by Sam Tschida
“What’s your Insta handle?” he asks. I tell him and a second later he says, “Gotcha.” He reads my bio aloud. “Mia4Realz. SoCal 4evah. GoldRush. What’s GoldRush?” he asks.
“It’s a documentary about gold miners in Alaska.” My Google search result featured pictures of bearded men in hard hats. I have no idea why this doc would be important to me. Maybe I’m involved in filmmaking? This is LA, after all.
While I wonder if other people understand my bio, my phone pings. I have an Instagram notification that @BlackEinstein314 has just followed me. I smile at Max and follow him back with a “Let’s do this baby” nod. I don’t even know myself but I’m not sure if he can keep up with me, especially on Instagram.
His bio reads, Neuroscience postdoc, USC. The truth is out there. Which is like the most adorable thing ever. @BlackEinstein314, though? Leaves a question mark over his ego. It might be outsize.
I see a picture of him smiling in front of a fancy microscope and a few pictures of a pretty girl further back in his feed. The captions couldn’t be drier. Me and Fay at the 2019 Society for Neuroscience Conference in Chicago. Fay presenting her poster, “The Role of the Parietal Cortex in Deception.”12 There are almost no selfies. Ninety percent of my posts are of me, mostly with other hot girls. I don’t know what that says about me.
I switch back to my profile. “Take a look at my last four posts. I’m trying to figure out what they mean.” They include:
■ A shot of a latte with a heart swirled in the foam on top. (Not very interesting, but it might be a spot where I hang regularly.)
■ A picture of me on a yacht, in a sailor hat and bikini. A gorgeous girl, also in sailor-wear, has her arm slung over my shoulder.
■ A selfie at the beach.
■ Me at some fancy party kissing an ice sculpture of Cupid.
Max gives the posts a once-over. “That coffee shop from your first post is just around the corner. I recognize the cups.”
“Further proof that I spend a lot of time here.”
“What about the rest of them?”
“Dunno. But I definitely need a car before I investigate further.”
“Do you have a car?”
I smile wickedly. “I bet JP does.”
He gives me a concerned look. “Serious concussion, amnesia, and no follow-up visits. I’m not sure if exploring LA in a Ferrari is the best idea. Reduced stress and extra sleep is literally the recommended treatment for you.”
With a shrug, I say, “What else am I gonna do? My life isn’t going to find me. And my doctor did say I need to get back into my normal routines. Can’t do that if I don’t know what my routines are.”
“Do you even remember how to get around?”
“No one knows how to get anywhere. Google is the only one who knows anything anymore. My brain is irrelevant.” It’s true. Everyone was worried about Big Brother, but when he actually showed up, we all signed on and admitted we couldn’t live without him. It was a full-on voluntary situation. Sorry, George Orwell! Also, why do I remember George Orwell but not my father?
“You do realize I’m a neuroscientist.”
“I know,” I say, nodding sympathetically. “I’m sorry about that. At least you’re not selling DVDs.”
“True, that would be worse. Speaking of my job…”
“I can’t wait to find out where I work.” I hope it’s not a dumb job.
“Mia, has anyone called to look for you?”
“No, but I know I have a good job. I’m probably the boss, which is why my boss hasn’t called.” I gesture to my Prada gown. “And I drink fancy coffee.” Speaking of which, I hold up the post of the beautiful latte I drank last week. “Forget JP’s coffee. Let’s get a latte before you head to work.”
There isn’t much at JP’s for me to wear. Luckily my cocktail dress can go from day to night almost effortlessly, and it looks remarkably good considering I took an ambulance ride in it earlier this week. I throw on a jean jacket, which I think might even be mine. If I don’t say so myself, I look like an ’80s rock star and pretty much every other person wandering around Long Beach, except without a skateboard and a joint.
Based on the clothing selection, I definitely haven’t moved into JP’s yet. We are only toothbrush-level serious. How many clicks below marriage is that? Close enough to spend the cash I found in his sock drawer, that’s for sure. I stuff it in my clutch and head out the back door. Coffee’s on JP.
According to Max, who’s easily impressed by cars, apparently, JP’s Ferrari 550 Maranello is red. Actually, it’s Pirate red, the same as my lips. My rhinestone clutch in hand, I hit the unlock button on the key fob (thanks for keeping your keys on the key holder by the door, JP!). The car beeps a hello and I hop in the driver’s seat. “You coming, Max?” I say with a flirtatious smile.
Today, I will find my life.
* * *
At Cuppa Cuppa, a hipster coffee shop on the corner of Ocean and Linden, the woman behind the counter says, “Good morning!” like she knows me. “The usual?” she asks.
I say “Yes” like she asked me if I want a million dollars and puppy.13 I’m a regular! I could scream it from the rooftops.
All efficiency, she boots up the machine and starts frothing milk for my usual (!) drink. I’m definitely rich, BTW, because it’s an $8 maple latte. The maple syrup is probably sourced from Quebecois maple trees and smuggled across the border in a lumberjack’s ass. Actually, no. I’ll pay for standard transport. When the chaos of milk frothing is over, I move in closer and say to the barista, “So I know this might be strange, but I got in an accident a few days ago and lost my memory.”
She gasps and claps a hand to her mouth. “My God! I just saw you a few days ago and you were fine!”
Excitement bubbles up. “If you could tell me anything you know, I would appreciate it.” I look at the coffee. “Like, the only thing I know about myself is that I drink maple lattes.”
“I’m sorry, but I don’t really know you. You come in all the time but you just sit and look at your phone. Sometimes you go outside to have a conversation. On your phone.” She thinks for a moment and says, “Every now and then you meet up with a friend.”
“Do you know any of them?”
She shakes her head. “I’m sorry, but this is the most we’ve ever talked except for that one time when you lost your phone and I helped you look for it.”
Hope blossoms in my chest at the speed of a flower opening in time lapse. Maybe she learned something about me.
“It was in the bathroom.”
The flower of hope dies an even faster time-lapse death.
Max cuts in. “Let’s just get some food. You’ll feel better. Blood sugar is directly correlated to optimism.”
I blurt out, “Oh fuck off, Max!” I wonder if he knows that’s me flirting.
He laughs. “Good one.” I’m filled with relief. I seem to have a personality.
A sign on the front counter advertises a protein bowl with quinoa and my heart sputters. “Could I have a protein bowl, please?”
“Of course. Would you like chicken on that?”
“Uhh…I’m vegetarian,” I say, in honor of Brenda.
Max gives me a funny look. So does the barista, but whatever.
“Just guessing,” I confess to Max, and he laughs.
“Why would you want to eliminate all the best foods in your do-over life?”
“People eat 27.43 chickens annually, which I’m pretty sure has far-reaching environmental consequences—maybe even incidental rainforest destruction, which JP and I are both taking a stand against.” Don’t ask me how I came up with that.
Instead of calling me out for my bullshit statistic, he says, “I feel like I might eat more chickens than that. Like, twice that many.”
“I choose to let them walk the earth freely.” I can f
eel my halo glowing. It’s the first truly positive decision I’ve made, at least since waking up. And talk about selfless.
At a table on the back patio, I take a bite of my quinoa. Fuck if Brenda wasn’t right. I love quinoa. It’s hearty and flavorful, and I feel saintly for eating it. “Let’s talk more about quinoa, shall we?”
Max takes a sip of his coffee and gets a little foam on his nose. “I feel like you’re only doing this because there are more answers about quinoa than about your identity. But if you want to.”
Without a second thought, I lean over the table and wipe the foam off his face. I lick it off my fingers while Max watches, his eyes lingering on my mouth. Does he think…? I dismiss the thought and announce, “I was right. Totally not a germophobe.”
“I wonder if you’re normally this scattered. Did the doctor say anything about the recovery process?”
“Not really,” I lie.
Expect to be confused and easily exhausted. Avoid any stress. Get plenty of rest and stick to a routine. Dr. Patel didn’t mention that I would be energetic and highly curious about the food system…
“So, quinoa…” I scan my memory. “Obviously it’s the most nutritious food on earth, and soon to be the most nutritious food in the galaxy. NASA is starting a quinoa farm in outer space. Have you heard?”
Max looks at me suspiciously. “Where exactly?”
“Like I remember. On a space station, maybe. Or Mars.”
“I guess they had to think of something to do when Congress cut the space program,” he says drily.
“The United Nations also said it might save Earth.”
“I could talk about quinoa all day,” he says flatly. “Buuuuut…I feel like you should go back to JP’s and rest. A nap might even increase your chances of recovering your memory. How can you expect your brain to recall anything if you’re stressing it out with all kinds of new information?”
Like facts about quinoa? I wonder if anyone has been derailed by quinoa before. As soon as I ask the question, I realize the answer is yes. Obviously. “You’re right, Max. Enough about quinoa. It’s so 2013 anyway. I need to focus on me. But first I have a question for you.”
He waits attentively. For just a second I wonder what Max is avoiding in his own life. There must be something else he’s supposed to be doing right now, but here he is, patiently listening to me prattle on about quinoa.
“Do you know anything about JP?” I flip back to an Insta post of us. My hair is styled. It’s a cute selfie featuring my hair when it looked good, chic blond waves with an undercut. Hipster from one side, Grace Kelly from the other. JP stands next to the Grace Kelly side of my head, and I wonder if he avoids my bald side all the time. He seems more like a Grace Kelly kind of guy.
“Not much. I met him through one of the people in my lab. She was supposed to house-sit for him last time but had to cancel at the last minute. She didn’t want to let JP down because she sits for him all the time and needs the money. I filled in because—”
“I get it.” Max is a super good guy and stepped in to help some chick in his lab. He might be the nicest person I’ve ever met, besides Brenda.
“Plus he pays well and his coffee is definitely better than mine.”
“Yeah, sweet side hustle. Have you ever met him?”
“We crossed paths once. He showed off his Scotch collection. After he found out I’m a neuroscientist, he told me everything he knows about the brain.” Looking amused, Max says, “I can’t say much, except that he’s loaded and he doesn’t know as much about cognition as he thinks he does.”
I move the food in my bowl around. The avocado is already turning brown. “My quinoa bowl is missing something.”
“Chicken,” he says. After a dramatic pause, he adds, “Maybe you should focus on saving yourself instead of chickens, Mia.”
I look up from the browning avocado and into his eyes. Does he genuinely think I’m in danger? And why? Because I lost my entire life? Because an unknown person conked me on the head? Or because I’m not following proper head injury aftercare? Ultimately, it doesn’t matter. I can’t take care of myself if I don’t even know who I am or what there is to be scared of.
8 Am I a Real Housewife?
9 Is JP compensating for something with his chocolate bars?
10 Do I need a PhD to understand your T-shirts, Max?!
11 All that and he still doesn’t understand why his ex is mad at him.
12 Note to self: google parietal cortex.
13 Am I a dog person?
CHAPTER
FOUR
I think I’m the kind of person who always offers to give a friend a ride, so I tell Max I’ll drop him off at his lab. I want to stay on brand. Plus, driving around the city will probably help me remember things. On Google Maps, Max’s office, the Hedco Neuroscience Building, is practically next door.
“You have to take the 110. Are you sure?” Max says.
“Yep.” I’m just that cool.
In the car, I learn that:
A) Max has always wanted to be a neuroscientist (which makes me think his mother planted the idea because no little boy would come up with that on his own, meaning that he must have very caring and invested, though slightly overbearing, parents, which in turn makes me wonder WHERE THE FUCK ARE MY PARENTS?), but on to the next point…
B) he believes that everything makes sense and can be logically explained,14 and
C) his favorite movie is The Matrix. Don’t get me wrong, I like Keanu Reeves, but I preferred him in Bill & Ted. In fact, I kind of feel like I’ve time-traveled to 2020, except without Ted. Or Bill. I can’t remember which one Keanu played. Not that it matters. They should remake the movie with me and Keanu.
As I park in front of Hedco—did they misspell head?—I ask, “What kind of mad scientist, hypnotized monkey experience do you have going on in there?” The building is made of nice-looking red brick with art deco features and looks nothing like how I’d imagine a brain research center. In general, it looks like all of the other buildings on campus, but this one is full of attractive scientists arguing about transgenic mice and dating around. Someone should get a camera in there and start recording.
“No monkeys, just data,” he says. “But it’s some good, juicy data.”
Juicy data? Max is living a lie, but I’m not going to be the one to break it to him. “Have fun doing math with your vindictive ex,” I say.
“I always do,” he replies in a see you later, honey tone.
“I’m off to find my mind. It looks like I might have left it at the beach.” That’s where all my Insta posts are taken, at least.
With a worried look on his face, he says, “Call me if you need help. Anything.”
I smile and nod at his needless concern. He should be more worried about himself and his own drama den. I’ve got my life handled.
“You had a serious head injury and don’t even know who you are. You can expect periods of profound exhaustion and confusion. Unexpected nausea and vomiting aren’t out of the question.”
I posted a selfie this morning and got 220 likes already. If that doesn’t say near-full recovery, nothing will. “I’m fine, Max. Plus I have Siri. My digital assistant’s got me covered.” It’s like he doesn’t understand it’s 2020. “You just do your thing. I’ll pick you up after you’re done studying brains.” I don’t have time to linger; I have two posts to investigate: 1) sexy beach selfie, and 2) yacht selfie.
After I drop Max off, my phone buzzes. Dear God in heaven, hallowed be thy name, thy kingdom come, thy will be done: my texter’s name is Kobra. (And I might be Catholic?)
Hey Sweetcheeks, Crystal ain’t answering my texts.
Me either. How could I forget Crystal of the What are you calling me for? I’m done phone call. Unless I know tons of Crystals?
I’ll go check on her.
Have plans tonight for a private boat ride to Catalina. Don’t want her to miss out.
Damn! Sounds like a lucky girl.
It’s in the cards for her.
Go get ’em, Kobra.
Oh, I’m a big bad snake.
I’m guessing Kobra is from a trailer park and has chipped at least one tooth opening a beer bottle. Still, he sounds okay…I think.
Good luck with Crystal, dude!
I wonder if I know Kobra for real. Maybe he and Crystal and I are super awesome friends. I search my Insta friends for Kobra and…
There he is. @TheBigSqueeze562. He’s almost naked in his profile photo, undoubtedly to show off his bomb tattoo. A life-size python coils around his torso and extends down his arm, ending at his wrist. The snake’s jaw is unhinged and it appears that Kobra’s hand is coming out of the snake’s mouth. Rad tattoo, dude.
His posts feature him fronting like a gangsta all over LA, plus some close-ups of the tattoo. What appear to be stripes from a distance are words, and when I look closer, I can make out a Bible verse. The serpent was more crafty than any of the wild animals the Lord God had made. Then, more directly, I am the devil. Take the fucking apple, Eve.
As far as Bible translations go, I’m giving him props: creepy but clearer and more accessible. Way to bring Genesis into the modern world.
His Instagram bio actually says, Snake charmer. Preacher. DM me ladies.
Crystal might be out of her mind. Either that or Kobra is not as creepy as his tattoo makes him seem, which is common with tattooed guys. Hard to tell till you meet ’em. That’s why you can never trust online profiles.
Back to me and all my selfies…
According to the tag, my beach selfie was taken on Long Beach. Based on the island in the background, it was taken next to the third lifeguard station in. It looks like any other California beach except for one thing: the island just offshore looks like the lowest-price-point Lego set, an overly simplified version of what an island should be. It has one palm tree, one glass building, and no people. Creepy.