Kathryn Shay - A Man She Couldn't Forget

Grandma smoothed Clare’s hair down. “This is ricotta. It’s the best kind of cheese.” She held out a fork, and Clare tasted it first, then Cathy.

“Hmm,” Clare said, but Cathy wrinkled her nose.

“It is one of the main ingredients of lasagna.”

Cathy nodded at the noodles. “They’re slimy, Grandma. Do I have to touch them?”

“Si, bambina. A good cook uses her hands.”

“I’m going to be a cook,” Clare said proudly. “Just like you, Grandma.”

“I’m going to be a ballerina.” Cathy scrambled off the stool and did a pirouette. “I’ll practice.”

Grandma Boneli watched her for a minute and smiled down at Clare. “Someday, amore mio, you’re going to be famous.”

“I know.” Clare reached for the noodles.

Suddenly, they started to move. Oh, God, they were forming into something, coming…alive. Snakes, they were snakes! Each poked a head up. Each had a face. One was blue-eyed. It reminded Clare of Brady. The other resembled Jonathan.

Brady-the-snake curled around her wrist tightly. At the motion, the other, Jonathan, reared up on its body and stung Clare on the cheek.

She cried out. Help me. I don’t know what to do. Please, help me.

MORNING FILTERED IN THROUGH the open window—cool air, the sound of birds chirping and the smell of newly mowed grass. Pulling the covers up to her neck, Clare burrowed into the pillow and sank deeper into the mattress.

Rested, she let her mind wake up with her body. When it did, gradually, the all-too-familiar anxiety began to wash over her, like a cold stream replacing all warmth. Where was she? Her eyes snapped open.

Sage-green walls. White trim. Overhead, a fan whirred. She groped the covers—a light quilt swirled with greens and whites interspersed with tiny red lines. Amidst the burst of color, blackness threatened to drown her.

Take deep breaths, Clare. That’s the best way to calm down. Someone’s voice from the hospital. She didn’t know whose.

So she breathed in and out, once, twice…she was settled when she reached six.

All right, all right, the facts were that she didn’t remember this room, this house, these people. But her short-term memory was intact: yesterday, late afternoon, Jonathan had brought her here. They’d come upstairs and there had been a confrontation between him and Brady. Clare had gotten a blinding headache, and Brady had carried her into the bedroom; she’d fallen asleep and not awakened until now, at 8:00 a.m. The long rest wasn’t unusual, as she’d slept most of the time she was in the hospital. Suddenly, she remembered the dream she’d had. She was cooking with an older woman, and her sister was there. Then there was something else. Something about snakes. She shivered, and her stomach knotted. She didn’t want to remember the dream, hadn’t wanted to remember the ones she’d had in the hospital, either. Her therapist had explained why…

Dreams are indicative of what you’re not remembering. To keep you happy, or sometimes sane, your conscious mind won’t let you recall incidents in your past. In cases of amnesia, the drive is even stronger. Psychologically you’re hiding what you don’t want to, or can’t, remember.

Was that true for her? Clare wondered. Was the cause of her amnesia psychological? It didn’t have to be. The workings of the brain were still somewhat of a mystery to doctors and researchers alike, especially when amnesia was involved. Her physicians had told Clare that the cause of her memory loss could very well be physical, even if her CT scans showed no residual brain damage from the bump on her head. Damn, not even knowing why she couldn’t remember things was frustrating.

Turning over, she pushed herself to a seated position and took in the rest of the room. Gleaming hardwood floors. A bank of windows overlooking the side and back yards. An adjoining room—the bathroom, probably.

Was she alone? Probably not. Brady said he and his friends—her friends, too—were going to take turns staying with her. She wished he had been here when she’d first woken up. Yesterday, just being near him had calmed her fears and anxieties. He must be a big part of the history she couldn’t remember.

Then she shook her head. Now that she had regained some of her physical strength, she should stop depending on anybody too much. She sensed that wasn’t her style. But fear and distress came too suddenly, too unexpectedly, and made her weak. Oh, well, no sense whining about it. Throwing back the cover, she slid out of bed and noticed she still wore her dress. The fabric was wrinkled, and she felt grungy, so she made her way to the bathroom.

It was huge. Windows lining the walls about a foot over her head, long and uncovered, let in the light but gave complete privacy. There was a dressing area to the right. A shower stall was on the left, made of light-blue fiberglass with a frosted glass door.

She stripped, turned on the faucet and stepped under the spray. It was heavenly, and for a few seconds she remembered being in this enclosed space; then the memory was gone. Squeezing shampoo from a bottle in the shower caddy, she washed her hair and luxuriated in the process and the scent of lavender surrounding her—that, too, was familiar. Gingerly, she touched the injured area. Sometimes it still ached.

Done in the shower, she crossed to the dressing room, admiring the vanity, the wooden chest of drawers and the closet.

From the latter, she chose pink capris and a white T-shirt. When she opened the underwear drawer—it was the first one she tried—she stopped short. Well, she liked pretty things. Sexy ones. Picking up a pair of leopard bikinis, she had a startling flash of a man taking the panties and a matching bra off her. It was a pleasant image and filled her with warmth, but it was gone too quickly. Whose hands were they? Jonathan’s? Or those of another man she was involved with before she met him? Would she ever remember being intimate with someone? How could she forget that? Dr. Summers had cautioned her that in some amnesiac cases, memory didn’t return. The notion chilled her and she dressed quickly.

The mirror reflected a stranger again, and fear started to coil inside her, but she forced herself to stay detached and examine her face. The bruises under her eyes were better today. Automatically she reached for a box, knowing cosmetics were in there. She used concealer to erase the last trace of black and was satisfied with the results.

“What the hell?” she said, and picked up the lipstick. It was pretty, and she liked it.

Then she blow-dried her hair just enough to get the water out and keep the mass of pretty waves.

Back in the bedroom, she stared at the doorway. Forcing herself to move to it, she stepped out into the hallway. It was short, and opened onto a large living room. She hadn’t seen the condo last night because she’d buried her nose in Brady’s chest as he carried her into the bedroom. Just the recollection of it made her feel better, and she wondered why.

The living area was one big space, demarcated by couches sectioning off a dining room that graced one end. Ceiling fans lifted the air around her, making her shiver. She snagged a sweater off a chair, where she must have left it before the accident, and slipped it on. Ahh. She recognized the scent. Her scent.

Slowly, she crossed to the doorway of another room off this one. It was her office, and sported a pink-and-blue striped couch that pulled out to a bed, she somehow knew. Her desk, bookshelves…evidence of her work. When her pulse quickened, she left without going inside. For that reason, she bypassed the kitchen, too.

There was no sign of Brady, no sign of anyone. Hmm. She walked to the windows in the back. A woman was in the yard weeding the huge garden.