Siri, Who Am I?

by Sam Tschida

  After Max leaves, I search for any evidence of myself in the bedroom, some sign that I belong here, that it’s “our” room and not just JP’s. Condoms in the nightstand and a second toothbrush in the bathroom (mine?), a couple of T-shirts that look too small for a man, depending on how tight JP likes ’em—and that’s it. The nightstand on what is probably my side of the bed gives me hope. The US Weekly could definitely be mine and the book about a sexy vampire is a solid maybe, but who knows? I mean, doesn’t everyone love celebrities and vampires?

  I’m just going to say I’m home, but am I?

  5 Rush? Whatever happened to Tinder? Not that I need a date any way. Gonna start with food and shelter.

  6 Am I rich or is this a Rent the Runway situation?

  7 Which he hasn’t even had since 2003! (Ask me anything besides my name.)

  CHAPTER

  THREE

  I wake up on Friday morning in the kind of bed that swallows a person whole, surrounded by luxurious layers of comforters and pillows. It’s the style of bed you normally only see on a showroom floor but never in real life since no one except for Real Housewives would ever buy all the stuff on the display model.8 Sun filters in through the windows, casting everything in picture-perfect light, and a soft breeze ruffles the gauzy curtains. It takes a minute for me to remember I’m not at a couples resort in Jamaica. Pink house, Ocean Boulevard, cute house sitter who is hopefully not a serial killer. And me, whoever I am.

  I reach for my phone, which is sleeping peacefully on JP’s side of the bed, and give it a little tap good morning. It responds with nothing. No texts. No notifications. My phone, though useful, is not a generous lover. What I need is someone who knows me, my social security number, and where I keep all the cute shoes. My phone is one of those crushes that sucks up every ounce of energy and gives nothing back. Pretty sure I’ve had a couple of those. I can’t remember the names, but I can feel the scars.

  Like with a bad crush, I can’t give up. I open up the texts app, knowing there’s nothing. Email, however, is a different story. When I see that I have three new emails, I sit up straight and grip the phone tighter. This is it, someone who knows me sent me a message.

  But no, two of the emails are from organic tampon startups, both boxed delivery services that solve all the menses-related problems a modern woman could have. The remaining email is from Jacques-o-late. Once you go Jacques-o-late, you never go back, the subject line reads. Jacques-o-late, it seems, wants me to try their new flavor: white chocolate. Ha! The mofos at Jacques-o-late must think they’re pretty funny.

  I delete all of the above in keeping with my practice. Inbox zero—my one accomplishment in life so far. It’s a little weird that I delete texts too, but I guess I must have just KonMari’d the shit out of my life. And really, does any of this electronic communication spark joy? No. The fact that I disposed of them points to the fact that I’m highly evolved and not beholden to my phone like the rest of the world.

  Decluttering isn’t ideal in an amnesia situation, though. If I could go back in time and give myself a piece of advice before deleting all traces of my life, I’d whisper in my pre-amnesia ear, Hey girl, props on being efficient and all, but you’re gonna need those someday. See that email from those two chicks at MIT who know just what kind of wine you want—save that one…or, maybe, even one from a person you’ve met.

  Instagram, though, I didn’t declutter that. Let’s see what kind of guy you are, JP…At least a few of the shots on my profile page are with JP, who I recognize from the photos on the bookshelf.

  1. There’s a picture of JP alone and unbearably handsome in a tailored suit. It’s captioned: “And he has a French accent!”

  2. There’s a selfie of us at a winery, grapevines in the background and wineglasses in our hands. The caption: “Me and boo.”

  3. Finally, a picture of us in a group of hot young things dressed for the club. I’m wearing a statement dress with dramatic puffed sleeves that barely covers my ass. JP is giving me an appreciative look. No caption. His looks says it all. He wants me.

  So…according to Insta: JP is my boo and he’s definitely into me, or at least my ass. Even with a head injury, I’m smart enough to know there’s a difference. This is all reassuring information and normal boyfriend stuff.

  An incoming text pings and my heart leaps into my throat. My first text ever. The name pops up as Frenchie.

  I miss you.

  Can’t say I miss Frenchie so I respond with a

  The three dots appear and reappear a few times, indicating that he is typing and erasing and can’t figure out what to say. Finally he writes, Is everything okay? U still mad?

  Now I really want to know who this guy is and what should I be mad about. Attempted murder?

  Sorry, but who is this? I lost my phone and all my contacts.

  I’m sorry love! Relieved there’s a reason u haven’t called, tho.

  Glad that solves his problem, but still…WHO is this?

  Only the love of your life.

  I’m thinking, Then where the hell are you?! but I write, And who might that be?, which I hope comes off as flirty.

  Frenchie responds with a selfie, a mocking expression on his extremely handsome, made-to-play-a-doctor-on-television face. And my previous detective work pays off instantly. Frenchie is JP, not to mention—breaking news—“the love of my life!” Funny that I haven’t left any of my stuff at his house, but I’ll save that question for later.

  Where are you? I ask.

  Switzerland. U know that…r u ok?

  Stupid me, just waking up. Feelin groggy. When r u coming back?

  Sunday. I miss you.

  Emotionless, I scroll back through our convo. JP misses me. Maybe he even loves me? At the very least, I belong to someone. I belong here in this beautiful bird’s nest of a bed—not in the lost and found at the local ER, getting shooed onto the street without so much as a follow-up visit. I’m young, gorgeous, and shacked up in the lap of luxury with a handsome rich dude. I need to keep it that way.

  Except, who is he? What are we like together? Am I sweet (doesn’t seem likely, but maybe)? Will he like me now that I’m damaged? (Even one day into my new experience of the world and I’m wondering what a man will think of me.) I shove that thought into the closet where I presume the rest of my middle-school insecurities are trapped and put on my big-girl panties. (Lacy, low-rise hipsters, thank you pre-amnesia self.)

  Before I get any deeper into this convo, I consult my assistant. “Siri, who is JP Howard?”

  JP Howard. Short for Jacques-Pierre. (Ooh la la!). Date of birth is 1983, which makes him…(I open my calendar app)…2020–1983=37. A thirty-seven-year-old rich guy with a French name. So far, so good.

  Better yet, there’s a Wikipedia entry about him.

  I stop eating the chocolate bar that is, at this very moment, on the way to my mouth. Jacques-Pierre, my boyfriend, is the creator of Jacques-o-late. Once you go Jacques-o-late…runs through my mind.

  This is better than waking up as Meghan Markle.

  Jacques-o-late, according to its website, comes in five flavors: dark, light, medium, caramel, and white. They all have nuts. Size: king only.9

  And he’s saving the rainforest, at least according to the website. Jacques-o-late only buys fair-trade Jacques-o-late beans from Honduras, Ecuador, the Dominican Republic, and Trinidad and Tobago. The company always pays three times the going market value, and twenty percent of profits go to buying back rainforest. A boxed inset on the website contains an interview with a dignified old man. The website calls him a Jacques-o-late farmer. In his words: “Jacques-o-late has saved my way of life.”

  What’s more, JP was almost a capital-B Bachelor. According to the internet, JP is the one who got away from ABC executives, who desperately wanted him for The Bachelor. Since then, the show has tried to recruit him
nearly every season and he’s said no.

  Wide-eyed, I look up from my phone. The Bachelor chose me? I woke up to a fairy tale. Cindy is going to eat this up. I’m going to have to drop by the ICU and report that I’m practically married to an almost-Bachelor who makes Jacques-o-late. Maybe JP and I can throw a lavish party for the nurses when he returns.

  I click on a link to a podcast called Dreamboats: A Podcast for Lovers of Sexy Yachts, Etc! The link is purple instead of red because I’ve clicked on it before. It looks like JP was a guest on an episode called “Yachtastic Men!” Not much subtext happening here. I hit play and after a little intro music and “brought to you by” statement, the host starts in.

  “OMG people. I’m sitting here with someone I’ve always wanted to meet. I’m such a fan! JP, I’ve been following you forever, even before Jacques-o-late.”

  “Why, thank you. It’s good to be here, Jessica.”

  “So tell me about your boat…”

  “Well, it’s a 60-foot—”

  The hosts laughs and cuts him off. “Just kidding. I don’t really care about your boat.”

  Sounding confused, JP says, “Isn’t this a show about boats?”

  “Silly, that’s just a pretext. Tell me about you. Tell me about Jacques-o-late.” Just like everyone, she says Jacques-o-late like she is whispering it into her lover’s ear.

  He sounds sincerely flattered, which is cute. He’s confident but not obnoxiously so.

  “What do you want in a woman?” Jessica asks. “Just so we all know who to pretend to be.” Then she titters.

  JP returns a polite laugh. “Well, then, don’t pretend. I want the same thing every guy wants. I want the girl next door, someone sweet who I can be myself around.”

  “Hmmm.” The host sounds skeptical. “Now let’s discuss the elephant in the room and I’m not talking about your Jacques-o-late bar…”

  “What’s that?”

  “Your bank account, obviously. Forbes listed your net worth as $2.3 billion.”

  “God, is that what I’m worth? I only have $60 in my wallet.”

  “Come off it, JP. You are obviously not eating generic-brand mac ’n’ cheese.”

  So far so good on JP. He’s rich, handsome, a chocolate lover, and he thinks he’s the love of my life. That’s not exactly the same as saying that he loves me, but close enough. I’m ready to respond.

  I miss you too!

  Don’t ask me why I don’t lead with the head injury. I guess I need more than a mansion from him. I want to know who I’m talking to before I confess my situation. He might be amazing, but he’s still a handsome rich guy, and I know what that means, even without a brain: he can get away with anything.

  Phew. Thought you might still be mad.

  Huh…back to red flag number one. Should I be?

  Hopefully it was just a run-of-the-mill argument about how big our next yacht should be. I mean, what else could we have to worry about? There must be a thousand dollars’ worth of throw pillows in this room alone. I probably just toss them in the cart at the checkout like cash register mints at whatever luxury furniture store JP and I shop at.

  No need to be mad, cherie. I’m going to make it up to you. Do you want to see a pic?

  A dick pic? Is he that kind of guy?

  Never mind. No pics. I’m making you wait.

  Not that I mind a dick pic, but I’d prefer an actual present.

  Let’s just say your present is almost as sparkly as your personality.

  Dear lord, a sparkly personality?! Just send me the dick pic. I’ll take it over the lies. If only Brenda were here to walk me through this convo.

  I text: Have you met me?

  He responds with: You’ll love it. Although might not work with your hair.

  I reach up and touch my hair. The undercut might be a little edgy for him, given that he looks like the crown prince of France. And let me tell you, it doesn’t do much to cover up the staples.

  Thankfully he can’t talk long. He’s all: Gotta go. Ttyl.

  I send him a quick xoxo, but I’m confused. I want to remember him, to feel my heart spark with feeling, but there’s nothing. Before I set down the phone, I glance at the Instagram picture of us at the winery. I don’t remember the day or why we were laughing in the picture. I’m pretty sure it doesn’t matter, though. JP is definitely the kind of guy I can fall in love with all over again. We can have one of those “We fell in love twice” stories. I have until Sunday to prepare.

  In the living room, Max looks like he’s been up for at least five hours typing furiously at his laptop, even though it’s barely past eight and he’s wearing another T-shirt that I’m not sure I get. IT’S NOT YOUR LIMBIC SYSTEM, ITS MINE, it says.10 He’s cute in that slouchy grad student sort of way, which makes me think maybe he is one. On a scale of one to ten, I’d give him a, “If he delivered my pizza, I’d probably invite him in for a slice.” And by pizza, I mean pizza.

  “Morning,” I say with a little pose, like I’m making my entrance onto the set of an old-fashioned sitcom, pausing just long enough before my next line so the audience can applaud.

  Max doesn’t applaud, but he does look up from the computer. “Hey. You feeling better?”

  “A little.” I still feel like I had a major head injury two days ago, but how bad could it be? I woke up to a gorgeous home, a lifetime supply of Jacques-o-late, and a boyfriend with a net worth of $2.3 billion.

  “Well, it’s nice to meet you officially in the light of day, Mia.” He holds out his hand and we shake like we’re meeting at a networking event instead of the home of a super rich dude who neither of us really knows.

  “Is there any coffee?” The question rolls off my tongue before I can think twice about it. Some sub-basement level of my brain knows what I need.

  “I just drank the last cup, but I can make more.” With that, he stands up and starts rummaging through the kitchen for coffee supplies. The smell of Italian espresso hits me hard when he opens a bag of beans with a swan on it. It hits me harder than texting with JP or opening the door to this house. I guess I know who I’ve had the longest relationship with, and I take plenty of cream and sugar with it.

  Noticing my swoony expression, Max says, “He has bags of this stuff flown in from Italy. I’m pretty sure it’s the best coffee in the world. It must be, if JP buys it.”

  I sit down in the space Max vacated, directly in front of his laptop. I see a Gchat window open and flashing, from someone named Fay, and catch a glimpse of her last message. Max, you’re a liar.

  Whoa. That sounds intense on several levels.

  When he catches me spying, he reaches over the counter and shuts the laptop.

  “Your boss?” I ask.

  “That’s what she likes to think,” he says, his voice ninety-nine percent sarcasm.

  “Ahhh, girlfriend.” I don’t need my memory to understand that dynamic.

  “Ex, but we still work together.”

  “Yikes. What kind of job?” I give him a once-over and guess, “Tattoo parlor?”

  He laughs. “Close. I’m a neuroscientist at USC.”

  That explains the T-shirts, I guess. “What does that mean? What does a neuroscientist do?”

  “Well, I study how structures in the brain affect cognition and behavior.”11

  While talking to him, I google “annual salary neuroscientist” because it sounds like a fancy job, and I don’t get why he’s house-sitting. Google comes back with $82,240. “Sounds like a sweet gig. Shouldn’t you own this house?”

  He shakes his head. “That’s a common misconception. I’m a postdoc, which means I’m still training, essentially. Eventually I’d like to run my own lab, but it takes years and a lot of publishing and funding to get to that level. Meanwhile, I still gotta make a buck. I don’t have to tell you what the cost of living is in LA.�
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  I can believe that one.

  “My research is aimed at coming up with a better lie detection system,” he tells me, unprompted. I sit back and prepare for the elevator pitch that I see coming.

  “Oooh…”

  “Polygraph tests are shit. They just measure increased heart rate and respiration, but those are associated with anxiety, which can be caused by anything.”

  “So how’s it going?”

  “Fay and I are working on a mobile brain-imaging system that can be implemented in interrogation scenarios. Very specific structures in the brain light up when a subject is lying, so if you scanned a person’s brain, you’d get a much better picture of their truthfulness than with a polygraph.”

  “So you’re really into The Truth.”

  “Isn’t everyone?”

  I shrug. “No clue what I’m into. Mainly Instagram, from the looks of it.”

  That’s enough science for me. “So, Max,” I say. “Now that I’m home…” I really lean into the word, owning it, “I don’t need a house sitter, you know.”

  He nods, taking his early dismissal in stride. “I’d like to talk with JP before I take off. He was very specific about how things should be handled.”

  Hmm. I’m not sure I want JP and Max talking about me. If I don’t live here, Max doesn’t need to be the one who tells JP that I’ve moved in.

  “Never mind. It’d probably be better if you stayed. I’m going to be busy the next few days.” And really, that feels a little safer. I already lost Brenda. I kind of want to keep Max.

  “So what are you doing today?” he asks, glancing at my staples. “Do you have follow-up appointments or…” He trails off.

  I shake my head no.

  “Really? They just let you out?” He seems unable to wrap his mind around that. “But you don’t even know who you are.”

  “As soon as I figure out my life, I’ll be fine.” I found the boyfriend and #homesweethome, but I have a lot left: my job, my friends, my family, and my own apartment. “I post a lot on Instagram. I’m pretty sure if I retrace my steps, I’ll figure out exactly who I am, or at least all of the major things.”