“Perhaps she wants to tell you herself.”
Anne sighed. “What is her name?”
“Mrs. Constance Crowne.”
Anne shook her head. “I don’t know her. The name means nothing to me.”
“She’s outside now, waiting. Shall I ask her in?”
Anne looked hesitant, and a little fearful. “Yes… Please.”
Dr. Miles left the room while Anne nervously prepared herself. Should she stand? She had a knee brace on her right knee, and she was still wobbly. Whenever she stood too fast, she’d see white spots swimming the room. With some effort, Anne pushed up and steadied herself against the chair.
The door opened, and a tall woman with a dignified manner entered, bringing an air of mystery with her. She was in her middle fifties, dressed richly in a lovely black cashmere coat, burgundy scarf and low heels. Her hair was jet black, styled in a short, layered bob, with highlights of silver and white.
She closed the door, removed her black leather gloves and hesitated. Her gaze was commanding, as if she were used to being in charge, and yet, there was a softness in her eyes. The moment wasn’t rushed as she looked Anne over with curiosity and then warm compassion.
“I’m Constance Crowne. Please sit down. You look frail.”
Grateful not to stand, Anne lowered herself back down into the chair, sitting stiffly. The room was quiet, and words were elusive, so she forced a smile, hoping the woman recognized her after all.
Mrs. Crowne stepped away from the door, just as it opened. A brawny male nurse’s aide entered, carrying a chair. He set it down a few feet from Anne, nodded to both women and left.
Mrs. Crowne slipped out of her coat and scarf and draped them over the back of the chair. Before she sat, she said, “How do you feel?”
Anne held her tentative smile. “I’m feeling better, thank you.”
Constance sat, her posture soldier erect. “I detect an English accent.”
“Yes… not that I have a clue as to where I come from. But I suppose you know that.”
“Yes. Dr. Miles tells me your memory has still not returned,” Constance said, noticing Anne’s sluggish eyes. “Is it true that you still don’t remember your name?”
Anne’s smile faded. “I’m afraid so.”
Constance nodded. “I’m sorry… I’m sure it’s of little comfort to hear others tell you to relax, and that your memory will return in time.”
Anne sat up a little straighter. “I have to hope, don’t I? Well, a thing like this can make you feel hopeless.”
Constance’s mind drifted with impressions and theories. There was something about the young woman that touched her, and she recalled what Dr. Miles had said about his patient when she’d first opened her eyes and stared at him. “Her eyes were mad with shock,” he’d said.
“I want to thank you for all you’ve done for me,” Anne said. “Dr. Miles said you’ve paid my hospital bills.”
Constance observed that the young woman’s face was pale and creased with anxiety. “You’re welcome.”
Anne looked down at her trembling hands, and in that interval, she tensed. “Forgive me for asking, but do you recognize me?”
Constance smiled affectionately, sadly. “No, I don’t. I wish I did, for your sake.”
Anne looked away in disappointment. “Then I don’t understand…” She lifted a hand and then let it fall into her lap. “Why have you been so generous to me? A nurse told me that this private room is costly.”
“The nurse should have kept her mouth shut. It’s none of her business,” Constance said, bluntly.
Anne’s gaze was unsure as it rested on Constance and then wandered the room.
“Do you remember anything?” Constance asked, folding her hands, her voice softening. “Any small thing? Any insignificant thing that might trigger other thoughts and memories?”
Anne looked at Constance shyly. “Just bits and pieces… the fragment of a thought or a fleeting face that darts into the side of my eyes, but I don’t know if they’re from dreams or from reality… whatever reality is. Right now, I’m not entirely sure what that word means.”
The seconds stretched out before Anne finally said, “If you don’t know me, Mrs. Crowne, why have you been so generous? I am eternally grateful to you and, of course, I will pay you for all your generosities when I can.”
“Don’t worry about paying back anything. Right now, your job is to get well, so you can continue on with your life. You are so young and pretty, and you have all your life to live.”
Anne was moved by Mrs. Crowne’s kindness, and because she felt alone and lost, she fought back tears.
“I suppose you don’t remember your age?” Constance asked.
“No… I don’t. I feel lost in a fog, and I don’t know how to get out.”
Constance leaned forward. “Well, you’re young and strong and you will heal quickly and completely. Of that I’m positive.”
Anne also sat forward, her eyes imploring. “Why have you helped me, Mrs. Crowne? I don’t understand. I’m a perfect stranger to you. I don’t seem to have anyone, or belong to anyone, and yet you… You have been my angel of mercy. Why?”
To Anne’s surprise, Constance’s eyes filled with sudden pain, and she lowered them. When she spoke, her voice was emotionally charged.
“A little over a week ago, I had just left the Metropolitan Museum of Art, and I was walking along a path toward the obelisk. It’s located behind the Museum. Anyway, I saw a crowd and I could see there was some urgency. Some were on their cell phones and others were crouched down. I started over, concerned, and that’s when I saw you lying in the grass, near a tree, not far from the obelisk.”
Constance continued. “I heard sirens approach, and more people hurried over. It was those sounds and the gathering crowd that brought it all back. That horrible ordeal. That terrible night that never leaves me.”
Mrs. Crowne paused and drew in a breath. “Fifteen years ago, in 1993, my lovely daughter, my only child, Ashley, was found in Central Park, raped and murdered. She’d been jogging and was attacked. She was only eighteen years old.”
Anne felt a jolt of agony. “Oh my dear God… I’m so sorry, Mrs. Crowne.”
An iron control kept Constance sitting erect, her eyes still. “I will not speak any further about it. I cannot…”
Her fragile words hung in the air, waiting, her face ridged with grief. Constance looked past Anne and out the window at the late autumn sunlight that streamed in, lighting Anne and her lovely face.
Constance fixed her eyes on the young woman. “You are to be discharged tomorrow. Do you have anywhere to go?”
Anne put a shaky hand to her forehead. “No…”
Constance rose, standing erect, a decision made. “Then you will come home with me. My husband, Charles, died a little over a year ago. He was older than I, and he was a wealthy man. In short, I live alone. I’m only telling you this because there is plenty of space and three empty bedrooms. I’m sure you’ll be comfortable. You can stay as long as you like, until you recover, or until someone comes forward and identifies you.”
Anne was too astonished to speak.
Constance stood firm. “I couldn’t help Ashley, but I can certainly help you. We will find your family, and we will find out who you are and where you come from. Meanwhile, let’s figure out your sizes and I’ll do some basic clothes shopping for you. Once you’re better, you can shop for yourself.”
Constance smiled, and her eyes twinkled. “We’ll make it fun, whoever you are. We’ll find out the secrets of you and we’ll have a damn good time doing it.”
Anne looked fully into Constance’s face, her eyes moist, tears breaking free and sliding down her cheeks. “How will I ever thank you?”
CHAPTER 4
On November 1, five days after leaving the hospital, Anne was asleep in her king-sized bed in Constance’s East Side townhouse. A knock on the door opened Anne’s eyes, and she lifted on elbows, coming out of sleepy co
nsciousness.
“Yes?”
“It’s Constance. May I come in?”
Anne sat up. “Yes… Come in.”
She tugged the sheet up to her neck, blinking about the spacious room, again overwhelmed by its size and gracious appearance. It was an elegant room, decorated in silver, white and powder blue, with lovely crown molding, thick, silver carpeting, two large, modern mirrors, a crystal chandelier and silver/white draperies adorning three tall windows. Besides the poster bed, there was an extravagant, modern sofa with a matching chair, a broad vanity, and a roomy, private bathroom.
Constance entered the dimly lit room, closing the door softly behind her.
“May I part one of the draperies to let in some light?”
“Yes, of course,” Anne said, sleepily.
Constance moved to the first window and pulled one curtain aside, as Anne sat up, squinting against the light.
“Did you sleep well?” Constance asked, turning.
“Yes, much better since my head is free of that bandage. What time is it?”
“It’s after nine.”
“Oh, I didn’t realize it was so late.”
“I’m sorry to have awakened you, but I couldn’t wait to tell you the good news.”
Anne wiped her eyes, suddenly alert and hopeful. “Good news?”
Constance started forward, pausing at the foot of the bed. As always, she was dressed fashionably. Anne admired her black slacks, heels, and silk, silver top, with matching hoop earrings.
“The man I hired to investigate your past called a few minutes ago. He said he had some news, and he’s on his way to share it.”
Anne’s excitement was instant. “Does he know who I am?”
“Not exactly. Anyway, he’ll be here at ten-thirty, so I thought you might want to take your shower and eat breakfast before he arrives.”
Anne felt the inner tremors start—the same tremors she’d felt in the last few days when her memory had flitted and flashed. She’d tried to grab on and hold any image, name or face, but they had slipped away, like fish diving into deep water, and she was left frustrated and scared. What if she never remembered?
“You look anxious,” Constance said. “Don’t be. Let’s keep treating your mystery as a fun adventure. Let’s keep it light and let’s keep it exciting.”
Anne smiled, grateful. “Thank you, Constance. I don’t know what I would do without you.”
“You’ve given me a new purpose, and a new life,” Constance said warmly. “And since you moved in, I’m even humming again. I haven’t hummed my tuneless song since before Charles died. I’m delighted you’re here. Now, I’m going to leave and let you start your day. I’ll have Agnes make you some breakfast. What will you have? Eggs? Oatmeal?”
“Just some oatmeal and toast.”
“And tea, I’m sure?”
“Yes, tea would be lovely. English Breakfast, since you have it.”
Constance wagged a finger at Anne. “I think we know one thing about you. Your English accent and your love for tea must surely mean you’re originally from the United Kingdom.”
Constance’s words had a striking impact. Anne shut her eyes. She made a little sound of recognition when swimming letters splashed across the screen of her mind. They swelled, then faded, then appeared again, then vanished.
Anne drew in a sharp breath and, with a hand, she touched her breast near her jumping heart.
“What is it?” Constance asked. “Are you all right?”
Anne’s eyes opened and widened. “I just heard a name jump into my head. Someone spoke it to me. It was a man’s voice, and it was loud before it faded. The name seems so right, and so familiar to me.”
“What was the name?”
Anne tip-toed her mind back to the man’s voice and to the name he’d called out. “I heard a voice call Anne.”
Constance waited, and the room was silent and still.
Anne touched her neck, her face flushed. “I heard it. I heard the name… It was Anne. Yes, I heard the name Anne so clearly and I wanted to answer. I recognized it as mine and I wanted to answer.”
Constance went to the side of the bed and took Anne’s hand. She held it, looking into Anne’s hopeful eyes.
“Here’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to start calling you Anne. Let’s see if, by repetition, it begins to sink in deeper until it resonates; until you’re completely sure. Perhaps a last name will also come soon. How does that sound… Anne?”
Anne held Constance’s stare, worried. She nodded. “Yes, why not Anne?”
Constance released Anne’s hand and stepped back. “I think we should both congratulate ourselves. We’re making progress. Who knows what will come next? See what a great adventure this is becoming?”
A lonely fear returned to Anne, but she hid it from Constance. Anne thought, What if I just imagined the voice and the name? What if I am desperately trying to reconstruct a false self from my imagination? That would be a kind of insanity, wouldn’t it?
Constance clapped her hands together. “All right, take your shower, Anne, and I’ll meet you downstairs.”
When Constance opened the door to leave, Anne called after her. “Constance…”
Constance glanced back.
“I don’t quite know how to say it, but I don’t feel… well, I don’t feel properly anchored in my skin, or in this world. Everything seems so unfamiliar and strange. That television, the cell phone you gave me, all the cars and the fashion. I feel out of place… as though I shouldn’t be here.”
Constance took a step back into the room, lowering her voice in sympathy. “Dr. Miles wants to make a house call this afternoon, Anne. And Dr. Weiss is coming as well. She said your memory might return all at once, or in bits and pieces. Tell them everything you feel, and they’ll help you. Trust, Anne. Trust that everything will work out. We will get to the bottom of this sooner or later.”
Anne sat back, a little smile forming. “It feels right… I mean, my name. Anne feels right… and with an E. Yes, Anne with an E I think is spot-on.”
“It suits you,” Constance said. “I like it very much. All right, I’ll see you downstairs.”
Constance flashed a final, mischievous little grin. “As Sherlock Holmes would say, ‘The game’s still afoot.’”
CHAPTER 5
They sat in the soft blue furniture of an expansive living room, looking out onto the magnificent skyline of Manhattan from the twenty-second floor. In the white marble fireplace, a gleaming fire added comfort, warmth and elegance.
Anne was seated on the sofa next to Constance, dressed in designer jeans, a light green top, and a white cashmere cardigan. She was trying to stop her hands from twisting in her lap as she studied Leon Fogle. He was a thin, wiry young man in his late twenties, slumped in a chair opposite them, his Apple iPad at the ready, his black-rimmed glasses pushed up on his nose, his face projecting fervent concentration. He resembled Daniel Radcliffe, the actor who played Harry Potter, and before he arrived, Constance admitted that that was one reason she’d hired him. Leon had also come highly recommended by a friend’s son, a technology executive.
Anne was surprised by Leon. She thought him much too young for what he had been asked to do, which was to find out who she was and where she’d come from.
Constance sat up, inclining toward him, her face pointed at him with sharp interest.
“On the phone, Leon, you said you might have something.”
Leon’s mouth twitched. He blinked frequently, his little squirrel eyes shifting from Constance to Anne and from Anne to Constance. The silence grew as a siren passed below, and a log shifted in the fireplace, hissing and popping.
Anne studied Leon’s clothing. His sneakers were a faded red, his jeans a faded blue, and his sweater so tight it looked as if it had shrunk. And he had a bad case of bedhead, with little tufts of brown hair shooting up from a cowlick.
“Yes, well, Mrs. Crowne, I used the photo you had taken of…” he searched
for a name.
“Anne,” Constance said, turning to Anne and indicating with a gesture. “This is Anne.”
Leon nodded rapidly. “Anne. Yeah, cool. I didn’t have that. Yeah, well, as I told you when you hired me, since you didn’t have a full name, or any name, or any relative or employer or a social security number, and all that other necessary stuff, I went with a reverse image search.”
“And what is that?” Constance asked.
Leon adjusted his glasses, lowering his tenor voice to sound more authoritative.
“The technology is still relatively new, and it’s being improved continuously, but I’ve found it very useful. Anyway, a reverse image search is a type of search engine technology. That is, you use an image file as an input query. You upload the image to the software and it constantly crawls the web and adds images to its index. The database has more than three billion images that it scrapes from Facebook, YouTube, Venmo and millions of other websites. The software I use debunks any faked images so the matches I get are actual, or close to actual.”
“And what did you find?” Constance asked, wanting to cut to the chase.
“I received several images that were close to Anne’s image, but none that were a match, or not even in the ninetieth percentile. So I rejected them all.”
Anne looked at him with tender sadness. “Are these results unusual? Has this ever happened to you before?”
Leon adjusted his glasses again, pushing them higher on his nose. He cleared his throat. “No. It’s never happened, and that’s like… wow, you know.”
Anne’s face fell, but Constance noticed Leon’s eyes were bright with anticipation.
“Is there more, Leon?” Constance asked.
“Well, it’s just that, I think it’s real cool. I mean, like I said, this is the first time this has ever happened to me.”
Anne sat back with a small breath of acceptance, and turned her eyes to the fire, getting lost in the flames.
Constance was annoyed by his choice of words. “Leon, it is not cool that you haven’t found Anne’s identity. You’re obviously doing something wrong or you’re just not up to the job I gave you. Anne is here, right here in the flesh, so she has to be in one of your databases. At her age, she has to be on social media or, I don’t know, on something. So all your computer databases must be wrong or you’re doing something wrong.”
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