtain. Nothing about this is familiar.

  John comes around, holding the car seat with a sleeping James in it. “I’ll put him inside and then go get Buddy.”

  “Yes,” I say, relief washing over me. “I want to see him.”

  “You remember him?” John asks, his eyes brightening with hope.

  “Not exactly. I just know he’s missing. Where is he?”

  John tilts his head toward the house across the street. “Mrs. Katagan took him.”

  Her house looks just like ours, except that the curtain in her window is moving. Seconds later the front door opens. A little old lady appears. She’s got a tiny dog in her arms, it’s barking at her—seemingly saying, put me down, I can walk! And on a leash is a giant of a dog. My dog. I know it right away.

  It’s not a memory—it’s like with James—just a feeling. A knowing. Seeing that large, hairy beast relaxes me. I start across the street. Buddy’s tail waves back and forth and his feet dance in place. He begins to whine when I get closer.

  “Hi boy,” I say. He lets out a yowl of welcome.

  “Welcome home, dear,” Mrs. Katagan says over the barking of the chihuahua in her arms. It is fighting hard to escape, wriggling desperately, but she keeps it locked in place. The lady can’t be more than five feet tall with white hair and a thin frame. She’s as frail and tiny-looking as her dog. But they might both be tougher than they look.

  “Thanks,” I say, as I crouch down in front of Buddy. He pushes his head into my chest, and I wrap my arms around him. He whines again, a quiet, pained sound. He missed me. And I missed him.

  “Hey,” I say again, rubbing my hands over his body, giving him some good pets. “It’s okay, I’m here.”

  “He’s such a good boy,” Mrs. Katagan yells over her dog’s vocalizations. “So well-mannered. Not like my Bruno.”

  “Yes, he’s a very good boy,” I say, knowing it’s true even if I can’t remember any of the details.

  “So well-trained, too. Did you train him yourself?” she asks.

  I’m not sure how to answer. Did John tell her about my memory loss? Is he hiding it for a reason? Are we the kind of people who like to keep medical diagnoses secret? I take a breath, smelling my dog, and relax. “You know, I’m not sure,” I admit, looking up at Mrs. Katagan. “I’ve lost some memories. Actually.” I smile. “All of them.”

  Mrs. Katagan’s eyes widen and her mouth slacks. “I’m so sorry, dear.” She says it like losing my memories is some terrible thing, as if I’ve lost a person.

  I blink up at her. And it’s in that moment that it dawns on me that my memories may not be good. There is an expectation that a life would have ups and downs. But not knowing my past hasn’t felt like a loss—it’s been a welcome blankness, a lightness even, as though my history weighed me down. I’ve been in a pretty damn good mood since I woke up in the hospital—not how I imagine most people would react to having their memory wiped out. Maybe because I’ve forgotten things best not remembered…I need to speak to John.

  Bruno brings his barking up to new heights. “Thank you!” I yell as I stand. “For looking after Buddy! We appreciate it!”

  “Get well soon!” she yells back.

  I take Buddy’s leash and we start across the street. His nose taps my hip and it feels very right. Very me. Not like the house. Not like my name. Buddy, like James, makes sense. But what about John?

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  John left the front door slightly ajar so Buddy and I push in. It’s quiet and I’m not sure where to go for a long moment. Right in front of me are stairs covered in gray carpeting. To my left is a living room—gray carpeting, gray L-shaped couch, beige walls. My god, are there no other colors? To the right is a formal dining room with a shiny dark wood table and chairs.

  Buddy sits next to me, awaiting my next move. Footsteps sound above and then John is coming down the stairs. His feet are bare and he moves with the grace of an athlete, skipping lightly down the steps. Seeing me and Buddy, he smiles. “Good to see you two together again.”

  “Yeah.” I glance down at my dog. He stares back at me with one blue eye and one brown—the adoration in his gaze empowering and comforting. I might not remember who I am, but he does. And he clearly thinks I’m the best human ever.

  “I put James in his crib; he should sleep for another hour or so. Let’s sit down.” John gestures toward the living room. I nod, moving toward the couch. We sit catty-corner to each other—me on the main part and John on the short leg of the L. Buddy plants himself at my feet, leaning against my leg and resting his giant head in my lap. My hand instinctually goes to play with one of his velvety ears. It settles me, and the house suddenly feels like more of a home.

  John holds my gaze, his eyes growing serious, his hands hanging loose between his knees. “Okay, so I’ve been trying to figure out the best way to explain this—”

  Buddy growls, interrupting him. Then he stands and trots to the door.

  John and I both look out the picture window. A giant SUV is parking in front of our house. A woman dressed in workout clothing and sneakers, her blonde hair tied up in a high, tight ponytail, gets out. “Damn,” John says under his breath.

  “What?” I ask, turning to him.

  He shakes his head. “Debra Snider, she’s fine. Just…nosy.” I turn back to see her pulling a casserole dish out of her back seat.

  “She’s bringing us food?”

  “Yeah, it’s a thing.”

  John stands, and I follow. We meet Debra at the door. “Hi,” John says, his smile welcoming. It doesn’t look fake…but something about it feels like sand between my teeth. It’s not his real smile.

  He’s playing a part. The thought rises like a muddy boot from a pond’s murky depths.

  “Oh my god!” Debra’s shrill voice makes me focus on her face. She’s pretty, with just the right amount of makeup. Her large blue eyes are focused on my face. “I heard about what happened and I am so sorry!”

  I don’t know how to respond. She seems more upset than I am. John’s right arm comes around my waist, his hand landing warm and comforting on my opposite hip. I lean into him—whoa. His body is hard and kind of amazing. “Thanks,” he says. “We just got home.”

  “I brought a casserole.” Debra holds up the dish in her hand. “It’s vegan.”

  John steps forward, his arm unraveling from me, so he can take the casserole. Buddy moves closer, his nose tapping my hip. “Thanks so much.” John tries to take the dish, but Debra dodges him.

  “I’ll put it in here for you,” she says, skirting past him, her eyes roving over the house as if she’s on a reconnaissance mission. “You heat it up for sixty minutes at 375.” She keeps talking as she moves further into our house.

  John follows with me and Buddy trailing behind. “That’s very kind of you, Debra, but really—”

  She cuts him off as she enters the kitchen. “Is this where it happened?” she asks. Her eyes dart around and I follow her gaze, taking in the modern, functional space. There is an island with a butcher block top in the middle of the room. Beyond it a round table basks in the sunlight from a window that frames a view of a sloping yard buttressed by forest. On the wall to our left is the stove and cabinets topped by a gray Corian counter. The walls are…beige.

  “The raccoon was in the kitchen. How horrible.” Debra turns, putting the casserole down on the stovetop and staring at the counter, as if she can see the killer raccoon in her mind’s eye and it’s terrifying. Debra’s hand comes to her throat. But where are the pearls?

  A fly buzzes over to the tinfoil-topped casserole, the sound grating against my already raw nerves. This woman is annoying the shit out of me. “Debra,” John says, his voice still so pleasant. How can he stay so calm when she is so fucking nosy? What in the actual fuck does she think she’s doing? A casserole is not a ticket to my life. I don’t know what happened, you want us to tell you?

  John’s arm comes around me once more, his hand squeezing my hip again, this time a little harder. It calms me slightly but I have to bite my lip to keep from telling this woman to fuck the fuck off. The words are burning my tongue. The fly buzzes around my head for a minute and then returns to the dish, crawling across the tinfoil, searching for entry. Debra spins in a circle, checking out the entire kitchen.

  “Is it true you had a reaction to the rabies shot? A seizure?” she asks, her tone sympathetic, but when her eyes meet mine, they are hungry—starving for details of other people’s suffering. I don’t know my history but I recognize this type of woman. Her happiness is built on the exposure of others’ woes. If they are frail, she is strong; if they are poor, she is rich; if they are lost, she is found… She knows herself through others. Which makes her weak and easy to destroy. Whoa, dark thoughts much?

  John turns to me. “Do you want to go lie down, honey?”

  Honey? That’s the first time he’s used that endearment. My eyes narrow, but he’s looking down at me so sweetly, like he means it. He’s offering me an escape. Probably so I don’t yell at the stranger in my kitchen trying to fortify her happiness with my illness. Fucking vulture.

  John reaches up and pushes a lock of hair behind my ear, cupping my face so intimately it sends a shiver down my body and melts enough of my brain that I don’t care about the carrion bird of a woman or her vegan casserole for a hot second. “Okay,” I say. His eyes flash with gratitude. He can read me.

 

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