Remember Me

by L'Amour, Nelle

  “We’re almost there,” says the good doctor, still unwinding the gauze. It feels like an eternity.

  “Oh, honey!” exclaims Sister Marie. Her face is beaming. I can hear happy tears in her voice.

  My gaze stays on the bespeckled doctor as he peels off the last of my bandages. A tangle of gauze dangles from his hand.

  “How much longer will it take?” I ask, impatience mixing with my trepidation.

  His eyes unwavering, he flashes a smile. “We’re almost there.”

  Anxiously, I inhale again through my nose and feel my nostrils flare. The doctor’s eyes stay on me and his smile widens as he places the mountain of gauze on the tray table next to him. Next to the pile is a large hand mirror.

  “Beautiful,” he breathes out.

  Sister Marie echoes him, her voice still teary. “So beautiful.”

  The three syllables of the word spin around my head. “Beau-ti-ful.” Beautiful.

  My heart still in my throat, I watch as Dr. Sanders lifts the mirror to my face. “Take a look.”

  With baited breath, I meet my reflection. In disbelief, I blink my eyes several times. My mouth falls open and I audibly gasp.

  “Oh my God.” The words spill out as if they’re almost one. My mouth stays agape as I behold my face. It’s perfection.

  Except for one small scar that intercepts my right eyebrow, my skin is smooth . . . creamy like porcelain . . . and almost wrinkle-free except for a few faint smile lines around my brand new hazel eyes, thanks to a revolutionary laser procedure. My thinner oval face now has high cheekbones that bracket a slightly turned up slender nose and accentuate my strong jawline. My former chin-length dyed hair is back to its original shade of auburn and floats along my back in a long loose braid. I’m paralyzed by the sight of myself. All the surgeries and laser treatments have totally transformed me.

  “What do you think?” asks my surgeon, cutting into my stupor.

  My throat contracted, my emotions in turmoil, I try to form words. But I can’t. Shock has hijacked my voice.

  “Well?”

  I try to squeak out a word. Only a soft gasp spills out.

  “Smile,” he says cheerfully. “Put on a happy face, Skye.”

  To please him, I force a smile. A small closed-mouth one.

  “Come on, you can do better. Let’s see those beautiful teeth.”

  Hesitantly, I give him a toothy smile. My perfect pearly white caps and implants have lushened my lips. They’re fuller.

  “There you go,” he beams as I hear Sister Marie sigh.

  Enough. Abandoning the smile, I run my fingers along the contours of my new face. Slowly, trying to ingest, memorize, and savor the softness of my skin along with every new angle. One word finally forms on my lips. A breathy whisper. “Wow.”

  I don’t recognize myself.

  Nor will anyone else.

  I am, for the first time in my life, truly beautiful.

  Yet, tears fill my eyes.

  Who will remember me?

  No one.

  Not even my husband who’s been told I’m dead. And he seems to have disappeared from this planet with no trace of him. Finn Hooker no longer exists.

  Nor do I.

  CHAPTER 13

  My first official day in the Witness Protection Program. My first official job since my horrific accident. For all intents and purposes, investigative reporter Skye Collins is dead. I’ve googled myself and even read my obituary. Private tutor and schoolteacher Scarlet Callahan is, however, alive and well. She even has a Facebook page and a LinkedIn account.

  The fact that I had a teaching degree in addition to my journalism degree as a backup made the choice of my new occupation easy. During my last few months in rehab, I took a few online courses in early childhood education to refresh my skills. Focusing mainly on the progressive Montessori method, which is how my parents educated me. In the meantime, the law enforcement agency readied my new birth certificate, social security number, driver’s license, passport, and résumé. The photo on the latter three documents stuns and saddens me as much as my reflection still does in any mirror. As exquisite as my new face may be, I miss my old self. The life I lived as a reporter, wife, and mother. Going back to my old job or getting one similar was not an option. Nor was going back to Finn and my daughter, who’s now going on five.

  I was an unlikely candidate for California’s program as most witnesses are protected in exchange for testifying in a trial against a criminal involved with organized crime or other serious offenses. Detective Pete Billings of the LAPD, who’s relentlessly worked my case, worked with the attorney general to get me in. He convinced him that as a high profile newscaster, my life was endangered with my likely contract killer still at large.

  My only stipulation was that I wanted to remain in Southern California and not relocate. With my possible killer still out there, I knew that was risky. But my longing to somehow be reunited with Finn and Maddie took precedence. It’s a dream I’ve never let go of.

  The high-end tutoring agency that the program set me up with has placed me in a live-in job in Malibu. All I know is that the family will be traveling a lot and has a kindergarten-age daughter. They obviously have the means to be able to privately homeschool their child. As I drive to my destination, I think about Finn and Maddie. I think about them all the time. It’s like they’ve fallen off the face of the earth. Driving down the 101 from Santa Barbara to the Pacific Coast Highway, I impulsively pass my exit and make a detour to drive by our house with the hope of seeing them. It’s over an hour out of my way but worth it. Even to get a glimpse of them.

  Parking in front of the Craftsman-style house, which hasn’t changed a bit, I turn the ignition off and wait. A forest green mini-van is parked in the driveway—maybe Finn traded in his pickup or got a second car. My pulse drums in my ears at the prospect of seeing him and Maddie. How will I react? Jump out of the car and grab my daughter. Hi, remember me? I’m your mommy! Please. Who am I kidding? They’ll think I’m some kind of crazy person! A stalker! And call the police! After a long fidgety hour, second thoughts assault me. This is all wrong. Ready to drive off, the front door suddenly bursts open and a cute little ginger-haired girl who looks to be Maddie’s age comes skipping out. My heart does a cartwheel, then almost stops. Right behind her is an attractive brunette about my age carrying a baby. I feel sick to my stomach. Finn’s new wife? I don’t know whether to laugh or cry when a short balding man in a suit and yarmulke follows them out the door. The latter wins. My vision blurs with tears as they clamber into the mini-van and pull out of the driveway. A devastating thought settles in the pit of my stomach. My family is gone. And as much as I’ve googled him and used every investigative tactic I know, Finn Hooker is nowhere to be found. Even Detective Billings doesn’t know how to reach him. All his social media sites are shut down and his cell phone is out of service. Maybe he moved to Europe. He always told me he wanted to live in Paris. Has he relocated to the City of Light? Found another woman?

  With a heart so heavy it can weigh down the world, I get back on the 10 and cruise up the Coast Highway heading toward Point Dume, the northern end of Malibu. Having no recollection of the accident, I’m not afraid of driving. After a few lessons to get me back behind the wheel, it came back easily to me. It’s like riding a bike. Or a lover. You never forget.

  The exhilarating drive along the Pacific Ocean with its majestic white-crested waves lifts my spirits. My window is down and the fresh salty scent of the sea mixes with the warm ocean breeze. A picture-perfect mid-August day, surfers dot the water, trying to catch the next big wave while beachgoers of all ages frolic in the sea, stroll along the shoreline, and sunbathe on the beach. The oceanfront houses, one after another, vary greatly—ranging from unpretentious cottages to mini-mansions. As I pass by Pepperdine University in my new Jeep Cherokee, the scenery changes, going from residential to rustic. Soon, there are no more houses visible along the coast. Just trees. Following my GPS, I turn left
onto a private road and pull up to a massive iron gate. Stopping, I hit the call button on the intercom and announce myself. In a few anxious breaths, the gate swings open. Winding down a cypress-lined road, I come to a two-story contemporary house—an architectural masterpiece that’s all sand-colored stucco and tinted glass. A vast cactus-garden surrounds it, full of exotic succulents and colorful shrubs. Sitting on a bluff overlooking the blue-green ocean, the secluded property is in a word: Magnificent.

  My body tenses as I contemplate my new job. My new life. I wonder who lives here. The analytic, investigative reporter in me tells me that they must be very private and protective. And likely creative. Unsure where to park, I pull my Jeep into the semi-circular driveway. My heart thudding in my chest, I hop out of the car and retrieve my two large suitcases from the trunk before trekking to the front door. Inhaling a fortifying breath that draws in the ocean-scented air, I set my luggage down and ring the doorbell. It buzzes. On my next breath, the fiberglass door swings open. A casually dressed Latino woman in her mid-fifties greets me. Her toffee-colored face is warm and inviting.

  “Bienvenido, Señorita Callahan. We have been expecting you. I am Rosita, the housekeeper.” Her English is heavily accented, but otherwise impressive.

  I respond in Spanish. “Sorry I’m a little late. Hope that’s not a problem.”

  The housekeeper smiles at my fluent Spanish, a language I learned when I lived in Costa Rica for two years while my parents shot a documentary about rainforests. “Come inside, por favor.”

  A bit on edge, I reach down for my bags and step over the threshold, finding myself in a vaulted two-story entryway lit by a skylight. From a sweeping staircase that curls like a wave, a tall, commanding masculine figure descends. Barefoot, he’s wearing gray sweats and a simple white tee. My eyes stay locked on his perfectly mussed dark hair, intense gem-blue eyes, and chiseled features.

  A face more familiar than my own.

  Oh. My. God.

  My husband.

  CHAPTER 14

  My eyes blink once. Twice. Then they freeze.

  My stomach lurches. My heart almost stops.

  The words Oh My God loop around my head like a record on repeat as Rosita introduces us.

  “Señorita . . . el papá . . . ”

  He steps in. “Phineas Jackson.”

  The heart-melting, husky voice is the same, but the name is different. Phineas Jackson? No wonder I couldn’t track him down.

  His sapphire eyes lock with mine. The blood drains from my head. My knees grow weak. Finally, after a gulp of air, I pull myself together. “Nice to meet you, Mr. J-jackson.

  “Please call me Finn. I’d prefer that.”

  “Finn,” I repeat breathily. How I love saying his name! Finn . . . my Finn.

  He extends his paint-flecked hand. I hesitate to shake it, not because I’m worried the paint will get on mine, but because I’m frozen with shock.

  “Ms. Callahan, you look like you’ve just seen a ghost.”

  I have!

  He glances down at his hand. “Don’t worry. The paint is dry.”

  That deft, long-fingered hand that could stroke a pussy as masterfully as a canvas. That elegant paint-stained hand that caressed every part of my body and brought me to countless orgasms.

  Finally, I lift my hand and he takes it in his. Countless kisses, but I’ve never shaken his hand before.

  His hand is warm, the grip firm, exuding strength and confidence. Only he holds my hand in his longer than expected. His gaze stays on me and I stare at his dazzling face.

  He’s now thirty-six. A few fine lines fan from his eyes, but somehow they only add to his allure. Giving him depth and dimension. He’s also a little fuller, in a good way. More buff. His shoulders broader, the tattooed muscles of his biceps bulging, his glorious forearms veined and contoured. He’s sexier than I remember. A masterpiece of virility.

  “Can I take your bags?” asks Rosita, her animated voice making a small dent in my stupor.

  “Yes, thank you,” I mutter as she bends down for them. Given how heavy they are, I’m surprised she lifts them with ease.

  “Gracias, Rosita,” says Finn. “Please bring them to the guest cottage.”

  “Sí, Señor.” Without another word, the housekeeper whisks my bags away, disappearing out of sight.

  “I’d like to chat with you a bit, Ms. Callahan.”

  “You can call me Sk—.” I catch myself in time. “Scarlet.”

  A sweet smile flickers on his lips. “That name suits you.”

  With my long reddish brown hair, hazel eyes, and reconstructed face, I look entirely different than my former self. Even my voice is different. There’s not a glimmer of recognition in his glistening eyes.

  “Thanks,” I murmur as he ushers me inside. The long fingers of his hand splay across the small of my back, sending a rush of tingles to my core. His familiar woodsy scent adds to my lightness of being. As I walk, I don’t feel my feet touch the floor. The effect he has on me is almost identical to what I felt many years ago . . . the first time we met.

  It was love at first sight.

  CHAPTER 15

  Twelve Years Earlier

  New York City

  I slog out the revolving glass doors of 30 Rock onto the plaza, totally dejected. Adieu NBC.

  My sixteenth interview in the city that never sleeps. And apparently doesn’t hire. Just like at all the other networks and news organizations I’ve met with, there’s a job freeze. The damn recession. Everyone tells me my credentials are impeccable . . . Barnard magna cum laude, followed by two years at the prestigious Columbia School of Journalism, where I graduated first in my class and received many awards. My exposé on date rape was even published in the Huffington Post.

  The same lame excuses. And insipid advice. We’ll keep your résumé in the active file. Try some local affiliates. Do some freelance work. Check back with us in a few months.

  Adjusting my shoulder bag, I huff out a frustrated breath. I need a job. I want a job. A steady, full-time, meaningful one. I’ll take any entry-level position in any major news department, but in these tough economic times, they don’t exist. Everyone’s scaling back. They’re eliminating existing jobs and not creating new ones.

  As I step outside, a blast of the cold December air assaults me. I tighten the plaid scarf around my neck and then hug myself, thankful I wore my heavy wool coat, a thrift-store find. Shivering nonetheless, I walk aimlessly around the plaza. The electricity in the air does little to lift my spirits. Rockefeller Center is bustling, with rush hour commuters charging out of office buildings, and myriad shoppers carrying colorful Christmas bags despite the economy. I behold the massive Christmas tree that lights up the plaza and sadness sweeps over me. This is the first year I won’t be spending the holidays with my parents, my only family. Six months ago while filming a documentary in Laos, they drove over a live land mine. Instant death. Not one of their Jeep crew survived the horrific explosion. Friends from school have invited me to spend Christmas with them, but I’ve declined all their kind offers. I just want to spend it alone in the city in my small Upper Westside apartment and attend midnight mass, remembering my parents. There’s a church right across from Barnard where I’ve gone to services before.

  Picking up my pace, I glance down at the skaters circling the iconic ice rink below. There are skaters of all ages, some newbies with wobbling legs and holding on to the hand railing, and others like the elegant woman in the middle doing intricate jumps and spins, obviously experienced. My parents used to take me skating here when I was a kid whenever we spent Christmas in New York, then for a hot chocolate at the café. Another pang of sadness stabs me. I need to go home. Pour myself a glass of wine. Obliterate the deep funk I’m in. Yup, it sucks to be me.

  With my weighty heart sinking to my stomach, I skulk across the touristy plaza, passing the many stylish shops as well as the venerable auction house, Christie’s. I peek inside the latter. There’s a cocktail part
y going on. In need of some warmth and a drink, I impulsively decide to check it out.

  “Can I take your coat?” asks an attendant as soon as I enter.

  “Thanks, but I’ll just keep it,” I stammer, not sure how long I will stay.

  Tugging off my gloves, I make my way further inside and soak in both my surroundings and the crowd.

  The place is packed with chi-chi people who are sipping champagne and chatting about the contemporary artwork on display. The elite of New York. The women are dressed in chic black cocktail attire and dripping with jewels, the men tan and clad in expensive dark suits. From what I hear and see, you’d never know we’re in the middle of a major recession. Vivaldi’s Four Seasons plays in the background, adding to the festive mood.

  “Darling,” says one rail-thin woman to another. “What do you think of the Rothko?”

  “It’s divine. And such a steal.”

  “Totally!”

  I glance at the auction estimate posted under the abstract painting. $500,000-$1,000,000.

  Yikes! That’s a small fortune. I guess not everyone is affected by the recession.

  Meandering through the crowd, another conversation captures my attention between a stunning, statuesque blonde and an older, paunchy man in a navy blazer and open-collar white shirt. She’s dressed in a winter-white pencil skirt, cream cashmere pullover, and black alligator stilettos. About my age, she exudes wealth, class, and confidence. A modern-day Grace Kelly, who could easily be a supermodel. Maybe she is.

  If she is the epitome of elegance, he is the epitome of sleaze. Sporting slicked back dyed hair, a thick gold chain around his neck, a pinky ring, and shoes that are too shiny. On closer inspection, I recognize him. Sheldon Greenberg, one of Hollywood’s biggest TV producers. I wanted to interview him for the thesis I was writing on the future of women in television, but he basically told me to fuck off. The asshole!