Mind of Her Own

by Diana Lesire Brandmeyer

  * * *

  A door slamming downstairs startled her. Silence crept through the house, no high-pitched voices or feet thumping on the stairs. The only sound came from the electronic hum of the bedroom clock. Had they all left for the day? She crept from the warm bed to the bedroom door, opened it slowly, and peeked around the corner. Nothing to see but beige walls and beige carpet stretched like a runway down the hall.

  “Hello? Anyone still here?”

  A clock chimed from somewhere in the house as her only answer.

  Sighing with relief that there wouldn’t be any questions for a while, she strode across the thick-carpeted bedroom to the bathroom. The whirlpool tub beckoned with its high-gloss ceramic tiles. With a quick twist of the brushed-nickel knobs, she started the flow of hot water for a well-deserved bath.

  After her indulgent soak, Jazz realized she would have to wear yesterday’s clothes or wear something else of Louisa’s. Neither seemed appealing, but since clothing was not optional, she had to put something on. She dried off with a thick towel. Maybe Louisa had clothes worth investigating, if her linens were any indication. She decided to check it out.

  As she opened the closet door, a light came alive overhead. Stunned, it took a moment for her to take in the size—the room had to be as big as her guest room! The cedar walls were lined with cabinets, shoe trays, and multilevel bars dressed with clothes. An essence of jasmine floated in the air, making her nose twitch. Suits in every shade of gray hung on Collin’s bar. Louisa seemed to prefer navy and khaki.

  Jazz ran a hand over the clothes and looked for a pair of jeans. Nothing. Doesn’t the woman own any? She rapidly slid the wooden hangers aside. Their golden hooks scratched against the metal bar. Everything seemed to boast a designer label, and nothing had color—no reds, no pinks, and no bright blues; not even a plaid peeked from the mass.

  And no denim.

  A thrill of excitement ran through her. She wasn’t crazy; she knew who she was! She’d worn jeans home last night that would prove to Collin that she couldn’t be Louisa. He must have been so upset he hadn’t noticed what she wore. It was evident to her the woman didn’t even own a casual pair of pants. Collin would know that.

  Dressed in Louisa’s clothes, Jazz felt rather washed out from the vanilla sweater and khaki pants. Her own personality desired attention. Back in the closet, she twisted one of Collin’s red ties off its hanger, wound it through the belt loops on her pants, and tied it at the waist. Feeling much better about her appearance, she trotted down the stairs. Collin had said he would leave a number to call him at work. She found it written on a yellow sticky note stuck to the front of the fridge. She punched in the number.

  “Good morning. This is Mr. Copeland’s office. May I help you?” a well-dictioned woman asked.

  “I need to speak with Collin immediately.”

  “I’m sorry; Mr. Copeland is unavailable at the moment. May I take a message?”

  “Yes. Tell him his wife is still missing.”

  “Missing? Louisa is missing? Has she been abducted? Have you called the police?”

  “No, I haven’t called them. It’s like she’s missing, but she’s not. Collin knows what is going on; it’s complicated. Just have him call home.” She wondered how long it would take for him to return her call.

  “Let me put you on hold. I believe he can take your call now.”

  The phone line swelled with soft classical music. Then, “Louisa?”

  “Jazz.”

  “Jazz, what do you mean you’re missing or Louisa is missing? Didn’t we determine last night that you are Louisa?”

  “But that was before I had proof that I’m not her.”

  “Proof? What proof could you possibly have?” Collin asked, disbelief dripping from his tone.

  “Denim. Louisa doesn’t have anything denim in her closet, or anything colorful. I only wear denim, and I had jeans on last night.” Satisfied with her case, she waited for his rebuttal.

  “Did you look in the dresser in the bedroom?”

  “No.” She rubbed her forehead as she considered the obvious conclusion—she was wrong. Louisa wore denim.

  “Then you don’t have the proof you need. That’s where she—you keep the jeans.”

  “So she’s not missing, or at least you’re feeling confident that I’m Louisa?” She could hear him clicking a pen. Was it a nervous habit or was he frustrated with her? She didn’t know, and that bothered her. “Quit with the pen; it’s annoying.”

  The pen quieted, but he didn’t answer her question about who he thought she was.

  “Do you still have the pounding headache?”

  The concern in his voice comforted her. “It’s still with me and getting worse.”

  “I’m calling the doctor, then, and getting you an appointment this afternoon. I’ll call Laurie and ask her to keep Tim. You lie down and rest. I’ll be home soon.”

  She disconnected and realized that she no longer liked the adventure she had been thrust into, book material or not. This was not fun.

  * * *

  Collin sat in front of the doctor’s desk and waited for him to come in after examining Louisa. The desk held a few family pictures but nothing else on its expansive oak top. Unlike mine. At this moment his desk overflowed with manila folders and stacks of papers, work he should have completed by now and would have if Louisa hadn’t turned into Jazz. He should be at the office and would be if his wife hadn’t called him insisting he needed to report her as a missing person. And all because of a pair of jeans. He had immediately called their family doctor for an appointment. On his way out of the office, he’d paused only long enough to tell his secretary he wouldn’t be back for the rest of the day.

  The door swished behind him. Collin rose from the chair and offered an outstretched hand to the doctor.

  Shaking Collin’s hand, Dr. Allen said, “Sit down and let’s talk about your wife.” Dr. Allen plopped a folder on his desk and flipped it open before he sat.

  Collin perched on the edge of his seat. He pinched his pants and slid his finger and thumb down the crease on his thigh.

  “Before she comes in, I’d like to make a suggestion to you,” Dr. Allen said as he carefully turned a few pages over in the folder.

  “Anything.” Collin felt a moment of hope.

  “Her memory isn’t coming back, and I believe she has retrograde amnesia.” He leaned his elbows on the desktop and made a triangle with his hands, tapping his nose. “Has she experienced an unusual trauma in her life?”

  “Like what? We have three kids—sometimes that can be dramatic.”

  Dr. Allen shook his head. “Nice evasion, Counselor, but I said trauma, not drama. Retrograde amnesia can be triggered by a bump on the head or a seizure. We’ve determined that Louisa didn’t have a seizure. The grill is heavy and could be the reason for the amnesia. Retrograde amnesia can cause a loss of memory from the time of a specific event. Is it possible your wife had something happen to her as a child that she hasn’t told you about?”

  “No, no. I don’t recall anything that she’d want to forget.”

  “There is more you need to be aware of: it is likely she’ll have problems remembering things from now on as well, although that shouldn’t last long. We have seen in some cases like this that patients don’t remember their past, so they fill in the details of what they think happened in their past, believing those details to be correct. They aren’t trying to lie, understand, but they may offer an exaggerated version of some truth.” He paused for a breath, steepling his hands again and resting them on the desk. “She’ll likely have frequent headaches that will get worse as she gets closer to remembering.”

  Collin leaned back into the chair. “Does she know all of this?”

  “I’ve explained it to her, but I’m not sure she’ll remember it.” Dr. Allen closed the folder.

  “Is there anything good about this? Is there something I can do to move the process along?”

  “Time will tel
l. You could try nudging her memory—sometimes a place or a smell will bring back the memory. It is usually a smell associated with the previous trauma that the patient doesn’t want to recall.”

  “How am I going to accomplish that?” Collin would do anything to get his life back on track. He straightened his tie as if that would reinforce the need for normalcy.

  “Talk to her mom and see if she remembers anything that might have happened to Louisa as a child—but to forewarn you, many parents are clueless about traumatic episodes, or they refuse to acknowledge them.” Dr. Allen leaned back in his chair. “Perhaps you could start by re-creating how you first met, your first date, that sort of thing? I hope your memory is better than mine. My wife tells me she is the only one who recalls everything about our dating years.”

  “I’m not sure I can remember everything.” Collin reached for the BlackBerry in his coat pocket. He typed in Repeat dates. What had they done together? They went for ice cream and to the movies, but he wasn’t sure which ones. “How detailed do you think I need to be?”

  “As close as you can get.” Dr. Allen offered a consolation-prize smile. “Give her things to smell, pleasant and unpleasant as well.”

  “And that will work?” He keyed in Smells, good and bad. “Are you thinking like oranges and chocolate?”

  “I don’t know what might trigger a memory, but don’t leave out negative smells like diesel fuel or cleaning supplies.”

  “Can’t she do this herself?” He mentally started lining up those tiny candles with strong scents on the kitchen counter for Louisa to smell.

  “There hasn’t been a lot of success with that because the patient is able to prepare and push the memory back. If they come across the smell unexpectedly, it seems to have a more powerful effect.”

  Collin’s finger tapped in Use surprise attack. “Got it. I can’t plop her in front of a banquet of smells and think she’ll snap out of this.”

  Louisa brushed through the doorway. “You aren’t talking about me, are you?”

  Collin stood. “No. Not really.” He scooted over one chair, leaving her the one nearest the door.

  “So what’s the verdict? Am I ever going to remember my address or phone number in Florida?” Louisa said as she sat down.

  The doctor nodded at her. “In time you’ll remember things. For now, though, I think it best you continue as you are.”

  “As Collin’s wife?”

  “You are Collin’s wife. Like I told you in the exam room, I delivered Tim, and Collin was there.”

  “So I’m to live as a fata morgana?” She sank back into the chair with a sigh.

  “A what?” Collin asked. He tapped his foot, afraid of what her explanation would be.

  “Fata morgana. It means ‘mirage.’ I’ll be living as your wife, but it won’t be real to me until I regain my memory of being Louisa.” The words seemed to float with ease from her lips.

  “Exactly. Not the words I would have chosen, but it works nonetheless,” said Dr. Allen as he pushed his chair back from the desk. “Do you have any questions?”

  “Are you sure there isn’t a magic drug I can take or some kind of exercise, like standing on my head, to make my memory come alive?” Louisa asked. “It’s just so hard to understand that I’m someone else when I feel like I am who I’m supposed to be, yet you keep insisting I’m Louisa.” She clasped her hands around her head. “And I have children.”

  Collin reached over and took her hand. “Louisa, look at me.”

  She turned to him. Her eyes begged for some kind of reassurance.

  “You’ll remember and I’ll help you.”

  “How can you? You don’t know anything about me.”

  Chapter Six

  Collin pressed the toaster button down. He shoved up the cuff of his white shirt and checked the time on his watch. He would be late, no doubt about it. He couldn’t afford to come in past eight again tomorrow. Today Cranston would give him the famous stern stare; he just knew it. Maybe an e-mail would even be waiting in his in-box from the big guy himself, expressing concern—not for Collin and his family, of course, but for the firm. Everyone who received a “boss-gram” knew they were being watched and graded on their performance. Coming to the office early was something you knew you had to do in this law office. If you wanted to make partner, being late wasn’t acceptable.

  Not even when you had a sick wife at home. That was just it, though; he wasn’t sure he had a wife. She looked like his wife, but she sure didn’t act like it. He toyed with the thought that she might be pretending to not remember. He didn’t think Louisa would jeopardize his career like that, but then again, she was angry with him for spending too much time at work. She had hinted more than once that he could afford to send her to the Chase Park Plaza with her friends for a girls’ slumber party. He had checked the cost, but two hundred dollars a person was more than he wanted to spend. She would want to take along three of her friends. He made good money, but not that good.

  “Daddy?” Tim pulled on his pants leg. “Can I have cookies for breakfast today?”

  “No.”

  “Mom lets me.”

  “She does not. I’m not here for breakfast, but I know she doesn’t let you have cookies.” He was tired of these kids lying to him. Yesterday Joey had trotted into the room wearing his soccer uniform. He informed Collin that Louisa always let him wear it to school. And Madison had come to breakfast sporting metallic purple eyelids. He shuddered. His little girl was growing up, and he wasn’t ready for that. He wondered where she had found the grape-colored sparkle stuff anyway. She had protested all the way upstairs to the bathroom, yelling that all the girls wore it and it wasn’t fair that she had to remove it.

  “Yeah, stop trying to fool Dad, Tim,” Joey said. “Mom makes us pancakes or French toast in the morning.”

  “We only get cereal once a week,” Madison chimed in.

  He turned and stared at the three of them, unsure of who was telling him the truth now. He knew Louisa prided herself on taking care of the kids, but a real breakfast four mornings a week? Louisa had better find herself fast because he couldn’t do this every day.

  “Consider this your lucky week because you’re going to get cereal more than once. That’s all I can do in the time I have.” The toast popped up. Collin pinched it between his fingers and dropped it on the plate, where it sent blackened crumbs into the air before settling in place.

  “Eww. I’m not eating that.” Madison plopped into her chair at the table and reached for the box of cereal Collin had placed there earlier. “We need the sugar bowl, Dad.”

  “You don’t need any. There’s tons of sugar in that stuff.”

  “But it doesn’t taste good without it,” Madison whined and then batted her eyes at her dad. “Please?”

  Collin reached into the cabinet and pulled out the sugar bowl because arguing was what he did for a living, not as a hobby. He put the bowl and a spoon on the table. “Only a little.” He watched in horror as Joey grabbed the spoon and put three scoops on top of the sugared flakes. “Hey!”

  “Sorry, Dad, it’s the best way to eat it.”

  Collin grabbed the cereal bowl from his older son and dumped the contents into the garbage disposal. “Change in the agenda. Now who wants scrambled eggs?”

  “I want waffles.” Tim bounded from his chair and opened the bottom cabinet where the pans were kept.

  “I’m fixing eggs and that’s it. If you don’t want to eat them, you can eat the cereal without the extra sugar. Now I need a show of hands—who wants the eggs?”

  Joey raised his hand. “I want two.”

  Madison scowled at him. “I’d rather eat cereal.”

  Tears streamed down Tim’s face. “I want Mommy to make my breakfast.” He slammed the cabinet door and scurried to the couch. He buried himself under the blanket Collin had left there.

  Collin cracked the eggs and managed to keep the shells on the outside of the bowl. He grabbed the milk and poured. Lumps
plopped into the bowl on top of the yolks.

  Louisa walked into the kitchen and gasped at the chaos. “Is it like this every morning?”

  Collin whipped a carton of milk from the counter. “Smell this.” He held it under her nose, hoping the odor would change her back into his wife.

  “That’s disgusting!” She backed away from the sour smell in the plastic bottle.

  “Doesn’t pour very well when it’s lumpy either. So yes, Louisa, breakfast is chaotic this morning.”

  “Not her, still not her, and if that’s how you greet her in the morning, no wonder she checked out.” She opened a box of marshmallow cereal and began eating from the carton. The occupants of the kitchen stilled. “What? I’m not allowed to eat breakfast?”

  “Not from the box, not ever,” Madison informed her. “It isn’t healthy. What if you had just petted Cleo and then stuck your hand full of germs into the box we all eat from?”

  “But I didn’t just pet the beast. So everything is germ-free, okay?” Louisa reached for one of the bowls stacked on the counter. “If it will make everyone more comfortable, I will conform to your standards of food preparation.” She drained the rest of the box into the bowl. “Can I still use my fingers since there isn’t any milk, or must I use a spoon?”

  Collin turned off the burner. “It doesn’t matter to me what you use. I’m just glad you’re here and ready to take over breakfast duty. Madison and Joey, we’re leaving for school in ten minutes, so eat fast.”

  Joey and Madison scooted from the table and ran for their rooms.

  “Breakfast . . .” Louisa tried to speak.

  “That’s what I said. I have to be at work on time, and while you’re here, this is your new job. Cleo needs to go to the vet this week, and I talked to Laurie; she’s bringing the two older kids home from school this week. Next week you have to take over getting them there and back.”

  “But, Collin, I don’t know how to do this.”

  “It’s not hard; any woman could do this job. If you need help, call Laurie. She said she’d help you figure things out this week.” He reached for the coat he’d placed on the back of a chair. Slipping his arms in the sleeves, he yelled for Madison and Joey. “Car is leaving in three minutes. Grab those book bags and an apple—at least they aren’t spoiled.”