“Right,” he said.
They kissed.
“You okay?” she asked.
“Fine,” he replied quickly, hopefully not too quickly. Megan often surprised him with her intuition. Did she sense he was keeping something from her? Her look of concern dissipated.
“Don’t work too hard,” she warned from the doorway.
“I didn’t think that was possible or rather, necessary in Driftwood.”
Megan laughed.
“You’re beginning to fit in perfectly, Aaron. I always knew you would,” she added and left.
An hour or so later when the sky began to clear, hewas on his way to 5467 North Wildwood Drive, Westport. He didn’t know why it should, but just thinking about it and actually heading in that direction made his hands tremble so much he had to squeeze the steering wheel hard and hold on to it as if he were steering a sailboat in a storm.
As he approached the outskirts of Driftwood, a terrible sense of nausea overtook him, almost causing him to go off the road. He slowed down to take deep breaths, and then he pulled to the side and looked at himself in the rearview mirror. He thought he looked very pale, ashen, his eyes sunken, his lips a dull orange.
What’s wrong with me? he wondered. I’m just taking a relatively short ride. Nothing he had eaten could have made him feel this way. Actually, all he had for breakfast was some orange juice, lightly buttered toast, and coffee. Was he coming down with some sort of flu? His heart was racing so hard, he felt a bit dizzy. He debated turning around and heading for the doctor’s office. Maybe he was about to have another attack!
Suddenly, appearing seemingly out of nowhere, a sleek black Town Car pulled up beside his and the rear window went down. He looked out to see Mrs. Masters.
“Aaron,” she called to him.
He lowered his window, too.
“Hello,” he said and forced a smile.
“Are you all right?” she asked. “I saw your car pulled over and was concerned.”
“I’m okay. I just had a little nausea. It seems to be passing,” he added.
“Where are you going?” she asked.
“I was just looking at some land out here, thinking of a project.”
“Oh? Megan didn’t mention anything out here,” she said.
He looked closer at her and thought she looked rather attractive and elegantly dressed for this time of the day.
“No, it’s something I’ve been considering only in my mind. I thought I’d surprise everyone if it turns out to be a viable idea.”
“Love to hear about it at dinner Thursday,” she said. “Did you need anything? I carry some of those antacid drops or something, don’t I, Ule?” she asked the driver. Aaron couldn’t see him through the darkly tinted windows, but he heard a man say, “Yes.”
“I don’t think I need them,” Aaron said. “It’s passing.”
“Good. Well have a good day, Aaron. We’re all very proud of you and what you’ve already accomplished in so short a time,” she added.
Her window went up. Aaron watched her automobile pull away, gliding silently, gracefully over the highway until it disappeared from view.
He took another deep breath and put his gearshift back in drive to pull away himself and continue, but as he accelerated, his car began to buck.
“What the hell?” He took his foot off the accelerator. The engine hummed. He accelerated again and again, the car bucked and jerked as if the gas flow was being interrupted. “Damn it!” he cried and pounded the steering wheel with frustration. I guess I’ll have to call for a tow, he thought.
Before he did so, he looked at the engine himself. In neutral, it seemed to purr as usual, but as soon as he shifted and started forward, the engine hesitated. He played with it for a while and then put it in reverse and tried turning back toward town. When he did that, the engine didn’t sputter and the car didn’t buck at all. He hit the brake and listened.
It sounds all right now, he thought. Maybe I blew out some dirt in the gas line, he concluded, and turned around, again heading out of Driftwood. Just as he approached the next turn, the car did it again. It bucked, jerked, and nearly stalled. Nevertheless, he kept his foot on the accelerator. A hundred or so yards ahead of him was the sign that indicated a driver was leaving Driftwood and across from it was the welcoming sign for those approaching from the opposite direction. The sign greeted people who left by thanking them for shopping in Driftwood. Below the words were a pair of bright red feminine lips in a smile.
He nearly didn’t make it to the sign. The engine died, and then, when he rolled past the sign, the engine suddenly came back with a roar because he had the accelerator down hard. The rear wheels squealed, spun, and burned rubber as the Corvette shot forward with such thrust, he nearly lost control. It spun to the right before he managed to pull it back onto the road and slow down. After that, the car ran smoothly.
What the hell was all that about? he wondered. He realized one good thing had resulted—his concern for the car engine had taken his attention from his nausea. Now that he was sailing along, he found that had disappeared as well. He settled back, tried to relax,and continued on his journey. When he glanced in the rearview mirror, however, he thought he spotted that black Town Car back by the Driftwood Chamber of Commerce sign. It backed up, turned, and headed toward Driftwood. Had Mrs. Masters been following him? Why would she do that? She was dressed, heading somewhere important when he had seen her. It had to be someone else.
All this made his heart pound, and he was concerned about a possible relapse. How would he explain collapsing on some highway outside of Driftwood? Megan would be furious. Everyone would think he had gone mad and maybe his lightning-like rush toward success in the community would come to an abrupt halt. He was actually terrified of that and filled with an onslaught of anxiety that made him feel weak. It chopped away at his resolve to continue.
Turn back, turn back, he heard a voice chanting in his mind.Or like Lot’s wife in the Bible, you’ll become a pillar of salt. All will be lost, Aaron. Stop this madness. Go home, go forward, not back. Don’t look back.
He shook his head as if the person speaking to him were there in the car beside him.
I’ve got to regain my identity. I’ve got to keep working at finding myself, he insisted.
I am a schizophrenic, he concluded. I’m arguing with myself like some lunatic.
He drove on. When he entered Westport, he found that he couldn’t recall the way to Wildwood Dive. Megan had picked him up in the evening that fateful day, and he really hadn’t paid much attention to the route. He had been far too upset.
He pulled into a gas station and went to the cashier. When he asked for directions, the young woman thought a moment and then shook her head.
“I don’t know that street,” she said. “Sorry.”
“Thanks,” he replied and gazed around. He decided to pull in front of the supermarket across the way. He chose a bald-headed man in a sports jacket and slacks who was heading for his vehicle and carrying two shopping bags.
“Wildwood Drive?” He stood there a moment and shook his head. “No, don’t know it, and I’ve been living here nearly twenty years. Sure it’s in Westport?”
“I . . .” Aaron looked around. “Yes,” he said. He wanted to pull out his wallet to show him, but how would he explain to a stranger that he was carrying the address on his driver’s license and didn’t know how to get to his own former address?
“My suggestion is go to the fire department,” the man said. “They’ve got to know every address.”
“Good idea, thanks,” Aaron said and followed directions to the firehouse.
Three fireman were sitting around a small table, having coffee, reading the newspaper and talking. The station was quiet, immaculate, as if it had not yet been used for its first alarm. The firemen looked up when Aaron entered.
“Sorry to bother you,” he began.
“How can we help you?” the tallest of the three asked. They were al
l pretty well built and tall, none looking more than forty at most.
Aaron asked for directions, and they looked at each other and shook their heads.
“Let me check our maps,” the tallest one said and rose. He went into a side office and spread his map on the table. Aaron watched him run his finger down the index before looking up. “It’s not in Westport,” he declared firmly.
“No, you don’t understand. It has to be,” Aaron said with new urgency. He decided to relate his story. The three listened with interest and amazement.
“Amnesia?” the youngest of the three asked. “Wow.”
“You said your next-door neighbor was a Mr. and Mrs. Domfort?” one of the other fireman asked.
“Yes.”
“What about that, Bill?” he asked the tallest of the three.
He nodded. “Let’s see,” he said and checked another book of records. He shook his head. “No Domforts, sorry. I’m sure your confusion has—”
“Wait,” Aaron said and took out his wallet, turning to his driver’s license. “Just look at this.” He handed it over to the fireman, who read it and looked up at him.
“I don’t understand, sir,” he said.
“That’s what I’m saying. If I had that address on my license, it has to be here, right?”
“But you don’t have that address,” the fireman said.
“What?”
Aaron took it back and read it. He stood there, blinking down at his license.
Printed clearly on it was his Driftwood address.
“I swear, when I set out today . . .”
He looked up at the three of them, all of them looking at him with expressions of pity.
“Maybe you ought to go back to speak with your physician, Mr. Clifford,” Bill said. The other two nodded.
“How about my name?” Aaron asked desperately. “Would there be a record of me having owned property here?” he asked.
“Was the change made this year?” Bill asked with a note of skepticism.
“Yes.”
“Just a moment,” he said and returned to his office. Aaron waited, watching.
The fireman looked up.
“Well?”
“No Aaron Clifford, sir. Sorry,” he said. “I’m afraid you never owned property in Westport.”
They were all of one face now, a combination of pity and amazement.
“Maybe you ought to go down to the police station,” Bill said. “Explain it to them, get them to call your family, sir. If you’re lost . . .”
“We can call the police for you,” the closer of the other two offered.
“No,” Aaron said, terrified of the idea. He couldn’t imagine what would happen if he was returned to Driftwood in a police car. He smiled at the three firemen.
“I’m fine,” he continued. “I just got a little confused. No problem. Really. Thanks. I’m all right,” he added and backed up. “I’ve . . . I’ve got to go home,” he insisted and left quickly.
For nearly fifteen minutes he drove aimlessly through the small city’s streets. Finally he parked where he could see Long Island Sound and sat there, watching asmall sailboat navigating the bay, moving lazily in the wind. He envied the sailor, the peace of mind and contentment he must be feeling. Out there, caught in the wind, held in the palm of the water, he surely thought of nothing and for a while at least, felt connected, felt part of something greater than himself and in that sense, felt truly free.Aaron had hoped that when he came back here, he would discover a faster route to his recuperation. Now, instead, he believed he had delivered himself to an even worse situation, not only disconnecting himself from his distant past but also his most recent history. In fact, he had no history now except for his history in Driftwood, he thought. Why? More important, what was he to do now?
He looked toward Manhattan. According to what Megan had told him, he had once had an active career there. If he couldn’t connect any dots here, maybe he could do it in the city where he had spent so much of his work life previously. There had to be associates, friends, acquaintances who would help him fill in blanks. Surely, there were many familiar places where there would be people who remembered him and remembered him well.
He checked the time, started the car, and drove out, determined to go to New York. However, he had to stop at a service station to get directions. Was that because he had never driven into the city, he only had taken public transportation? Or was it because he truly never lived anywhere near here? he wondered.
The attendant put him on I-95 South and told him it would take him a little more than an hour. Aaronwas in lower Manhattan in fifty minutes. He almost wished he would be pulled over for speeding. The traffic cop would have had to consider his driving history and might have given him a hint as to who he has been. He’d welcome anything, even an arrest record.
When he reached Madison Avenue, he found a parking garage and walked to the corner of Fiftieth, where from the business cards he had in his wallet he knew the Clovis offices to be. He was gratified when he found the company’s name in the lobby directory. At least he wasn’t wrong about this. No fireman here to tell him no such place existed. Finally he would touch something substantial.
He took the elevator to the fifteenth floor and went right to Clovis and Associates.
The entryway was impressive, two extra-wide and tall dark maple doors that opened to a chocolate-andwhite marble floor. These offices looked plush, proudly announcing a very successful firm through its expensive paintings on the panel walls, the elaborate lighting fixtures, and costly artifacts on tables and pedestals.
The receptionist’s desk faced the door. A young woman, not more than twenty-five, twenty-six at most, looked up at him, but talked to someone on her headphone. He waited. She smiled at him and then paused after directing a call.
“May I help you?”
“Are you Maggie?” he asked.
“Maggie? No. Who’s Maggie?”
“Oh, I thought that was the name of at least one of the receptionists. I spoke to her recently.”
“There’s no one working here named Maggie,” she said a bit irritated. “My name is Deana. Unless Maggie was one of the temps we’ve hired from time to time,” she added.
“Okay. I’m Aaron Clifford.” He waited, but she didn’t respond. “You don’t remember me, know who I am?” he asked.
She stared at him and then spoke into her tiny microphone. “Clovis and Associates. One moment please.” She looked at him again. “I’m sorry,” she said. “What were you saying?”
“How long have you been working here?”
“Four years,” she replied.
He shook his head.
“That doesn’t make any sense,” he muttered.
“How can I help you?” she asked with far more irritability.
“I need to see Mr. Clovis immediately,” he said. “It’s urgent.”
“You don’t have an appointment?”
“It’s truly a matter of life and death,” he emphasized.
She raised her eyebrows, but he wasn’t sure if she was impressed or she was going to burst into a fit of laughter at his dramatic response. Instead, she curled her lips in at the corners and said, “Clovis and Associates. One moment please.”
He could feel his patience shrinking inside his stomach and quickly being replaced with a ball of fire.
“Please, tell him Aaron Clifford is here,” he demanded. “He’ll see me.”
“Just a minute,” she said. He waited and listened.“Excuse me, Mr. Clovis, but there is an Aaron Clifford out here who insists on seeing you immediately.” Her smile cut into her face as if it had been carved with a sharp knife. “He says it’s a matter of life or death. Yes,” she replied to some question. “Very well, sir.”
She looked up at Aaron.
“You go to your left, third door on your right,” she instructed.
“Thank you,” he replied. Now we’re getting somewhere, he thought. She’s just an airhead.
&
nbsp; As he walked through the hallway and inner offices, he realized nothing about the place seemed even remotely familiar to him. He wondered which office had been his and if he entered it now, would that help restore all the memories here? He did have memories of architectural projects, but where did he work on them?
He knocked gently on the door and entered the office. A man no more than in his late forties at most looked up from a very large, dark oak desk. He was a slim, tall man with short, dark brown hair and dark eyes, almost ebony. His facial features were sharp, his nose especially, and his lips thin and cut above a nearly square jaw. He wore a dark gray three-piece suit and tie and looked distinguished, confident, and successful, a quintessential New York City corporate executive prepared to be featured on the cover ofGQor the like. He even possessed a George Hamilton tan.
He sat back in his desk chair.
“Mr. Clovis?” Aaron asked. The man he had spoken to on the telephone had a much older, gruffersounding voice and, from what Megan had told him, was inhis seventies. Was there more than the one son who had possibly committed suicide?
“Yes. How can I help you?”
“You don’t know who I am?”
Clovis sat forward, studying him and shaking his head.
“Sorry. Refresh my memory.”
“That’s what I’m here to do for myself,” Aaron said, his voice soaked with self-pity, “to no avail it seems.”
“Excuse me?”
“Is your father here?” he asked, hoping.
Clovis sat up straighter.
“Not for the last four years. He worked until the day he died,” he said.
“Died?”
“What is this about, Mr. . . .”
“Clifford, Aaron Clifford. I used to work here until relatively recently,” Aaron said and stepped forward, reaching into his breast pocket.
“What? Worked here?”
Without further comment, Aaron pulled out his wallet, dug out his business cards and put them on the desk in front of Clovis who gazed down at them.
“I don’t understand. What’s this have to do with Clovis and Associates?”
Aaron looked at his puzzled expression and then lifted his cards and read one.
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