by Edie Claire
Was there someone? Anyone?
She breathed in slowly, and for a moment tried only to feel rather than remember. She searched for a male presence. She searched for any sense of fun and excitement.
There was nothing.
How could there be nothing?
Jamie opened her eyes. “I really don’t think there is anybody,” she said shortly. “I’m sure there have been men in my past—I sure as hell hope there have been. But I don’t think there's anyone now. At least not one that means anything to me. I think I would know if there were.”
Teagan looked back at her thoughtfully. “Yes, I guess you would.”
Jamie felt an odd ripple of emotion. Sitting here shoulder to shoulder with Teagan, talking and sharing as they had so often done as girls—it was as if the intervening years had never existed. They were not girls anymore; they had both changed in any number of ways. But when Jamie looked at Teagan, grown woman or not, the friend she remembered was still there. Ageless. Invariable. Her essence shining from her soft brown eyes like a flame.
I’ve missed you, Teag.
Jamie swallowed and looked away.
Teagan slapped her hands on her knees and rose with a bounce. “Okay then—I won’t bug you about your memory any more tonight. You’re perfectly safe here, and for now, that’s all that matters. You just relax for a couple minutes, and I’ll go get everything from the house. It’s getting warmer now, at least.”
Jamie nodded mutely in agreement. The heater did work fast. Her eyes absently followed Teagan across the room and toward the door. Her gaze came to rest on the refrigerator.
Blue and gold.
A bumper sticker, plastered diagonally across the freezer compartment, struck her brain like a lightning flash.
“Teagan!” she said excitedly, bouncing sideways on the mattress to get a better view.
Teagan stopped and whirled around. “What?”
Jamie pointed to the image of a snarling panther. “Pitt!” she exclaimed. “The University of Pittsburgh. I went there!”
Teagan looked at the sticker, then back at Jamie. “Really?”
“I’ve seen that thing a thousand times!” she insisted. “I can remember wanting to go there for so long…” Jamie’s heart pounded in her chest as somewhere in her brain, a floodgate opened.
“It’s like I can remember wanting to go to college but not being able to,” she explained. “Like I didn’t have the money. For years and years. I worked instead—I would do anything to make it happen, and then finally, FINALLY, I remember that I did. I can just barely see myself sitting in classes, schlepping books around. That part of it is really vague, but I know I’m not making it up. I really did go to college!”
Teagan smiled. “Of course you did. It’s all coming back to you gradually, just like the neurologist said it would. By morning, maybe you’ll have some idea what you actually studied.”
Jamie felt like laughing. Nothing about her situation was funny, but the sudden rush of information had most definitely raised her spirits. “I went to college,” she repeated proudly. “See there? I wasn’t a total loser.”
Teagan’s smile faded. She walked closer. “You were never a loser. You’re a very intelligent and determined person—of course you went to college. I just can’t believe we went to the same college.” She sat down on the mattress again. “I went two years to Pitt Johnstown before coming to the main campus in Oakland, but I finished up my business degree there, and then a couple years later I went back part time to get my MSW. We were probably on campus at the same time at one point or other.”
Jamie’s eyebrows rose. Being at the same school should have seemed a happy coincidence, but instead the possibility saddened her. Pitt was a huge inner-city university teeming with people; for the two of them to run into each other by accident, much less recognize each other out of context, was hardly a given. Yet when she imagined herself walking down a bustling Oakland street, passing by an equally absorbed Teagan, neither the wiser to what was happening, the thought hit her gut like a bomb. The idea that they could have come so close to reuniting before was far more aggravating than it was amusing.
“Do you remember high school, then?” Teagan questioned. “Where you graduated from?”
Jamie thought a moment. “I think I went to a couple different high schools. Those years are all a blur still. I remember the summer at Indian Lake really well now—but after that, not so much. It was a bunch of different families, a bunch of different schools. I don’t remember any of them the way I remember wanting to go to Pitt.” She paused. “I think what I remember the clearest is what I was the most excited about.”
Like having you for a friend.
Jamie’s eyes moistened, and she blinked.
“I don't think I was a very happy person during those years,” she said quickly, struggling to fight yet another unbidden surge of emotion. Surely, in healthier times, she wasn’t so maudlin! “Mainly because I can’t remember any important faces. I mean—I remember your mother. Don’t you think that if I was adopted, I would remember mine?”
Teagan didn’t answer.
Jamie continued. “I was in a bunch of different foster homes. I can halfway remember lots of people, but none of them really meant much to me. I don’t remember a high school graduation ceremony… maybe I didn’t go. Who knows? What I do remember is how good it felt to be out of high school. And I can picture myself working… fast food, I guess.”
The stream of images had come to a halt. But the jumble of emotions they evoked held Jamie in a fog.
“Sorry,” she mumbled after a moment, realizing that Teagan was still with her, watching her. “I don’t think I’ve remembered anything that would be useful to the police. The spot where my last name should be is still a blank. I’ve been trying hard to remember it, and my mother’s first name, since yesterday, but whatever I’m doing just isn’t working. I’m probably only making it worse. But I do know that I went to Pitt. For whatever that’s worth.”
Teagan rose from the bed. “You’re doing great,” she assured, her voice upbeat. “Maybe you shouldn’t try so hard. In fact, I think I’ll take my own advice and stop pushing you. It’s coming fast enough. Just think, only this morning you could barely remember what happened when you were twelve! I say two days, tops, and we’ll be taking you back to your mansion in Sewickley Heights and finding the keys to your Jag. Right now, I need to get back to the house and get you some clothes.” She crossed to the door and opened it, then leaned back in. “By the way… if you really do have a mansion in Sewickley, you’d better believe I’ll be borrowing yours.”
She let herself out and pounded down the wooden staircase.
Jamie grinned after her. Teagan always was a trip.
Her smile faded as she wondered whether she had any other girlfriends out there. Women who knew her, cared about what happened to her.
If she did, they had yet to miss her.
She stood up slowly, then crossed to the window. Snow was falling again. An icy wind tumbled the light, white flakes in a frenzy, crashing them against the glass at every conceivable angle. Yet even next to the window, the apartment’s heater rallied a pleasant cloud of warmth.
She had been cold before. Cold with no recourse. Huddled under ragged blankets, wearing layers of street clothes to bed, glaring with disdain at the cheap, digital alarm clock that she knew would rouse her before dawn…
Jamie shivered.
She shook her head and turned from the window with a jerk. Some things, she didn’t want to remember.
She stood, staring at nothing, pondering the strange hollowness that had begun to grow inside her. A dark mass of… nothingness. The more she remembered, the more it seemed to swell; the deeper it seemed to ache.
Perhaps it came from missing someone who had been important to her. But if that were so, why could she not remember the person? She was beginning to fear that her first instincts—the sinking feeling of loneliness she had experienced from her f
irst waking moments in the ER—had been shouting the truth straight in her ear.
Nobody out there gave a damn about her.
Chapter Eight
Jamie finished applying her mascara, priding herself on a reasonably steady hand. The shower had been wonderful, as had the shampoo. She was hungry, and still plenty weak, but being clean and wearing decent clothes again had boosted her spirits. Having makeup available had been the icing on the cake, and even though the sight of her mutant eye color still bothered her, she looked good enough to hold her chin up.
Teagan had told her to wait in the apartment, that she would come back to get her as soon as dinner was underway. But Jamie was impatient. She carefully slipped the coat her hostess had provided over her cast, opened the door, and started down the stairs.
The wind blew in her face, and she grimaced against the cold. She kept her eyes peeled on the wooden steps before her, but her mind was playing another disc. City streets. Walking people. Coats, hats, backpacks. A panhandler. The high-pitched squeal and hiss of bus brakes. The scent of exhaust. Coldness. Constant, bone chilling coldness.
Enough already, she mumbled to herself, holding tightly onto the rail with her good hand. When she reached the bottom she paused to look out over the snow-covered field, reveling once more in the vast span of clean, natural space. You’re not starving in the city now, she informed herself. If she was going to remember something, she could remember something else. Something a little more cheerful.
She dipped her chin against the wind and hustled to Teagan’s back porch, where she found the screen door open. She crossed the porch and rapped on the inside door with numb knuckles, but no one answered. Looking through the window, she realized she was outside a laundry room, and that with the wind, probably no one could hear her. Without hesitation she tried the knob, found that door also open, and entered.
She stamped her feet on the mat and loosened her coat. It was warm in the house, though not nearly as warm as in the apartment. An aroma of roast chicken filled the air, and Jamie could hear women’s voices in the distance, laughing. She felt herself smile, even as her stomach rumbled. Something about the scene made her think of Thanksgiving. Not hers, though. Somebody else’s.
“Hello?” she called out, walking toward the sound. “Teagan?”
She had expected the laundry room to lead to the kitchen, but it did not. A narrow hallway instead routed her through a small parlor used as an office. She glimpsed a couch and end table in the room beyond and kept going. As she stepped into a large, warmly lit living room, a man appeared suddenly at her side—having risen, apparently, from a recliner by the doorway.
“Hello,” he said pleasantly, extending a hand. “You must be Jamie.”
Jamie turned. She lifted her gaze to meet his.
Red hair. Striking blue-gray eyes. A smile with straight, white teeth.
Her knees felt suddenly wobbly. “Yes,” she said, surprised to hear herself stammer. “Hello.”
The curve of the jaw. The height. The shoulders. It was all so predictable. So familiar.
“Jamie!” came a voice from beyond him. It was Teagan’s. “You made it down on your own, I see. And you’ve obviously met Eric. Fabulous. You hungry?”
Jamie forced her gaze back to Teagan. “Starving,” she answered.
“Well, we’ll eat in just a minute,” Teagan continued, heading back out of the room already. “My mom’s just finishing the salad. Take your coat off and have a seat. Eric can fill you in on the menu.”
Teagan was gone as quickly as she had come.
Jamie’s eyes returned to Eric. The smile he had greeted her with so cordially only seconds ago had disappeared from his face. The hand he had offered was back at his side. He stood still as a statue, watching her.
Her pulse quickened. She averted her gaze and began to shrug off her coat. As it slipped from her shoulders Eric stepped forward to help her, easing the armhole back over her cast and laying the coat neatly over a chair. But he said nothing.
“So,” she offered finally, her voice still tenuous. “What’s for dinner?”
She felt awkward. Ridiculous. Like a middle-school girl at her first dance. Surely she was reading too much into his reaction—or lack thereof. She didn’t really know the man. Her damaged brain was simply playing tricks on her.
His guarded eyes gave no clue to his thoughts. “Chicken,” he answered at last. His own voice faltered slightly, and Jamie’s pulse rate increased another notch. But then he seemed to collect himself, offering another smile. “Rotisserie style, from Giant Eagle. And potatoes from a box.” The fact that he was able to restore his rich, confident baritone so quickly should have made Jamie feel better. Rather, every word he spoke sent a tremor down her spine.
You know that voice.
“I hope you weren’t expecting anything fancy,” he continued. “Nobody around here can cook—we live on the prepackaged and the microwaveable. But Sheryl does make great desserts.”
“I’m sure it will be wonderful.” Jamie allowed her eyes to study him a moment, yearning to place his significance. He was handsome enough for any woman to stare at, but the sight of him intrigued her at another, deeper level as well. Her eyes saw the man before her, but her brain saw something more. An overlay of memory, hovering. He was…
Her mind turned cartwheels.
He was naked.
Mayday!
She whirled away from him, attaching her gaze firmly to the fireplace mantel. It had a clock on it. The clock had roman numerals…
Hang the clock! What the hell is wrong with you?
“Jamie?” Eric’s voice came from behind her. Soft, worried. Its timbre filled her with a flush of heat. “Is something wrong?”
She spun back around and straightened. Nothing was wrong. She was losing her ever-loving mind, but nothing was wrong. It was perfectly normal to walk into a friend’s living room and picture her husband buck naked.
In the shower. Out of the shower. His arms coming around her…
Holy hell.
“I’m fine,” she chirped. “Really. I just get a little dizzy now and then. From the concussion, I guess.”
“Oh,” came the reply. A conversationalist, the man was not. Or maybe he found it unnerving to be stuck entertaining a woman with a mental disorder.
He didn’t know her. If he did, he would have said something. She was losing it. This was all in her mind. Maybe he was the first decent-looking man she’d seen in a while. Maybe she was such a nymphomaniac that even forty-eight hours of deprivation was beyond her tolerance.
Teagan walked into the room with a smile and slid up to her husband’s side. His arm went around her, and she reached up and kissed him on the cheek. “Dinner’s on,” she said cheerfully.
***
Teagan passed the dish of au gratin potatoes around the table for the third time. They weren’t very good, since she had taken the stovetop shortcut, but they weren’t awful either. Yet Eric had only picked at his, and Jamie, who had claimed she was starving, had hardly eaten a bite of anything including the chicken, which actually was good.
Teagan watched gratefully as her mother, always the social butterfly, pulled their guest into conversation with ease. Sheryl had enough experience chatting with strangers to find common ground with a trapper from Tibet—engaging Jamie in a dialogue about Indian Lake was child’s play. But despite what Teagan had hoped would be a relaxed setting, Jamie seemed uptight. Perhaps a family dinner was too much, too soon.
Nor was Eric helping. He was acting both reserved and tense—nothing like his usual good natured, outgoing self. She had been expecting him to make Jamie feel comfortable, but his attitude was anything but welcoming. They hadn’t had a minute alone since he got home, and she began to wonder if something had gone wrong at work, and he was waiting to tell her about it until they could speak in private.
“So, Jamie,” Sheryl twittered, taking an additional, albeit miniscule, serving of potatoes. Sheryl always dieted betwee
n boyfriends, no matter what her weight. “Teagan tells me you’re putting together more of your past every minute. What are you up to now? College?”
Teagan stiffened. She had told Sheryl specifically not to put her houseguest on the spot about her recovery.
But Jamie answered promptly, her voice no more strained than it had been for the other questions. “I think I went to Pitt. But I probably worked a few years first. I remember walking to class and studying something, but it’s still all very vague.”
Eric rose from his chair. He picked up his plate of barely touched food and carried it to the kitchen, and he didn’t reappear until the women were done eating. Then he picked up their empty plates and carried them away as well, as silently as a butler. Teagan’s stomach twisted with discomfort. She knew her husband well enough to know when he was torn up about something; and since most of life’s minor annoyances rolled off his back with ease, that prospect alone was enough to trouble her. But she also couldn’t help but resent the timing. She had envisioned he and Jamie hitting it off fabulously—in fact, she had been counting on it. She wanted Jamie back in her life again; she wanted them all to get along. But between Sheryl’s probing and Eric’s brooding, Jamie was probably wishing she’d stayed in her room.
As soon as Eric had finished toting the last possible dish back to the kitchen, Sheryl stood up with a bounce. “All right, kids,” she announced. “Tonight’s dessert is a real masterpiece, if I do say so myself. Eric and Jamie, you sit tight. Teagan, you come with me. I may need some help on this one.”
Teagan watched as Eric, smiling tolerantly, slipped back into his chair. Heartened slightly, she rose and joined her mother. “We’ll be right back,” she said with as much pleasantness as she could muster. But the situation seemed grim. Jamie and Eric had hardly exchanged a glance since the meal began, and at the moment, both seemed inordinately interested in the tablecloth.