Lost Identity

by Leona Karr

  “I hate puzzles,” Trish said without thinking, and then looked startled. “How did I know that?”

  Dr. Duboise chuckled. “Don’t worry about it. Just accept it. You’re going to be a prize patient. I can tell.”

  When Andrew arrived that evening, Trish was keyed up, anxious to tell him about her day. They had a pleasant, no-frills dinner in a spacious cafeteria, and then took a leisurely walk around the grounds.

  “I spent a couple of hours in the physical therapy department,” she told him with an eagerness that gave a lift to her voice. “Guess what? The therapist said that I must be dedicated to regular exercise because I have excellent muscle tone. Isn’t that something? He put me through some pretty vigorous routines and I did really well.”

  “That’s great,” Andrew said, delighted at her high spirits. Certainly anything positive that she discovered about herself was a blessing, and he wondered if it had been her physical stamina that had saved her life. There was an animated energy that he hadn’t seen before.

  “Guess what the occupational therapist said after looking carefully at my manicured nails and soft hands?”

  “You’re a lady of leisure, or someone who doesn’t do any physical chores?”

  “That’s close enough. She told me we’d concentrate on finding out what kind of tastes and hobbies I might have. The room was filled with people painting, drawing, some working with clay, others knitting or sitting at sewing machines. None of the activities made any kind of a call to me, but when I told her that I liked music, she said we’d start there.” She gave her head a toss. “It isn’t much, but it’s a start.”

  He was delighted with her unexpected transformation. There was an energy about her that even made her more appealing. He hadn’t been able to get her out of his mind all day, and had been prepared to deal with pleas to let her go back to his place. All of his mental arguments were a waste of time—at least for the moment. He didn’t know if her present attitude would hold up in the face of a prolonged disappointment, but he felt as if a great hurdle had been safely passed.

  “I’m going to lick this thing,” she told him, even as she tried to still the quivering fears that lay beneath the words.

  When he told her, “Good night,” at her door, he lightly kissed her on the forehead. It was a benign gesture, void of any kind of passion or desire. “I’ll be working at home tomorrow. Call me if you run out of something to do, or someone to talk with.”

  She saw that his arms were dropped passively at his side, and she felt that he’d taken several steps away from her even though he hadn’t moved. His expression was friendly, and nothing more. She remembered the warmth of his embrace, but he made no effort to draw her closer. Well, what did you expect? an inner voice mocked. He was obviously relieved that she wasn’t making a fuss to get out of this place.

  “Thanks, but I think they’re going to keep me rather busy,” she said, determined to let him off the hook. She’d messed his life up enough already.

  Andrew’s feelings were mixed as he drove back home. Certainly he was glad to see that Trish was determined to come to grips with her lost memory, but a part of him regretted that she no longer needed his support. He wished that they’d talked about the momentary sexual tension that had flared between them. He’d never been adept at handling confrontations. Because of his insecurity as a foster child, his way was to let things ride, and hope that misunderstandings would work themselves out, but in this situation time might be an enemy. He could feel the door closing on him with every piece of her memory that returned. She had brought into his life a glimpse of the kind of companionship that he’d been missing. How ironic, he thought, that the woman who had broken into his solitary shell was someone who didn’t even know who she was.

  THE NEXT FEW DAYS PASSED without incident. Andrew worked at home and visited Trish in the evening. The exuberance of her first day had faded. On the fourth night, she’d experienced another one of the fearful nightmares.

  “Dr. Duboise says it’s a good thing.” She told Andrew as she suppressed a tremor. “Something in my subconscious is trying to come to the surface. Maybe when it does, I’ll remember everything.”

  Andrew didn’t tell her that he’d been endeavoring to find some clue to her identity on his own, but had come up empty-handed. Because he’d honored his promise not to publicize her story or whereabouts, keeping her situation a secret was like tying his hands behind his back. He read all the stories he could find about people reported missing.

  And then one noon hour, it happened. He had spread out a collection of papers on the table as he sat in his usual booth, eating his lunch. A bite of sandwich caught in his throat when he turned a page in The New York Times, and glanced over the news stories. He wasn’t prepared for the victory that met his eyes, and he read a small news item in disbelief.

  “Memorial service to be held for missing prominent New York investor and Realtor. Ms. Patricia Louise Radcliffe, a wealthy businesswoman and socialite, disappeared during the height of the recent storm. She is believed to have been in the company of her partner, Perry Reynolds, who is also missing.”

  The article was accompanied by a fashionable photograph showing a smiling Trish, her hair beautifully styled, a jeweled necklace circling her slender neck. She was wearing an off-the-shoulder gown, cutting daringly low to show the soft crevice between her full breasts.

  As he looked at the photo, her eyes seemed to hold a sardonic smile, as if she appreciated the trick that fate had played on him.

  Chapter Five

  Andrew kept staring at Trish’s picture with emotions that defied definition. Excitement was there, and relief, too, but there was also regret, chagrin and disappointment. Even though he had suspected Trish came from an affluent lifestyle, he wasn’t prepared for the fact that she belonged in a world of high finance and money. At the back of his mind had been the hope that maybe, just maybe, there might be a continuing relationship after they discovered her identity, but he knew now that such a hope was romantic nonsense. Once she was drawn back into her own world, her emotional need for a hermit loner would be over.

  He read the article over several times, trying to decide the best way to handle the matter. Dr. Duboise would have be told first. The doctor would be the best one to give Trish the news that she was Ms. Patricia Radcliffe of New York City.

  TRISH WAS IN THE physical therapy room, working on an exercise machine, when a secretary from Dr. Duboise’s office informed her that the doctor would like to see her.

  “I’ve already had my therapy session this morning,” Trish replied, puzzled. Just the way the woman was looking at her created an instant quiver of uneasiness. “What does he want?”

  “He wants to talk with you.”

  “What about?”

  She hesitated. “I’m not sure.”

  The woman was lying, Trish was certain of it. Had the hospital decided they couldn’t keep her after all? Obviously, treatment was expensive and she’d made no progress at all in recovering her memory in the week she’d been there.

  “All right. I’ll shower and be in his office in about fifteen minutes.”

  Her mind whirled as she walked slowly across the grounds from her room to Duboise’s office. What had she said during the morning session that made him want to see her again? If she was released from Havengate, where would she go? Should she ask Andrew to let her come back? Even though a deep seated, lurking fear remained just below her consciousness, and she felt the cottage was a safe sanctuary, she knew that it wasn’t fair to him to disrupt his life along with her own.

  “Come in, Trish,” Duboise greeted her with a smile, which put Trish more on edge than ever. She didn’t trust his smooth manner. There was an energy about him that radiated a warning. He motioned to a large burgundy armchair where she always sat during their sessions.

  She sat down stiffly, clutching her hands together. “What is this all about? What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing’s wrong,” he assure
d her with his usual easy smile as he leaned back in his chair.

  “Then why am I here again today?”

  “Trish, I want you to try and relax. Take a deep breath and let it out slowly. Another one. Another. All right. Now close your eyes. I’m going to say a name for you.”

  She instantly stiffened instead of relaxing. What name? Her nails dug into her palms.

  “Keep breathing deeply, Trish. Just let this name float in your mind like a petal moving on water.” He said the name softly. “Patricia Louise Radcliffe.” He repeated it two more times, and then waited.

  Trish mouthed the name without any recognition, but when she opened her eyes, and saw the way he was looking at her, she knew why he had brought her to his office. He had expected her to recognize the name, but it was no more familiar than the names of missing persons that Andrew had given her.

  Strangely enough she hated to disappoint the doctor more than she felt any deep emotion herself. She had already suffered too many disappointments, and spent too many long hours trying to find a glimmer of remembrance in the world around her.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, knowing that she had dashed his hopes by her lack of response.

  “Close your eyes again, Trish. Breathe deeply. Relax.” After a moment, he said again, “Let this name float gently in your mind. Perry Reynolds. Perry Reynolds.”

  She jerked in shock as if an electric current had charged through her. For a second, she saw a man’s face clearly, graying dark hair, round features and blue eyes. Then the face was lost in a kaleidoscope of images and sounds that whirled in a vertigo of thundering water, crashing timbers and shadowy shapes.

  She put her hand to her throat, cried out, gasping for air as if the whirling visions in her head were strangling her.

  “You’re all right, Trish. You’re all right.” Dr. Duboise bent over her, speaking in a soothing tone.

  She leaned back in the chair, limp and drained. After a moment, she managed to ask in a breathless voice, “Who is Perry Reynolds?”

  He avoided answering her for a moment, and instead asked her some open-ended questions about what she had seen and felt when the images flashed before her. When he was satisfied that she’d shared everything as best as she could, he leaned over and took her hand.

  “I got a call from your friend, Andrew Davis, about an hour ago, and he sent me a fax of a newspaper article about a memorial service being held for a woman who was presumed lost in the recent storm.”

  “Patricia Radcliffe?”

  He nodded and as his steady gaze met hers, she knew that he was convinced that she was this person. Suddenly having a strange name thrust upon her was almost as frightening as not knowing her identity at all.

  “And Andrew thought the woman might be me?” She shook her head in disbelief. “It can’t be. The name doesn’t mean anything. It must be somebody else.” She refused to let them shove somebody else’s identity on her. “It has to be.”

  He handed her the newspaper, and said gently, “That’s your picture, isn’t it?”

  She stared at the photograph and her likeness as if it would fade under her disbelieving scrutiny. “Patricia Louise Radcliffe.” She mouthed the name under the picture, and then, with a sense of frightening detachment, she read the article.

  “Perry Reynolds.” Her lips quivered. She was bewildered why his name had brought more of an emotional response than hearing her own name. “Why do I remember his name and what he looked like, and I can’t remember my own?”

  Dr. Duboise shook his head. “I don’t know, Trish. But I’m confident that one of these days you’ll tell me.”

  ANDREW LEFT WORK EARLY, too keyed up to get any work of his own done. When he’d returned to the office after lunch, he’d contacted Dr. Duboise, and then used the Internet to glean some information about Atlantis Enterprises, the company that Patricia had inherited from her late father, Winston Radcliffe. The following year she had created a partnership with Perry Reynolds and the assets of the company were worth several million dollars. Andrew stared at reports that listed a staggering net worth for both partners.

  When he realized fully that Patricia Radcliffe was the woman who had been sleeping in his lumpy bed and wearing his faded clothes, he felt like someone who had been the butt of a very poor joke.

  When Andrew arrived at Havengate later that afternoon, Trish was in her room, lying on the bed and staring at the ceiling. He knocked softly on the open door, and she sat up quickly.

  “Andrew,” she gasped. “Thank God, you’ve come. Tell me what to do. I must be this Patricia Radcliffe person, but I don’t even know her. How can I take over the life of someone when her name doesn’t even seem familiar?”

  “Hey, take it easy. No need to panic,” he said in a gentle, reassuring tone.

  “It’s not true. I’m not that person.”

  Andrew looked at her in disbelief. He had expected that once Trish learned her identity, there would be some kind of a breakthrough in her memory, but if the name meant nothing to her, she was still as much in the dark as ever. “Patricia Radcliffe doesn’t mean anything to you at all?”

  “It’s a name, that’s all. I don’t have any sense that it belongs to me. That news item was like reading about someone else.”

  “You don’t remember anything?” he asked as he sat down on the bed beside her. She was wearing the inexpensive white shorts and simple summer top that he had bought for her.

  “Yes, I did have a momentary recall.” Her lips trembled. “When I heard the name Perry Reynolds, a sudden image of a man flashed in my mind for a split second. The article said he was her business partner.”

  Andrew noted that she said, her business partner, not my business partner.

  “When Dr. Duboise said his name, the image of a graying dark-haired man with a round face flashed across my mind. And I heard horrible sounds of thunder and roaring water.”

  She shivered and Andrew’s arm went around her waist. “But that’s wonderful, Trish. Don’t you see? It’s a beginning.”

  Her anxious gaze dragged across his face. “The paper said this man is missing, too. Do you think this Perry Reynolds is the one making me afraid to remember who I am?”

  Andrew was wondering the same thing, but he knew better than to indulge in any idle speculation. “What does Dr. Duboise say?”

  “He warned me about jumping to any conclusions, but I can’t help it.” She leaned her head against his shoulder and he tightened his embrace. “It’s really strange. I was almost tempted to show up at that memorial service, just as an on-looker. What do think would have happened if I’d walked in on the service?”

  “Oh, maybe a half-dozen people would have fainted away.” He knew she was serious, but he decided to make light of it.

  “Dr. Duboise said he would alert the authorities that I’d been located, so they’ll call off the service, but no information would be given as to my whereabouts.”

  “Good.” He was relieved that she wasn’t going to be immediately bombarded with a lot of strange people rushing at her. “That will give you time to decide how you want to handle all of this.”

  “I suppose so,” she said thoughtfully.

  He was ready to answer as many questions as he could about Atlantis Enterprises, but, surprisingly enough, she didn’t even mention the company. Apparently, none of the details of Patricia Radcliffe’s business life had any relevancy for her at the moment.

  “I’ve read the article over and over again, but my mind is still blank.” She fell silent for a long moment and then she straightened up. “Do you think we could get out of here for a couple of hours?”

  “Sure. Where would you like to go?” he asked, at once surprised and pleased. Was she really ready to show herself out in public? Dr. Duboise had given his permission for her to leave the premises with him.

  “Could we go to your place?”

  He was startled by the rush of pleasure that made him answer quickly, “Sure. We’ll stop and get something
to eat on the deck. How about Chinese?”

  “Perfect.”

  She said little on the drive to his house, but the silence between them was comfortable, and Andrew was grateful for it. He liked to think things through before expressing his opinions, and he was certain that the conversation would eventually turn to what she should do next.

  All afternoon, he’d been trying to coordinate what he knew about Trish’s situation and the information presented in the newspaper. There was no doubt that she had disappeared during the storm. That was a given because of the time he had found her. There seemed to be some question about whether or not she was in the company of her business partner, Perry Reynolds. Now that Andrew knew about the sudden flash of Trish’s memory of the man’s face, and the accompanying noises, he was ready to believe that her business partner had been with her in the storm. But how had she ended up on his beach alone?

  Andrew sensed that Trish was as tight as bowstrings when they reached his house, so he suggested a stroll on the beach before enjoying the various cartons of Chinese food. Trish readily agreed.

  A late afternoon sun brushed the ocean with a glitter of diamonds as it sent shafts of light through soft clouds collecting on the horizon. A wild flutter of seagulls darting over the water mingled with the soft ebbing and flowing of the surf upon the sand.

  Trish and Andrew walked in the opposite direction of the cove, and as he glanced at her face lifted to the evening breeze, a sudden sense of sadness descended upon him. This might be the last time that they would be together like this, but in a strange way, she had somehow become his, and he wished that there had been no newspaper article to take her away from him. He put his arm around her waist as they walked, as if he could somehow claim her. She smiled up at him, and as he looked into her sweet face, he wanted to trace the soft curve of her cheeks with his fingertips, and bury his lips in the smooth loveliness of her neck. And more than that—he wanted the impossible—he wanted to keep her in his life.