Marie Ferrarella - Found - His Perfect Wife

He looked again, this time moving only his eyes. it hurt less that way. “A dirty alley?”

Batting zero. She leaned in closer. “Do you know who I am?”

Her name, along with a license number, was on the back of the front seat. She remembered he’d read it out loud once he’d given her the address of the hotel, commenting that it was pretty. There had been a short, pleasant conversation about nothing on the drive over here.

He paused now before answering. Was she someone important to him? He had a feeling that she might be, but it was nothing that he could actually put into words. “A beautiful woman?”

The answer immediately dredged up suspicions. Was this all a ruse? Was he just trying to hit on her? He had gotten a blow to his head, but maybe he was all right and just milking the incident to elicit sympathy from her and possibly something more.

She sat back on her heels, straightening. “Is this a trick?”

“No, no trick.” He pressed fingertips to his head, wishing he could somehow push back the all-encompassing pain. “Unless you’re doing it with mirrors.” He winced suddenly as the pain seemed to spike upward, all but piercing his skull.

Falling back on professionalism, Alison examined the back of his head more closely. There was no blood, thank God. Still, that didn’t mean that there wasn’t something going on internally. He needed to be seen by a doctor, the sooner the better.

She sighed again, this time exasperated with the situation.

“No mirrors,” she answered. “Just what do you remember?”

He tried to think, but there was a low-grade buzzing in his ears and it made it hard to knit any words together, never mind forming a coherent reply.

After a frustrating moment, he raised his eyes to hers. “Nothing.”

The single-word answer felt like a bullet that had gone straight to her chest. This was her fault. She should have taken her chances with the construction and just let him off in the middle of the block. But she had been in a hurry and had wanted to get to her next fare.

She struggled against the implications that were staring her in the face. “Nothing? What d’you mean, nothing?”

His eyes held hers. She sounded concerned. Who are you? Are we lovers? Friends? Fragments of questions came and went, leaving small, colored trails through his head, which led nowhere.

“I don’t remember anything. It’s all…just a blur.” There was wonder in his voice, as if he was discovering all this for the first time as well. Discovering it and being appalled at the same time.

“You don’t remember where you came from?” She knew what he was saying, yet she had to say it all out loud for herself, stalling for time. Hoping it would all return to him in a flash and absolve her of the responsibility she felt.

He paused and tried to think again. There was nothing. Except defeat. “No.”

He’d given her the hotel’s address. Maybe he was meeting someone there. At least it was a place to start. “How about where you were going?”

This time, the negative reply came accompanied with a sigh that was both weary and frustrated. “No.”

With effort, she drew on what she’d been taught, plus an inherent way of being able to comfort everyone but herself. Her voice was calm, displaying none of the sympathetic panic she was experiencing for the stranger at her feet.

“Your name…can you remember your name?”

There was something, hovering just out of reach, but when he tried to capture it, it broke apart into a thousand tiny pieces, like confetti blowing away in the wind.

“No.”

And then she remembered. He’d mentioned his name to her just after he’d said hers. He made a joke about not having the time to wait for a formal introduction. At the time it had struck her that he was incredibly friendly. She wasn’t accustomed to friendly, not off the campus. People generally kept to themselves in this part of the city, more concerned with where they were going and how fast they could get there.

She thought now. It was John something. No, wait, Jean-Luc, that was it.

She looked at him eagerly, hoping this was the trigger that would start the process rolling. She knew it could be as simple a thing as that, just a word, a look.

“Does the name Jean-Luc sound familiar?”

Though it hurt, he tried to fit the name to himself, waiting for a flash of recognition. Of another name that might attach itself to the first.

But there was nothing.

The only thing he recalled seemed strange and out of context. “Wasn’t there a science-fiction program on with—?”

It had been something she’d said to him when he’d told her his name. That he remembered. Alison banked down her impatience, knowing it was really directed at the situation, not the man.

“Yes. Star Trek, the Next Generation. Captain Jean-Luc Picard.” Repeating the information she’d originally given him verbatim, Alison waited for a sign of some sort of recognition in his eyes.

Nothing.

Either the man was an accomplished actor, or he really did have amnesia.

Amnesia. It was an ugly word.

He tried to resist the disorientation. Like quicksand, it only sucked him in deeper. Looking at her, he felt around his pockets. “Shouldn’t I have some sort of identification on me?”

He really didn’t remember the mugging, she thought. Otherwise he’d know. “They took it from you.” She’d seen the first mugger quickly go through Jean-Luc’s pockets after he went down.

“They?” With effort, struggling for at least an island of sense within this murky sea, he connected two of the myriad of dots floating through his head. “You mean the muggers?”

“Yes.” Alison looked over her shoulder toward the cab. Three of its doors were still hanging open, ponderous wings unable to lift something so heavy. “I think you’d probably be more comfortable in the cab.” She bit her lip, her eyes sweeping over him. “Do you think you can get up?”

“Let’s see.” It seemed like a simple enough question and an even more simple enough feat to execute under normal circumstances.

But when he attempted to do it, the world decided to remain just where it had been a second ago and not make the journey with him.

Instead, it spun around in a mad whirl, mixing colors and buildings all together. Trying desperately to hang on to stability, he still felt himself losing his grasp on his surroundings. Clutching at air, he wound up grabbing at Alison instead.

Oh, God, he was going to fall, Alison realized a second before he grabbed her shoulder. Quickly her arms surrounded him and she felt her knees buckling under the unexpected weight. Contact had her involuntarily stiffening. Remembering.

She forbid herself to go there. “Lean on me,” she ordered through clenched teeth.

It was a miracle they didn’t both fall over. At the last second, in an attempt to compensate for the shift in balance, she braced her legs, planting them farther apart, like a weight lifter going for a world-class record.

“Whoa, you’re more solid than you look,” she gasped. For a second, it was touch and go whether or not they would both land on the pavement.

He felt her breath against his face, felt the heat of her body as she struggled not to be thrown off balance. The sound of her heavy breathing penetrated the fog descending on his brain. With effort, he chased away the darkness encroaching on him.

“Sorry.” A line of perspiration formed along his brow and between his shoulder blades as he struggled to regain his equilibrium.

“Not your fault.” Still braced, testing the waters slowly, she began to release her hold on him. The stiffness within her was harder to release. “I’m the one who should be sorry.”