“Greg Corkin,” he announced. He looked up at the young man. “My name’s Greg Corkin.”
“Great. See? You’re on your way.”
“I live in Driftwood, Connecticut,” Greg continued, announcing it as if he was onThis Is Your Lifeor something.
“Very nice. I’ve heard of it.”
He continued to thumb through his wallet, making discovery after discovery about himself.
“I’m a CPA,” he said. “I work at Morgan Asher and Associates.”
“Very good.” The young man lifted his attaché case. “I see you’re married, too,” he added, nodding at Greg’s hand.
“What? Oh, yes.”
“So I would imagine your wife is either with you or going to meet you?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know what she looks like,” he declared sadly.
“You’d better not tell her that,” the young man said. He nodded toward the baggage carousels. “Take out your tickets and look for your baggage numbers. That’s a start.”
“Yes, that’s a start. Thanks.”
The young man smiled and walked off.
Greg watched him leave the terminal, and then he turned toward the carousels. It still looked like a prodigious job. He had to check tags against the numbered receipts stapled to his ticket folder. He couldn’t remember if he had black bags, hard bags, soft bags, what?
“This is terrible,” he muttered.
He stopped, checked his ticket receipt, noted the flight he had been on, and looked for the corresponding carousel. After he located it, he started toward it. When he got there, he paused and watched the bags being plucked eagerly by other travelers. This was going to take all damn day, he thought sadly. That sense of exhaustion and defeat came over him again. He lowered his head.
“Greg,” he heard. “Greg.”
Slowly he turned and gazed into the face of a truly beautiful woman.
“Sorry I didn’t meet you at the gate, but the traffic was horrendous,” she said and kissed him.
He stared at her.
“What’s wrong, honey?” she asked.
“I . . . forgot everything,” he said.
She smiled. “You mean the perfume I asked you to remember? Don’t worry,” she said, laughing, “I knew you would so I bought it at Saks yesterday. C’mon, let’s get your bag,” she said, turning toward the carousel.
“No,” he said, grabbing her arm. “I mean everything, my name, your name, where I lived, where I came from, what I was doing, everything!” he cried.
She stared at him, her face washing over with concern. “I don’t understand,” she said.
“My memory . . . it’s some sort of amnesia. It must have just come over me.”
“Oh, Gregory. You poor dear. I didn’t realize what you were saying. Don’t worry, sweetheart, we’ll get you to a doctor right away.” She smiled. “I know. We’ll call Mrs. Masters from the car as soon as we get to it. She’ll know what we should do and whom we should see.”
“Mrs. Masters?”
“My boss, Greg. Oh, this is such a bore. I’ve got to get you better quickly. We’ve got so much to do now.”
“Really? What?”
“The new house for one thing,” she said. “Remember? It just came on the market? The Clifford house? It was so unique, we couldn’t believe our luck.”
He shook his head. “I just . . . don’t remember.”
“You will,” she said brightly. “I’m sure it will all return quickly. Let’s just get home, okay.”
He nodded.
“There’s your bag!” she cried, pointing at the carousel. She started toward it.
“Wait,” he said, holding her arm.
“What?”
“I can’t remember your name, for godsakes.” She smiled. “Silly boy,” she said, leaning over to nibble his earlobe and then whisper. “It’s Laurie, honey.
“And . . .” she added after she kissed him, “Welcome home!”
Amnesia Page 27