A Man She Couldn't Forget

“I don’t remember,” she murmured.

He linked their fingers. Even his touch was foreign. How could she not recognize someone she’d been so close to? Someone, he’d told her, she’d been intimate with? Shouldn’t she sense things about him? Again, her heart began to pound, like it always did when she tried to make herself remember and couldn’t.

“You’re going to be fine. It’ll all come back. Dr. Montgomery thinks when you’re in your own environment, familiar things will jog your memory.”

Retrograde amnesia, the neurologist had told her. The loss of memory of events that occur before a trauma. Usually it lasts a few hours.

In Clare’s case, the trauma had been a car accident on a rainy morning at two a.m. She’d crashed into a guardrail, lurched forward and banged her face on the steering wheel. Her head had ricocheted to the side, resulting in a huge bump on her skull and injuring her brain. Once the swelling had gone down, the tests revealed no permanent brain damage, and the doctors expected her memory to return soon. But it hadn’t. So she’d been referred to a psychiatrist, Anna Summers, whom she’d seen twice and would continue to see now that she had been released.

“Dr. Summers told me that sometimes it takes a while for memories to come back, even if there’s no visible brain damage.”

“As I said, I think being home will help.” He scowled. “I wish I didn’t have to go out of town today. It’s just that I postponed meetings in Chicago three times when you were in the hospital.”

“Of course you have to go. You put everything on hold for me.”

“I wanted to.”

She peered out the window again. The late-afternoon June sun sparkled off the black shingles on the roof and the many windows of the exterior. “Tell me about my condo before we go inside.”

“Your favorite room is the kitchen.”

Still facing away from him, she sighed. “Because I’m a chef, right?”

“The best.”

They’d told her a few things in the hospital so she wouldn’t go into shock when she got back to her life. She lived in Rockford, a medium-sized town in upstate New York, and was a chef and successful cookbook author. Jonathan was WRNY’s station owner and had offered her a cooking show, Clarissa’s Kitchen, three years ago. Her parents were dead, she had a sister who lived in Arizona—a teacher, divorced, no children. And though Clare was thirty-six, she wasn’t married. She wondered why.

Jonathan kept hold of her hand. “Let’s go inside.”

“In a minute.” Stalling, she pulled down the visor and opened the mirror to check her appearance, briefly wondering if she was vain. What stared back at her was a stranger with green eyes and short sandy-blond hair. Again the lack of recognition shocked her, and she had to take in deep breaths.

“Can you tell your hair’s different?” he asked.

She shook her head. “No.” But she knew it had been long. In the hospital, the doctors had to cut away a chunk of it on the left side and shave the area to take care of the bump on her head. When she awoke from the coma, Jonathan brought in the town’s best stylist to cut it flatteringly. “Did I like my hair long?”

“Yes. I think the short style suits you better, though. It’s more sophisticated.”

Closing the visor, she smoothed down the peach sun-dress she wore. It was beautiful and expensive, she could tell. Someone had brought it to the hospital, but she didn’t know who.

Jonathan smiled at her encouragingly. “Ready now?”

“I guess.”

They got out of his car, which she recognized was a Jag. It was funny how she knew things like that. She had what the doctors called episodic amnesia, where she didn’t remember past events but could remember objects and procedural things, like how to change a lightbulb or take a bus.

As they walked up the brick path to the front porch, they passed a profusion of big fat peonies, petunias and geraniums. Pots of the latter variety hung from the rafters, she noticed as they climbed the steps. Warmth seeped into her at the sight of them and as she reached the house; the remnants of fear abated. She felt comfortable here.

The double wooden front doors had a digital lock, and Jonathan keyed in some numbers.

“You know the combination?” she asked.

“Yes.” So they must be close, as he said. “I come here often.”

When they stepped inside, she took in the huge foyer with an exquisite Persian rug on the hardwood floors, a breathtaking solid oak staircase and large windows. Again, calm infused her.

“Clarissa,” Jonathan said gently. “Are you all right? Is this too much?”

“No, not at all. Just give me a minute.” She looked around at the first floor. “There are four condos in the house, right?”

“Yes. Two on the first and two on the second. There’s also an attic of sorts.” He added the last with a note of displeasure tingeing his voice.

“I live on the second floor.”

Jonathan smiled. It was a nice smile, though forced sometimes; often it didn’t reach his hazel eyes. She guessed her not remembering him had been hard to take. “You knew that.”

“Nothing else, though.”

He kissed her forehead. “That’s enough for now. Just be glad familiar things are already jogging your memory.”

Taking her hand again, he led her over to the elevator. She caught another glimpse of the staircase that spiraled upward and had a quick vision of dark hair and startling blue eyes. “Brady, the other man who came to the hospital every day? He lives here, right?”

Jonathan’s face hardened. “Yes.”

Suddenly, she saw herself, carrying grocery bags, climbing those steps.

And the memory of someone teasing her. Elevators are for older people and the ill. I never take it, but if that’s the kind of girl you are…

The voice belonged to Brady.

The elevator pinged, and she and Jonathan entered the car. They rode in silence, and when it stopped, they exited on the second floor. The first thing she noticed was color on the walls. A variety of sketches lined the hallway. As she got closer she saw they were illustrations done mostly in colored pencil: a couple of cartoons that made her laugh, an adorable mouse and rat in some kind of square off, a picture of a dish of piping hot lasagna, a green salad and a wine bottle. Dull pain began to form in her head. She raised her hands to her temples. “Oh.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Some pain for a second. It’s gone now.”

Jonathan stared at the sketches. Glared, really. “Too much too soon.”

He grasped her arm and led her down a corridor to condo number three. Number four was next to hers, their doors side by side. Hers sported a simple wreath of silk flowers, but the other one had been painted like a mural. The light-blue background was broken by white puffy clouds; birds fluttered over the door, all done in the same style as the illustrations on the wall. She imagined that when the door opened, the birds would seem to be flying. On closer examination, the little feathery creatures had…personalities. One blue jay sported a baseball cap and winked. A goldfinch had an apron tied around its body and held a spatula. There was a sparrow with a baby bird, and a robin in a suit.

Tension coiled inside her. “Who did this? And the sketches on the walls?”

Before Jonathan could answer, the door to number three—her place—swung open. Inside her condo stood Brady Langston. His grin was big and broad and genuine. Though he wasn’t any taller than Jonathan, his muscular stature made it seem as though he towered over them both. When he’d been at her bedside in the hospital, she’d found his presence soothing. When he held her hand, that, too, felt right. “There you are. I thought I heard voices.”

“What the hell are you doing here?” Jonathan asked.

Brady’s brows raised. “I’m the welcome wagon, Harris.”

A quick glance told her Jonathan’s light complexion was flushed. “I have home health-care aides scheduled to be with Clarissa around the clock while I’m gone.”