Mind Lies

by Harlow Stone

“I care for you deeply, Lass.”

  I don’t respond because I feel it. I never felt it with Tom; nothing I felt with him came close to what Lockin and I share.

  I care for you deeply, Lass.

  He’s sure to tell me every time. Never, “I love you.” Sometimes that I’m his water, whatever that means.

  Too tired to respond, too sated to bother with questions, and too sad to know how I’ll feel in the morning when he’s gone, I choose to stay silent.

  He’ll kiss me when he goes, and I’ll ask him to stay.

  Like I do every time.

  But every time, it’s getting harder.

  It’s getting older—and lonelier.

  I fear that one day, I just won’t ask anymore.

  I’m sure he fears it, too.

  * * *

  I’ve just finished telling Dr. Pope—or Katherine, as she’s instructed me to call her—all about my memories, including the parts Portia has proven were factual. It has taken almost an hour, but she has been attentive and has listened to every word. She is truly fascinated by the mind and how it works or doesn’t work. And, as a plus, she’s compassionate and doesn’t put up with nonsense.

  She’s wonderful.

  “So that’s why I asked you to bring my medical file. I was hoping you could answer that question for me,” I say.

  Katherine pulls a file out of her bag and sets it on the kitchen table where we’re seated. Apparently, house calls are not completely uncommon, especially with someone in my condition—it’s hard to travel. It also costs about as much as half a small country, but after looking over some of my finances with Portia this morning, I’ve concluded that I can afford it.

  Katherine shuffles through the small folder and pushes it to me. I scan the medical form before reading the Doctor’s messy handwriting.

  Jerri Sloane, Age 23

  Brought in by ambulance. Suffered chorionic hematoma.

  Patient was nine weeks pregnant at the time of miscarriage.

  Kept under observation for twenty-four hours before release.

  Bed rest for the following week.

  Patient expected to make full recovery.

  “I was pregnant.”

  Words blur on the pages through my watery eyes. I think of how I could have had an eight-year-old son or daughter at the moment.

  They would have called me Mom.

  The questions keep on coming. Was Lock with me? Had I left him by then? Did I call him when I was at the hospital?

  “How you feeling, Jerri?” Katherine asks.

  I shake my head. “I woke up this morning feeling like I had some answers, you know? Portia and I put two and two together, so when I woke up, I felt a little less crazy than I did yesterday. But now?” I bow my head and wipe under my eyes. “I honestly don’t know, Doc. Was I careless? Did something happen to make me miscarry? Was anyone with me when it happened? I know Portia wouldn’t have been because we weren’t that close yet.”

  It sounds as if I wasn’t very close with anyone. I have memories of Lock and proof of my life with Portia.

  But who else did I have?

  No one.

  “It’s a lot to take in. And unfortunately I can’t answer those questions for you. Why don’t we continue talking about what you do remember? That’s always a good place to start.” She puts her tablet and stylus on the table, ready to take notes.

  “How about the apartment, Jerri. Do you remember where it was, what laundromat?”

  I shake my head and reply, “No.”

  “Might I suggest going for a drive one day when you’re feeling better to see if you can find it. Perhaps that’ll jog your memory. We know you were living there while you went to night classes with Portia, so it can’t be too far.”

  Portia reaches over and squeezes my hand. “It’s a good idea, and I’d be happy to chauffeur.”

  Katherine thanks her. “Alright, we have a plan. What about the other places in your memories: the cabin you talked about, or the songs you sang? Any of those ring any bells?”

  “The places, I don’t know. There’s a coffee shop, but I don’t know the name. The cabin, I can only see the bed. And the song…” I pause, looking beyond the doctor and out the patio doors behind her. “The song I know. I can hear it, feel it, if that makes any sense.”

  Smiling softly, she replies, “It makes sense to you, and that’s important right now. In fact, I encourage you to sing it in bed, in the shower, wherever you sang with him in the memory. Sometimes sounds bring back memories, and sometimes actions or pictures do the same thing. Like I told you, everyone is different.

  “I’m trying to give you the tools I have to bring back your memory, but there’s a lot of life missing here, Jerri. There’s very little in your file. I’m not saying it’s uncommon for someone to grow up healthy, but usually we see children with a broken bone or two, the odd hospital visit for the flu, or your regular, womanly gynecological visits. Your file is full of the regulars from age twenty-two onward. But before that, there’s little.”

  Portia tips her head to the side. “What are you saying, Doc?”

  Katherine finishes jotting some notes down on her tablet. “What I’m saying is I think the only way to get the answers is for Jerri to remember. The only reason I ever see a blank file such as this is when a patient comes from another country. When that happens, I get in touch with that country and request the information I need. Jerri’s birth certificate says she was born here, in Ohio. So the only other thing I can think of is that whoever raised you didn’t keep up with the standard hospital visits. Or you spent a great deal of time somewhere other than the states.”

  I lean my elbows on the table, head in hands. “Portia said I told her my parents died when I was younger. Is there anything about them in there?”

  She nods. “There is. Sarah and William Matthews. They died in a car accident when you were twelve. Neither of them had living relatives, and neither had life insurance. You were placed into foster care at that time.”

  “Am I able to get in touch with the foster families?”

  Katherine closes the folder and rests her clasped hands on top of it. “There’s good news and bad news. An older couple looked after you. The husband passed when you were fourteen, and the wife passed when you were nineteen.”

  “Christ, am I the bringer of death?” I half-laugh, half-sob. In one day, I’ve gone from knowing little to knowing that the four people who raised me, along with my unborn child, were taken from me.

  I feel the emptiness of it. I feel that blank canvas of mine, which was slowly starting to show color, begin to fade again.

  Loss.

  Katherine gives me an understanding smile. “I know it’s a lot, Jerri. Focus on what we know for now. Go for a drive with Portia. Search through this apartment to see if something jogs your memory. Maybe sing to yourself. All of these things can help.” She moves to pack her belongings into her Kate Spade bag. “Call me on my cell if you need anything before our appointment next Wednesday. And remember to be patient; you can’t rush your memory.”

  Portia rolls her eyes. “I don’t think that’s a character trait she lost with her amnesia, Doc.”

  “Then there’s hope your girl is still in there,” Katherine says over her shoulder as she leaves the apartment.

  Chapter Ten

  Three more days.

  That’s how long it took before I could move my injured body down the stairs to get out of the apartment. Cooper and Portia have been wonderful; I couldn’t ask for a better pair of friends. I’m grateful for all the things they have done for me, but I drew the line when Cooper tried to carry me up and down the stairs. It’s something I needed to do on my own, and now that I can, this will be the first day I step foot in the shop.

  Elegant and eclectic are the first two words that pop into mind as soon as Portia opens the door at the bottom of the stairs.

  This is mine.

  My eyes follow the exposed beams on the ceiling, taking in t
he multitude of chandeliers strategically placed throughout the room. The lighting is low, complementing the atmosphere.

  Varying styles of furniture dominate the space, from heavy bookcases to low profile couches and ottomans. Throw pillows in all colors and prints bring each setting together. Low music plays in the background, and the soft rugs silence my steps as I follow my friend through the space I clearly took pride in.

  There are so many pieces of furniture of different styles, and there’s a shelf-covered wall filled with every type of bowl you could imagine. But somehow it all comes together. The space doesn’t feel cluttered or mismatched. It just . . . flows.

  “What do you think?”

  I twist my head, painfully, and swallow.

  “It’s beautiful. Amazing.”

  She smiles. “You love this place. You spend a lot of time in here. Even when it’s closed, you’re always re-arranging furniture, making everything perfect.”

  I give her a small smile in return. “Sounds like my happy place.”

  She frowns. “It doesn’t make you unhappy; it’s more like your pride. You pride yourself on everything being perfect in here. Everything has to have a spot, and until you find where it goes, you’re not content.”

  I gather much more from her words. At least they make sense at the moment, unlike my identity. I still don’t know who I am and where I come from. Perhaps these feelings have resonated within before the amnesia.

  “Be happy. You’ve just missed Mr. Grant. He came to ogle the Maserati without purchasing, yet again,” a man says.

  I turn and am greeted by a very well-dressed man who eyes me with a mixture of hurt and sorrow. His hair is expertly coiffed, cut perfectly on the side, shinier than the hair on one of those models in a Pantene commercial. Thick-framed glasses are perched on his clean-shaven face, and a bow tie is placed perfectly below his neck. Portia explains quickly that the Maserati is the queen of our couches and that Mr. Grant is the old, moneyed fart who ogles but never purchases.

  Placing a hand on Cory’s arm, she continues. “Jerri, this is Cory. Ignore his whiny bitch routine. He’s still upset that he didn’t report you missing sooner. He feels like it’s his fault. I’ve assured him it’s not, hence the standoffish prude act he has going on right now,” Portia tells me.

  Cory scoffs. “Keep your opinions to yourself, Pixie. As per usual, you don’t know your ass from your elbow.”

  She smirks. “Like I said, whiny bitch.”

  I smile at the well-dressed man, noting mild guilt in his eyes. Portia told me how close we all are. I was told that Cory is very much a part of our lives, and that he tends to join us for weekly dinners and holidays.

  “It’s nice to meet you again, Cory. I’m sorry I don’t remember you,” I tell him softly.

  Clearly sensitive, his eyes mist before he says, “Fuck it,” and places his arms around my shoulders. It’s a soft embrace. His chin rests lightly on top of my head. “I know this must be awkward, but just roll with it, okay? I need you to roll with it.”

  I place my hands lightly on his hips and notice Portia, standing at the counter, discreetly wiping her eyes. I feel his lips touch the top of my head, and although I don’t remember this obviously kind man, I feel a familiar tingle at the corners of my eyes before he leans back, keeping his hands on my shoulders.

  “I guess it doesn’t mean much right now, Jer. But I am so damn sorry. You gave us all time off for Portia’s wedding, and I had the weekend off following that. But normally I check-in more often or stop by. I don’t know why I didn’t, and when I showed up on Monday and couldn’t find you, I felt like the biggest prick. If I had just called or stopped by—”

  “Enough of that,” Portia interjects. “We’ve been over this. We all feel like shit, Cory, and maybe when Jerri regains her memory, she’ll be pissed. But right now, let’s just take the easy road, for Jerri’s sake. She’s got enough going on as it is.”

  “Pixie—” he says.

  I place my hand on his, resting on my shoulder, and say, “She’s right, Cory. No hard feelings. I don’t remember anyway. And right now, that’s all I want to focus on. Remembering.”

  He shakes his head. “Fine. That doesn’t mean I can’t still punish myself though. By punishment, I mean that I’ve already booked you in with Marcus and have given half my paycheck to pay for it. Portia said you’re feeling better, so you’re getting the full treatment. Our treat.”

  I tilt my head. “Marcus? Like Mark, your partner?”

  Portia snorts. “Cory will only call Mark by his full name. He’s prissy like that.”

  He shoots her a look. “Mark is such a nineties abbreviation of a great name. Marcus is a very good name, and he deserves the full of it.”

  “Oh, he likes the full of it alright,” she laughs.

  Cory straightens his glasses and wags a finger in her face. “We both know your jabs at my gay relationship slide right off my shoulders, wench; besides, I watched you avoid sitting on hard surfaces before the wedding. I’ve seen Cooper in the showers at the gym, so I know where he stuck it—and it’s wasn’t between the flaps.”

  I bark out a laugh and watch as Portia simply raises an eyebrow and shrugs her shoulders in a way that says, “I love my husband, and I’m not ashamed.” Clearly these two have a very open and friendly relationship, judging by the amount of banter.

  “As I was saying,” Cory continues, “you’ll be primped and preening like a peacock. I booked all your favorites: nails, face, hair, and of course a massage.”

  I shake my head, a little lost for words and slightly taken aback. It feels incredibly overwhelming to have strange people remind me of my favorites, likes, and dislikes, from the soup and sandwich Portia fed me bought from my favorite deli to the spa treatments I prefer. It’s one thing when I’m wandering around upstairs in a foreign place I once called home. For the most part, I can treat it like a semi-vacation, a place that’s more than comfortable, a place where you find yourself pausing to take in the view from a window. It feels like seeing the colors on a particular painting you don’t remember seeing before.

  However, being down here, in this shop I call my own, in a place with people who know more about me than I care to think about, it just makes me feel more lost. There’s no getting-to-know-you faze. It’s awkward and empty, and I feel like more than a third wheel. I feel more as if I’m the giant fucking elephant in the room, and regardless of how much these people care about me, I’m starting to feel incredibly uncomfortable.

  Stepping foot in Eclectic Isle was just part of the journey today, a way for me to see my so-called pride and joy before continuing on the hunt for my memories with Portia. More than ready to end the awkwardness and empty feelings taking over my battered body, I say, “I appreciate that Cory, thank you.” Looking at Portia I ask, “Do you mind if we get going now? I usually get tired in the afternoon, and I’m hoping we can cover as much ground as possible today.”

  Portia and Cory share a glance. “Sure thing, lady. Let’s go. I’ll call you later, Cory.”

  “Wait,” I say. “I feel like an ass now. What’s happening with this place? Am I supposed to work? Should I close this down for a bit until I’m well enough to continue working?”

  Portia loops her arm through mine and continues pulling me toward the door. “It’s all good right now, Jerri. Cory’s working a little overtime, and we have a part-timer art student who we just moved to full-time while she’s on spring break. Everything’s taken care of.”

  I clear my throat, avoiding the sting, and kick myself for earlier “ill” thoughts regarding these caring people, who obviously just want what’s best for me. The afflictive feeling in my gut has not completely abated, but I choose to focus on what’s important and where we’re headed. My feelings can be dissected and analyzed later when I’m in the haven of my bedroom.

  Once in the car, Portia types “laundromat” into her GPS. It lists fifteen laundromats within a ten-mile radius, so she says we’ll start wi
th the one closest to where we went to night school and branch out from there.

  Looking out the window, I watch people on the street pass by, going about their lives. A mother tries to catch up to her son, a toddler, who chases a pigeon. A man in a suit pulls angrily at his tie as he argues into his cell phone. All these people take for granted the moments surrounding them, the moments that make you feel whole at night. They take for granted the importance of remembering.

  The significance of smells, the influence of a breathtaking smile, and the value of those closest to you are all the things that should make your days feel significant. But once you lose that time, it has the power to break you.

  I notice that Portia’s tiny frame and short blonde hair does make her look like a pixie. Caught in that train of thought, trying to place my mind on more important things, I tell her, “I appreciate you doing this with me.” I clasp my hands together, squeezing them hard enough that my knuckles turn white. “The fact that I can’t remember a single thing about you, and yet you’re still doing this with me—well, just . . . thank you.”

  She turns down the radio and adjusts her hold on the steering wheel. “Nine years ago, I showed up at school with a busted lip and a black eye. I made a stupid decision, one of many. His name was Matt. We hadn’t known each other very long, but you were the first to see past my bullshit excuses. You offered me a place to stay. You may very well have saved my life, Jerri.”

  She clears her throat, shaking off her emotions before continuing. “Regardless of what you did for me then, I would still be here for you now. But because of what you did for me at that time in my life, there is no way in hell I couldn’t be here for you now. I was at a really low point, and you helped pick me back up.” She gives me a small smile. “I’m not picking you up as you did with me; I’m just holding your hand, babe. That’s what family does. We hold on.”

  Nodding, I quietly agree. “We hold on.”

  * * *

  “Five times the charm?”