by Heidi Lowe
"Why do I have to sit next to the shark?" I said with mock sadness. "Can't I sit next to one of the nicer animals? I dunno, like that smiling red one over there?" I pointed to a red stuffed toy whose face was half smile, and whose nose was big and orange.
The two kids looked at each other, totally perplexed, then back at me. "You don't know who Elmo is?"
I shrugged, mind blank. Was I supposed to know who he was? I looked to Tiffany for help.
"It's a character from Sesame Street." When my face remained blank, she elaborated, "A children's show. It doesn't matter."
"Why don't you know who he is?"
"Because I lost my memory. I don't remember anyone. Why don't you tell me all about Sesame Street, and why it has that name?"
At once they sprang on me and started telling me everything they could about the show they loved so much, about the big yellow bird, about the guy that lived in a trashcan. It all sounded absurd.
When the ten minute schooling was over, the dinner party resumed, and the kids set out to make cakes and food fashioned from Play-Doh.
"Just five more minutes, I promise, then we can leave. I'm sorry," Tiffany whispered, leaning over and kissing me while their backs were turned.
"Don't be sorry. I'm having fun. Your niece and nephew are great."
"Are you sure? I know they're a lot of work. It does mean that they like you. If they didn't they wouldn't have invited you to the dinner party."
I felt tugging on my arm. "Uhm, Abby, can you help me put the icing on the cake?"
"Sure." I took a seat at the table, which was covered in different colored bits of Play-Doh. It was everywhere, even in the plush maroon carpet at my feet. How had they managed to make such a mess in such a short space of time?
Before I knew it, panic set in. As soon as I picked up the dough and bits started getting stuck to my hand, I threw it down again. I could hear my breathing, labored, erratic and heavy. It was happening again, just like the night of the cookies. Suddenly the whole room in all its messy glory came into focus. Like a bombsite, an explosion of toys and dough and paper and kids junk. Hell on Earth!
"Honey, are you all right?" I heard Tiffany's voice but it sounded distant, like it was coming from another room.
I can't be in this room. There's too much mess. I'm going to suffocate. I'm going to catch something. I'm going to get sick if I stay here. A dozen voices were screaming at me.
I felt Tiffany's hand on my shoulder, and she turned my head to look at her, eyes filled with worry.
"What is it, Abby?"
"I–I don't know." I sprang from my seat. "I need to get out of this room."
"All right, it's okay, we'll go," she said, her voice calm and soothing. "Take my hand."
I did as she said and she led me from the room, where I was able to catch my breath. She took me straight to our bedroom and sat me on the bed, her hand still clasping tightly to mine, as though if she let go of me I would fall apart. It felt like I would.
When she finally did let go, she took my face in her hands and whispered, "I'm going to get you some water, okay?"
Although I didn't want her to leave, I nodded reluctantly and let her go.
Her absence seemed to last forever; every second I spent alone in that room, my mind drifted back to the scene of total destruction in the playroom. The playroom of anarchy.
"Tell me what happened in there," she said upon her return. "You were hyperventilating."
I gawked at her. "I was?" I must have been so out of it.
"And you shrieked. What happened?"
I shook my head over and over, tossing my hands up in despair. "I don't know. This keeps happening to me. I see a lot of mess, and all of a sudden I can't breathe. I just want to find the biggest, most powerful vacuum cleaner and suck everything up, everything soiled, everything with even the slightest stain on it. What the hell is wrong with me?" I buried my face in my hands, but held back the tears. It was bad enough that I was freaking out over a bit of mess and dirt; crying over it would have made me look insane.
"When did this start happening? Have you felt this way the whole time?" She stroked my back, her tone still caring, not at all judgmental.
I shook my head. "A week or so. It's not consistent, it crops up when I'm not expecting it."
"If it's unexplained and you didn't have this problem before, my guess is this is something from your past coming through."
I swallowed, my throat dry despite the water I'd just drunk. I stared at her, horrified. "You think my memory's coming back?"
"Maybe. A panic attack like that doesn't simply happen out of the blue."
This explanation gave me know comfort. "Does that mean I was a freak in my old life?" What other explanation made sense?
She wrapped her arms around me and kissed me wherever she could, in order to console me. "You're not a freak. You sound like you might have OCD. That doesn't make you a freak."
"I don't want to feel like this every time I'm in a messy environment."
"I can help you with that. Just promise me you'll let me know when you feel a panic attack coming on."
I nodded in agreement, grateful to have her by my side.
The sounds of the piano spilled from the living room. Whose living room, I couldn't say. But it was familiar to dream-me; I felt at home in the house.
The passage was cold, and my feet were bare as I followed the melody. I knew I'd heard this tune a thousand times and loved it. Had I played it before for the audience at the hospital?
The woman sitting at the piano was the one I'd seen in all of my dreams, though for the first time since I'd seen her, she wasn't in a hospital bed. She still wore the gown, however, and the ghostly pallor of someone ill.
Her smile was weak when she saw me, but I felt the love in it.
"Come. You like this part," she said.
Did I? Dream-me seemed to think so, at least. Nothing could have stopped me from going to her. Even frail and pale, you could tell she'd once been a real beauty. That was the saddest part of all. My heart filled with tears to look at her.
I knew she was my mother, and that she was dying. That was why I went to her; that was why she loved me.
She made a space for me on the chair, and I brought a shaky hand to the keys...
I woke up to a dark room, my throat scratchy and dry. When I felt around beside me for Tiffany, the bed was empty. My hand searched blindly for the remote that controlled the lights, and I switched them on. For a moment, thanks to my hazy, sleep-filled head, I forgot where I was. But then it came back to me. We were at Tiffany's sister's place. I must have dozed off shortly after the playroom incident.
I climbed out of bed, slipped my feet into a pair of the guest slippers that came with the room, and crept out in search of some water and my girlfriend. All I wanted was for her to hold me like she had the last two times I'd dreamed of the woman – my mother. Although I'd never shared the contents of my dreams with her, due in part because I could never remember much of what happened in them, she always knew what to say and do to comfort me, and she never asked questions, never pushed for me to talk about it.
I heard muffled voices coming from the kitchen as I reached the bottom of the stairs. Lack of decorum and overwhelming curiosity prompted me to tiptoe closer, trying to go unheard so I could hear what the two women were saying.
"...said she was really upset. I hope it was nothing too serious."
"It could be, I don't know. But I'm willing to bet my life that it's connected to her past."
My heart sank, my stomach felt as though it was in free-fall. They were talking about me and my breakdown. I knew it. She wasn't okay with it. She thought I was a freak.
"What's wrong?"
After a slight pause, Tiffany said, "Nothing. It's just...what if her memory is coming back? What then? What happens to us?"
"You really like her, don't you? Maybe more than that?"
Silence. God, I wanted to be a fly on the wall of that kitchen
to see this scene unfold.
Finally, "Maybe more than that."
"You're in love. I knew it. I heard it when you spoke to me about her on the phone."
"I guess I am. It's just different with Abby. There's a connection between us that transcends this dimension. It sounds crazy, I know, but..."
"So what's the problem?"
"I don't care who she was before, but someday, maybe soon, she's going to be that person again, and what if I don't fit in her world anymore? What if there's a life she has to go back to?"
I'd never wanted to make an entrance more than I did then. Run into that room and throw my arms around Tiffany's shoulders, tell her how incredibly ridiculous she was for thinking this way.
Tears had trickled down my cheek without me realizing. Tears of joy, as I'd all but forgotten about my melancholy dream. Her love had made me forget about everything.
"If she loves you, she'll find a place for you in it when her memory returns. That sort of thing won't just go away, if it's real."
"But what if she doesn't? It's still so early, and we don't know each other that well."
I do love you, my inner voice screamed, wishing she could hear.
"For what it's worth, and this is your big sister speaking, I like her. But do you know why? Because I genuinely believe she loves you..."
Gillian didn't know it at the time, but she'd officially become my favorite person in the world, behind Tiffany, of course. So much for me thinking I'd failed her sniff test. Nothing got past her; she'd seen right through me, right to my heart, and saw what I felt for her sister. Had I been faking she would have likely seen that, too.
Beaming, a million happy thoughts running through my head, I tiptoed back up the stairs and into the bedroom to await the return of my lover.
Ten minutes later, the door creaked open.
"Oh, you're awake," Tiffany said upon seeing me sitting up in bed. As if she'd read my mind, she put a bottle of water on the bedside table for me. "What have you been doing?"
"Waiting for you?" With that, I pulled her close, pressed my lips to hers.
"What was that for?" she asked, giggling.
"Because I love you."
She just blinked at me as if she'd seen a ghost. Was I wrong to say it?
"You do?"
"Yes. And I promise, no matter what happens, no matter if I get my memory back or not, that won't ever change the way I feel about you."
A sadness clouded her face. She sat on the bed beside me, took my hand in hers. "You heard?"
"I did. I'm sorry. I know I shouldn't have eavesdropped, but after my episode with the kids, I thought for sure you wouldn't want anything to do with me and all of this crazy."
"Are you kidding me?" She stroked my face, eyes sincere. "We all have our quirks. I don't care about any of that. I–I love you. But sooner or later you're going to remember who you are, and–"
I cut her off with a kiss. "Who I am is Abigail, resident of Oakwood, pianist at Oakwood General Hospital, girlfriend of Tiffany Price. The person I was before I got here doesn't matter. What matters is us, and the here and now."
"But don't you want to know who you are?"
I shook my head. I'd agonized long and hard over that very question, and come to the realization that the woman I was before the accident wasn't someone I wanted to be, even without knowing who she was. She came with baggage, and her life seemed plagued by sadness, judging from the dreams I'd had, and now the OCD. The more I uncovered about myself, which, admittedly, wasn't much, the less I wanted to be that person again.
"The accident might have been the best thing that ever happened to me. I got to meet you, to start anew."
We kissed and kissed, and retired to bed in each other's arms. Although she didn't say it, I could sense her doubt, her reservations. Her heart was on the line now, so she had every right to want to protect it.
TWENTY-ONE
Wednesday, September 10, 1997
As I write this entry, my tears are falling onto the page, dampening it and smudging my words. Perhaps when I read this back in a few years it will be too difficult to make out what I was saying, and thus I'll spare myself the heartache all over again. Heartache that's inevitable at this point. Because this can only end badly; I can only lose.
Just three days after one of the happiest moments of my life – remember, hearing those three little words come from Abby's mouth – a letter arrived in my mailbox. Hand delivered, no address on the envelope, only the words, For Tiffany Price and Lara Murray (a.k.a. Abigail) written in black ink.
My heart sank to the lowest depths, and remains there today as I recount this tragic event. It took me two hours to work up the courage to go back and open the letter, after throwing it on the floor and curling up on the couch, pretending it wasn't there. Two hours agonizing about what might be inside, yet knowing deep down that it could only mean one thing.
My worst fears were realized.
The first thing I pulled out was a folded up piece of paper, inside of which sat two photographs. I unfolded the paper and there it was, in black and white, a copy of Abigail's passport. It was clearly her.
Lara Susanne Murray, born February 16, 1965 in Arizona, U.S.A.
Hands shaking, I set the paper down and picked up the photos. The first was of a smiling, younger Abby, surrounded by people – a middle-aged man, another man who looked strangely similar to her, another woman, and a couple of small children. In the background, Yosemite National Park. I knew that place, I'd visited once.
I held a hand over my mouth as the tears began to fall. I couldn't look away, despite desperately wanting to. The cat was out of the bag.
It was the second picture, however, that had me bawling my eyes out. I felt as though I was about to throw up. There was Abby, once again surrounded by people... her bridesmaids! Her white dress was the thing of fairy tales, her smile radiant as the sun that blessed her wedding day.
At that point I leaped from my seat, charged into the bathroom and emptied my guts into the toilet bowl. I stayed on the cold bathroom floor for over an hour, afraid I would throw up again. I finished half the toilet roll blowing my nose and wiping my tears away.
This was the past I was afraid of, the life I prayed didn't exist. Foolishly I allowed myself to be happy with a woman who didn't know who she was and thus couldn't truly love me. Not the way I love her, the way I've never loved anyone before. This is all my fault for getting involved.
She's coming over this evening, and God help me, I don't know what to do. The second I show her the contents of that envelope, it's over. Despite her insistence that she doesn't care about her past, doesn't want to return to her old life, I can't deny her this. What monster would do such a thing?
Yet, oh God, I can't tell her! Not yet. I just want to be happy a little while longer. That might make me the most selfish person in the world, and I'll proudly wear that title.
I'll tell her in my own time, when I'm mentally prepared to lose her. Because losing her is inevitable.
TWENTY-TWO
"Those are nice. Treating yourself?" Mrs Howlett's entrance into the kitchen startled me, drawing my eyes away from the booklet I was perusing. She sneaked a peek over my shoulder at the contents of the page – the yellow and white gold creole earrings I'd been admiring for the past ten minutes, which were on sale at the local jewelry store.
"They're not for me. Tiff has a birthday coming up, and I'm thinking of getting her these."
"They must be paying you a fortune at the hospital," she joked.
"I've been saving up. I'll have enough just in time for her birthday. But I wanted to swing by the store and reserve it. Do you think they'll take a deposit?"
"No harm in asking."
At three hundred and fifty dollars the gift was extravagant. Nearly two weeks' wages. But Tiffany was worth it. She said she didn't like making a fuss on her birthday, and insisted she didn't want a gift, but what girlfriend would I have been if I didn't make the day special fo
r her? I knew the price was steep, and that I would be reprimanded for squandering my very meager cash reserves on her, but I simply couldn't resist. Heck, I wanted to spend all my money on her, spend all my time with her.
"You're doing that transfixed smile thing again," Mrs Howlett said, amusement in her voice.
"Am I?" I was never aware of it. "Do you think she'll like them?"
"Unless she's blind and despises gifts, honey, I'd say a definitive yes. You two are certainly getting serious. Any day now you'll be announcing that you're moving in together."
I scoffed at the idea, dismissed it with a laugh and swish of the hand. "It's too soon for all of that." The idea had crossed my mind, though. I spent over half my time at Tiff's place, and when the time came for me to leave it was always a big to-do; she didn't want me to go and I didn't want to.
"Is it?"
"You don't think so?"
"Who cares what I think? I moved in with and married my first husband within two weeks of meeting him. In hindsight, that's probably why the marriage failed, mind you..."
I laughed. "Well we won't be getting married any time soon. But we do spend a lot of time together. I just wouldn't want to be the one to suggest it, you know. What if she wants to keep her privacy?"
"You're in love with each other. Privacy shmivacy!"
"I dunno. Besides, who would keep you company if I move out? I know how much you hate having real guests here." I chuckled.
We both spun around when we heard someone clearing their throat. Jimmy was standing in the doorway. In the last few days he'd been looking distracted and miserable, had kept to himself more than usual. The guy was weird, even Tiffany said it. Creeped her out. Especially as there had been two accounts of women being assaulted in Oakwood since he showed up. I didn't want to think he had anything to do with that, but there was definitely something off about him.
So I was relieved when he announced that he would be leaving that afternoon.
"It's time for me to move on," he said, his full attention on me and not Mrs Howlett, as though I was the owner of the guesthouse. "Places to see, you know how it goes."