Daphne Clair - Wife To A Stranger

‘No…I don’t.’ She moistened her lips and said huskily, ‘I seem to have forgotten…most of my life.’

Rolfe stared down at her, his eyes going nearly black. ‘You knew me when you woke.’

Rolfe. She had known him, known his name. Just as she had known her birth-date without having to think. It had been reassuring, that familiarity. ‘Yes, I recognised you.’

‘How much do you remember about…us? About our life together?’

She looked away, running her tongue across her lips. ‘I knew your face,’ she confessed finally. ‘Your name. That’s all.’

‘That’s all?’ Rolfe repeated.

She said helplessly, ‘I know that must be a shock.’

He gazed down at her with frowning speculation. ‘And now?’ he enquired. ‘Has anything more come to mind?’

‘No.’

This time there was a lengthy silence, as if he had trouble taking that in. ‘If you don’t remember anything about me,’ he said slowly at last, ‘anything about our marriage, then for all intents and purposes I’m a stranger to you.’

‘Yes,’ she agreed, her hands twisting painfully together on the bedcover. ‘Yes, you are. A total stranger.’

‘WHAT exactly do you remember?’ Rolfe demanded.

She swallowed. ‘Not much. I remember things when I’m asked directly, or when something reminds me…’

His mouth compressed and his cheeks grew taut. ‘Do the doctors know this?’

‘They say it’s probably temporary. And I feel fine, really…just a bit tired.’

Rolfe regarded her broodingly. ‘I’ll talk to them.’

‘They’ve already examined me thoroughly. I just need to be…home.’ In familiar surroundings where she was safe and loved. Then surely this surreal feeling of existing in a vacuum would be dispelled. All she needed was the right trigger to fill the inexplicable void.

‘Still…’ Rolfe looked at a loss. That probably didn’t happen to him often. He had the air of a man who knew his way around his world. ‘I’ll be back,’ he said abruptly, swung round and left the room.

When he came back she’d been dozing. He leaned down to kiss her cheek, said he’d leave her to sleep and was gone.

Throughout the night she was dimly aware of being regularly checked on, and in the morning she was examined by a neurologist, then sent for another scan and more tests because Rolfe, she was told, had insisted.

Late in the day the neurologist told her, ‘The good news is, all the tests have come up negative. A knock on the head can do strange things to people, but the amnesia is probably temporary. Your husband says you want to go home, back to New Zealand?’

‘Um…yes…’ Aware that she sounded less than positive, she said more firmly, ‘Yes, I do.’

He smiled. ‘Of course.’

She repeated her theory that familiar surroundings would surely solve the puzzling problem of her memory.

‘You’re probably right,’ he agreed. ‘Take it easy for a little while, and don’t try to force anything. I’ll give you a letter for your own doctor. If things don’t start coming back to you spontaneously pretty soon, you’d better see someone.’

When she asked about her belongings, the nurse said, ‘We gave your shoulder bag to your husband for safety. Your passport and money are there, but your makeup is in the locker. Things were a bit wet but there didn’t seem to be much damage. The police sent along a box of passengers’ effects soon after you came in, stuff that had been found in the wreckage, and we identified you from your passport photo.’

Next day Rolfe brought in a stack of wrapped parcels and shopping bags, put them on the bed and began opening them. ‘They tell me if I look after you I can take you home. I bought three bras—I hope one of them fits.’

‘I don’t have any clothes?’ she queried.

‘The ones you were wearing were ruined. Even the undies were pretty bedraggled, and one bra strap was broken. You may have had a suitcase but it hasn’t been found. And as you don’t know where you were staying…’

‘But don’t you ? Weren’t we together?’

He gave her a quick look. ‘No, we weren’t.’

She’d assumed that they’d been holidaying together, that she’d only been on a short trip without him, perhaps shopping or visiting someone. ‘Where were you?’

‘In New Zealand. I came as soon as I could get a flight. Look…’ he touched her arm ‘…why don’t you get dressed and we can talk properly later?’

‘All right.’ She looked at the things scattered on the bed, some still in their wrappings.

‘Do you want some help?’ he asked her. He reached out to undo the tie on her hospital gown.

‘No!’ She shook her head. ‘No, thanks.’

Still she hesitated, and after a moment he said, ‘I’ll…go and see if I can find the charge nurse.’

She picked up a bra—cream satin and lace. When she eased it on and did up the hooks it fitted quite well. She found matching panties, then shook out a jade-green cotton dress, low-necked with tiny front buttons and a gently flared skirt. She slipped the dress on and found it an easy fit.

A smart-looking boutique bag with handles and a zipper-type closure contained a primrose-yellow lined cotton jacket that she didn’t think she’d need.

Rolfe had even bought dark green soft shoes with a medium wedge heel. And stockings and a suspender belt that she looked at with faint surprise. The sun was shining outside, giving no hint of the recent storms, and she decided to go bare-legged.

She unzipped the makeup bag that had been in her locker, applied sunscreening foundation, used soft olive shadow on her eyelids, touched a mascara wand to the tips of her lashes, and coloured her pale lips a warm coral.

Among the bags and wrappings she’d almost missed a small tissue-wrapped box, containing a phial of perfume. She was applying some to her inner wrist when Rolfe tapped on the door and then came in.

‘Thank you.’ She lifted her wrist to sniff at the slightly musky scent. ‘You thought of everything.’

‘Even your favourite perfume.’

‘Really?’ She dabbed the scent on her other wrist, then behind her ears, before she stoppered the bottle.

‘You missed a spot.’

‘What?’

Rolfe walked over to her and said, ‘You usually put some here.’ A lean finger touched the shallow little valley between her breasts, and his eyes darkened as her startled gaze flew to his face.

He quickly withdrew his hand. ‘You look nice,’ he said. ‘The dress fits.’

‘Yes.’ She could still feel the intimate imprint of his finger on her skin.

She put away the bottle and moved to gather up the wrappings on the bed. ‘I only tried one bra. Do you want to return the others to the shop?’

‘No.’ He slanted her a look of amused surprise. ‘You may be able to wear them later. They’re all the same size.’ He stuffed the used wrappings into the rubbish bag near the basin while she folded the spare bras into the boutique bag along with the unused stockings and suspender belt.

She said, ‘They told me you have my shoulder bag and passport.’

‘In the hire car with my things. All your ID was in there, including a medical card listing me as your next of kin.’

After they entered the car he handed her the shoulder bag. The soft honey-coloured leather was stained with muddy water-marks.

‘I’m afraid it’s rather the worse for wear,’ Rolfe commented. ‘I’ve dried everything out, but some stuff was beyond saving. Fortunately your passport was zipped into the inner pocket and didn’t come off too badly.’

As they left the car park she opened up the bag and went through the contents. The lining was still damp and smelled musty. Several credit cards were tucked into a card pocket, and she found a silver ballpoint pen, a Bank of New Zealand chequebook looking sadly crinkled, two keys on a ring, and a coin-purse containing Australian money, the notes crumpled but dry.