The Twilight Wife

by A. J. Banner

  “I saw you in the shower.”

  “Were you with me?”

  “You invited me in, and I got in with you. I wanted to . . .”

  “We will. Right now, you need to get dressed and eat. I’ll stay with you.”

  “I’m not an invalid,” I say.

  “I didn’t mean it that way—”

  “I know,” I say. “I’m frustrated with myself, that’s all. I’ll be okay.”

  He nods, a look of consternation on his face, and leaves me alone.

  * * *

  Jacob has set the breakfast table in woven blue place mats, ceramic dishes, silverware, and napkins. He poured a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice for me, the usual energy shake for him.

  I sit at the head of the table. “You’ve outdone yourself. This is too much.” I’m aware of the condom in the back pocket of my jeans. Why did I bring it out here? I could’ve left it in my purse or thrown it away. Out of sight, out of mind.

  “It’s never too much.” Jacob places a steaming plate in front of me, heaped with a fluffy omelet and hash browns. My nose fills with the smells of onion and mushrooms.

  He sits next to me with a big plate of food. “Well, how is it?”

  I taste a forkful of fluffy egg and smile at him. “Amazing.”

  “If I don’t cook for you, you forget to eat.”

  “I’m a lucky woman.” So why would I sleep with someone else? The image of Jacob in the shower returns to me—and a sudden awareness of his body. I remember what he looks like beneath his clothes, the tiny mole on his right shoulder.

  Before I fully understand what I’m doing, I place the condom on the table between us. A river of blood rushes in my ears. My fingers are trembling. “I found this in my wallet.”

  He doesn’t even blink, doesn’t show any surprise. “Another one?”

  “What do you mean, another one?”

  “You found one before.”

  “But I just found it.”

  “You found one before and showed it to me.”

  “And put it back in my wallet?” My voice teeters on a high wire.

  “I assume so,” he says through a mouthful.

  “But why would I do that?”

  “In case we want to use it again?”

  “So we used them before.”

  “Yup, why?”

  I tap my fingers on the table. I don’t know what bothers me more, knowing I hid a condom in my wallet, or not remembering that I found it before. “I don’t know. It’s just . . . What if I’m not the person you think I am? What if I kept things from you?”

  He grins at me, disbelieving. “You think the condom is from an affair?”

  I sit back, no longer hungry. “Could it have been?”

  “I doubt it. We used those condoms.” He stabs his omelet, cuts a piece, and pops it into his mouth.

  “But the expiration date is three years from now. Don’t condoms have a shelf life?”

  “I never thought about it.”

  “I’m afraid I—”

  “What? You’re afraid you what?”

  “I don’t know.” I press my hand to my forehead. My jaw tightens. The rain has stopped, but the gray sky still frowns in through the window.

  “But I do know. I know your heart is with me. I’m certain of it.”

  I withdraw my hand from his. My omelet seems to deflate. I pick at the mushrooms with my fork.

  “You don’t have to finish the food,” he says. “I won’t be offended.”

  “It’s not the food. It’s me. What if I don’t deserve you?”

  “How can you say that? I don’t deserve you. You’ve always deserved better than what you got.”

  A cold draft comes in from somewhere. “What do you mean? Better than what?”

  He rubs his forehead. “Better than what you grew up with . . .”

  “You mean my parents?”

  “They were critical of you. Nothing was ever good enough for them.” He scrapes his chair back and gets up, carrying his plate.

  “Why are you bringing up my childhood?”

  “You’re a good person, and you deserve to be loved. That’s all I’m saying.”

  “But did I? Could I have . . .?”

  “No—look, sometimes we used condoms, like I said. It’s no big deal.”

  “I kept one in case we were in the mood, before we were sure we wanted a family?”

  “Why do you keep asking all these questions?” He’s still standing with his back to me, his shoulders hunched. “Can’t you just . . .?”

  “Just what?”

  “Can’t you just be with me?” He turns to face me, his face crumpled in pain and irritation. “Can’t you just be my wife? I’m trying my best.”

  “I know you are.” My throat goes dry. “I didn’t mean to start a fight. But I can’t remember anything. I have to ask questions.”

  “But you don’t take my answers at face value. You want to make up your own answers.”

  “You’re right. I’m sorry, Jacob. You know I hope we can start again.” Why do I push him to the edge? Deep down, I worry that he’s giving me too much credit, pretending I’m a better wife than I actually was.

  “We’re out of firewood,” he says. “I’m going to chop some logs. We’ll talk about this later.” He strides out into the blustery morning, the door slamming after him.

  The fire has died in the woodstove. I scrape the remains of my omelet into the garbage beneath the kitchen sink, rinse the dishes, and load the dishwasher. Then I put the condom back in my purse. Was it so wrong to bring it out, to ask questions? Maybe I’ve asked all the same questions before. If I were in Jacob’s shoes, I would storm out the door, too. He’s consigned to a kind of hell, repeating the past to a wife who has forgotten him and who sometimes forgets what she even had for dinner.

  I retreat into my study at the end of the hall. Painted soothing, pale blue, the room faces south, overlooking the garden and the cottage. I push up the cordless blinds and look out the window. Several yards from the main house, the small, cedar cabin nestles in a copse of Douglas firs and bigleaf maples. Its large bay window reflects Jacob’s shadowy form. He’s standing at the woodpile, his breath condensing into steam. I hear the muffled thud of the ax chopping the logs. He looks up for a moment, and I step back into the shadows, my heartbeat erratic. I have to work on remembering every moment of every day, or I could lose him.

  But I don’t remember this heavy desk, the drawers neatly stocked with office supplies, my computer on top. When the hard disk crashed, Jacob salvaged what he could, but little data remains. I sign into my email and find ads, New York Times headlines, and Linny’s reply to my last message, which I sent to her when we arrived on the island.

  Dear Kyra,

  Mystic Island sounds like a dream. You wanted to live there, so maybe in a weird way, losing your memory was a gift. You finally got what you wanted. I envy you. Don’t get me wrong. My research brings me joy. But you married the perfect guy and now he’s whisked you off to paradise. Who could ask for anything more? I’m about to lose my connection. Signing off. Xoxo,

  Linny

  I click Reply and type:

  Dear Linny,

  I’m so glad you came back to be with me in the hospital for a while. I wish you never had to return to Russia. I need my best friend. Do you remember playing Bananagrams on my twenty-ninth birthday? You made me that collapsed vegan chocolate cake. But I know you remember many good times after that, including my wedding to Jacob. I wish we could sit and talk about everything for hours.

  Jacob and our friends on the island are taking their time with me. It feels sometimes like more than I deserve. I can’t shake this feeling of guilt, is it for being so dependent on Jacob? Or for something that I’m scared to remember? I remember falling into another man’s arms—Aiden Finlay. Did I talk to you about him? Was I unfaithful to Jacob? Be honest.

  I wish you were here.

  Love, Kyra

  I hit Send
and sit back. I’m slightly dizzy from staring at the screen. My inability to concentrate makes me want to throw the nearest breakable object at the wall. Why can’t I remember four whole years of my life? Why only four years? Why not everything? Why not just the accident? Why do I forget conversations? Pieces of time? The doctors called me an anomaly, an outlier on the spectrum of memory disorders.

  I’ve conducted numerous Google searches for types of amnesia, news about my accident, my own history. But I can’t read the results for long, before a headache knocks me square between the eyes. Often I’m about to hit upon an important tidbit of information, when the message pops up: You’re not connected to the Internet.

  The computer offers me a list of options for fixing the problem, but none of them ever work. Refresh the page in a few minutes. Check that all network cables are plugged in. Restart your router.

  A cosmic joke, these options. Jacob always manages to fix the connection within a few hours, or the Internet kicks back on like a ghost flipping a switch in the machine.

  After I log out of email, I type my maiden name, “Kyra Munin,” in the Google search box for the umpteenth time. Nothing new. I’ve found my high school reunion photographs from years ago and a long-ago blog entry about resident Dall’s porpoises in Puget Sound. My personal bank account, which I opened years ago, shows a balance of $641.52. Jacob takes care of the joint account and our bills, for now.

  Yesterday, I entered his name, and I lost the connection. But today, when I enter “Jacob Winthrop,” his biography appears on the Cascade Northwest Software site. He was a young computer genius educated at MIT. He read voraciously. He worked at various software firms until he founded his own company.

  When I enter Jacob’s name and “diving accident” the usual articles pop up:

  The man who survived a diving mishap near Deception Pass has been identified as the founder of a local software company . . . His wife suffered a head injury and was airlifted to Harborview Medical Center . . .

  . . . Experts said the waters in Deception Pass are gorgeous but deadly. “The water is icy, atypical. There’s a precipitous drop-off,” said Tom Michaelson of Fire District 12.

  I enter “Kyra Winthrop,” and the Internet crashes again.

  “What did you find out?” Jacob says from the doorway, his tone neutral.

  I nearly jump out of my seat. “I didn’t hear you come in. How long have you been standing there?”

  “Not long. I made reservations at the Whale Tale for tonight. Dinner. Seven o’clock.” He seems to have recovered from his bout of frustration.

  “Okay,” I say, suddenly nervous about going on a date with him. With my husband. This seems absurd. Our argument about the condom has flown out the window.

  “I’m going to work for a few hours,” he says.

  “I thought I might ride into town this morning.” Does he detect the tremor in my voice?

  “Wait for me, and I’ll ride with you.”

  “But you need to work on your book.” The only reason he would ride with me: to make sure I don’t hurt myself.

  “What if you get dizzy?”

  “Then I’ll stop for a bit.”

  “The rear tire looked a bit flat.”

  “It’s fine. I want to ride alone for once. You can’t always come with me.”

  His fingers curl into fists by his sides. “Stick to the main road. If you’re not back in—”

  “Give me a couple of hours. After that, you have permission to come looking for me.”

  We brought the Trek bicycles in the truck, after the movers had already transferred everything else to the house on the bluff, but I’ve forgotten our long voyages to the island. The old ferry, MV Mystic, runs infrequently and often breaks down. Only thirty cars fit on the lower deck. On the day we moved here, there were five cars on the boat and no other passengers out on the upper deck. I awoke from a long sleep, surrounded by mist and holding a strange man’s hand. I gasped and yanked back my hand, as if I had touched a hot stove. I almost screamed—I know I was startled.

  The tall, handsome stranger smiled down at me, his nose slightly crooked, a dimple in his right cheek. He seemed unperturbed, as if we had done this before. I’m your husband, remember? We’re on our way to our new home. The images returned to me. I saw him leaning over my bed in the hospital. And before that, a walk by the ocean. I saw him kissing the back of my hand, squeezing my fingers, his eyes full of adoration. His deep voice comforted me, but the moments flashed by like fleeting reflections of light, there and then gone. I remembered my condition, that my short-term memory still faltered, leaving me disoriented, unable to easily hold on to what had occurred even ten minutes earlier. I stood in a cool mist, not alone, but alone with these thoughts.

  Our new home, yes, I said. I looked at our matching gold wedding bands, shiny reminders of our union.

  As the boat glided into the harbor, a thick mist enshrouded the shoreline, enveloping the town in mystery. Jacob led me down to the truck on the lower deck. The captain cut the engine, and we drifted the last several yards toward the dock. All the while, pieces of memory fell into place—Jacob bringing me a cup of hot tea from the galley, pointing out sea lions resting on a buoy, assuring me that I could recover in peace on Mystic Island.

  A few quaint stores and brick buildings emerged from the fog—a yellow Victorian housing the library; the mercantile in a small brick building; and the only bed-and-breakfast on the island. We stayed there when we first arrived last summer, he said. In the Gargoyle honeymoon cottage.

  I asked him about the rented house I remembered in Seattle, my roommate, my plants, my former life. It was all gone, he reminded me, four years in the past. My last few months as a graduate student were old news. I’d started teaching marine biology; I planned to conduct research at a satellite station in the San Juan Islands. You hit your head on a rock, he said. We were diving two-and-a-half months ago. You spent a week in intensive care, then almost nine weeks in rehab. Physically, you’re doing remarkably well. But we have to work on your memory exercises. The doctors thought you wouldn’t get the last few years back, but if we work hard, you can build new memories.

  The truck vibrated as the boat hit the dock. The ferry workers scrambled to secure the moorings. A man in orange rain gear, his face ruddy from the cold, directed the cars to start their engines. In a moment, we ascended the ramp and into our new lives. As Jacob drove along Waterfront Road, I felt as if we’d entered a quiet, alternate world of dirt lanes, boutiques, hanging flower boxes, and iron streetlamps. He made a sharp right turn onto the main road heading north, a twelve-mile stretch traversing the island from bottom to top. Five miles up, he turned left and headed west on a winding, narrow driveway toward our secluded house on the bluff.

  Our house. I still can’t get used to the concept, although I’m growing accustomed to the play of light on the walls, the soft hum of the refrigerator, the distant, calming rhythm of the waves.

  * * *

  I call Sylvia LaCrosse from the hall phone. The line fills with static, but the phone rings at the other end. An answering machine clicks on. Her voice sounds soft and pleasant, like a lullaby. You’ve reached the voice mail of Sylvia LaCrosse. If this is an emergency, hang up now and dial 911. Otherwise please leave me a message. I give her my name and the time I’m calling. “I’ll come down to your office—”

  “Hello?” She picks up, out of breath.

  “I was just leaving you a message. I’m Kyra Winthrop.”

  “Nancy mentioned you,” she says.

  “I’d like to make an appointment.”

  “Can you get here in an hour?”

  So soon. “I’ll do my best.”

  I dress quickly and find my bicycle in the garage, next to our scuba suits hanging on hooks. Our scuba tanks sit on a shelf nearby. My bicycle helmet dangles from the handlebars by its chin strap. I press the button on the wall to open the garage, and the electric door whirs upward. The wind has quieted; wrens and towhees t
ake up their chittering in the underbrush. The blackberry vines twist darkly, but the tops of the trees glow in the slanted rays of autumn sunlight.

  I consider telling Jacob I’m riding down to see Sylvia, but he’ll worry even more. He’ll insist on coming with me to talk to her. I see him in my hospital room, through my haze of memory, holding my hand while my neuropsychologist asks me to memorize various pictures. Her features elude me.

  I’m still wobbly on the bicycle. Frustrating, not to have my strength back. The ride takes all my energy and concentration. I head south toward town, past dense forests and vast, empty fields. Occasionally, I pass a herd of sheep or cows in a pasture, but I don’t see a single human or vehicle on the journey. Not one.

  When I reach Waterfront Road, I’m out of breath and bathed in sweat, despite the cold. I’m fifteen minutes early for my appointment. The streets are deserted in late autumn. The shops huddle forlornly along the shoreline. Sylvia’s office is on the second floor of a quaint, faded green Victorian. The bottom floor is a boutique selling homemade soap, Mystic Thyme. Surprisingly, the sign reads, Open. I’m about to go inside, when a man waves and calls out to me. He’s in a black rain suit and boots, tying a boat to the dock.

  He crosses the street toward me, stooping slightly, his handsome face weathered, deeply lined by time. “You’re back,” he rasps, his eyes wide and glassy. “It’s been so long. But it can’t be you. You’re . . .”

  “I was here last summer,” I say. “Do I know you?”

  His brows rise and he looks startled, then all the light goes out of his eyes. “Oh. I’m sorry. I . . . I thought you were someone else.”

  “I don’t recognize you—”

  “I’m sorry to have bothered you.” He turns and walks back toward his boat.

  “Wait!” I shout. “You’re not bothering me!” I leave my bike propped against a lamppost and run after him. “I’ve forgotten your name.”

  “I mistook you for someone else.” His eyes are haunted, and clearly, seeing me has shaken him.

  “You recognized me. I need to talk to people I knew.”