by Scott, Kylie
After all, what would a cheater say?
“You should have a can of mace on you too, given they haven’t caught the bastard who did this to you. One of those keyring ones.” He pulls some money out of his wallet, setting it on the table. Then he stops. “What?”
“Just thinking.”
“Yeah?” He cocks his head, a lock of brown hair falling over one of his eyes. “What about?”
“Lots of things,” I say. “You’re being very helpful all of a sudden. It makes me suspicious. I mean, why would you even want to be friends with me, given our past?”
“I have no interest in being your friend.”
“Oh?”
“Trust me, that’s definitely not going to happen.” He settles back, watching me with a faint smile. Holy crap, his smile . . . it’s just a bit mean yet still wholly affecting.
I squirm in my seat. “I see.”
“No, you don’t,” he says. “Clem, you fucked me up. You fucked us up. And I’m not going to forgive you for that whether you remember doing it or not. But nobody deserves to be assaulted and have their mind messed with. So I’ll answer your questions, make sure you’ve got a cell and something to protect yourself with. Then you’re on your own.”
“You’re only helping me today?”
“No, that’s why I’m giving you my number. Like I said, you think of a question you need answered, you can text me and I’ll answer it for you if I can.”
“I can text you with any questions.” If he wants to define any future interactions, I can work with that. “But that’s all.”
“That’s right.”
“Okay. That makes sense.” I nod. “Ah, thanks. Thank you.”
“One or the other is fine. You don’t need to say both.”
I smile, nervous again for some reason. “Yeah, I just . . . never mind.”
“Whenever you’re ready,” he says, sliding out of the booth. Which means he wants to go now. I don’t know why people don’t just say what they mean.
I finish off the margarita, then wipe the salt off my lips. When I catch Ed watching, he turns away with a sharp sort of motion. Odd. For a big man, his movements have been mostly fluid, almost graceful. Guess he really wants to get rid of me. Can’t say I blame him.
* * *
“Hey, how was your day?” Frances flops down onto the other end of the couch with a bottle of water in her hand. “You got a phone?”
“Yeah. I was careful when I went out,” I say, heading off the next inevitable question before it can be asked.
“Good.”
My sister would probably be happiest if I’d hide at home for the rest of my life, staying safe and sound. Bubble-wrapping me isn’t out of the question. But it’s never going to happen. I need my freedom, the space to figure out my life for myself.
She picks up the TV remote and starts flicking through the channels. Some drama about people on a spaceship, the evening news, a woman singing about a dude named Heathcliff, and a tennis match. Finally, she settles on a wildlife documentary.
“Poor gazelle,” she mumbles, taking a sip of water. “What did you want to do for dinner?”
“Pizza.”
“Again?” she asks with a smile.
I’m working my way through the local pizza place’s menu, figuring out my favorite. It’s taken a week, but I’ve got it narrowed down to either the pumpkin, spinach, and feta, or the tomato, basil, and mozzarella. For some reason, the vegetarian options appeal to me more. Sometimes I get a bit fixated on things. Happily, pizza has been one of those things.
“I met Ed today,” I say.
Her whole body tenses. “You did?”
“Why didn’t you tell me about him?”
“Because he broke your heart.” She sets down the water bottle, turning sideways to face me. “Clem, you were a mess, absolutely miserable, crying all the time. It was almost worse than right after Mom died. With everything that’s happened, the last thing you need is him back in your life. The one silver lining of this whole disaster has been that you’ve been able to stop tearing yourself up about it.”
“He says he didn’t cheat on me.”
She sighs. “I honestly have no idea about that. In the month leading up to the attack, you refused to talk about him or what went down between you two. So basically, I was just following your wishes.”
“Hmm.”
“You were crazy about the man. Can’t imagine you’d have left him without a damn good reason.”
Was Ed the type to cheat? Thing is, he didn’t appear to be lying, and watching people is kind of my thing these days. The things they try to hide. The things they’re not saying. What comes out of people’s mouths versus what they do is often way off. With Ed though, I hadn’t gotten that feeling. In fact, I’m not even sure he cares enough about what I think of him these days to lie. Not like the man would have too much trouble finding someone to take previous me’s place, if that’s what he’s after.
“How did you find out about him?” she asks, voice low.
“What? Oh. I went down the street for coffee and someone in line there recognized his work. Apparently his style is quite distinctive.” I nod in the direction of my tattoo. “So I went to his shop. He was not happy to see me. But we talked, and he answered some questions. Doubt I’ll see him ever again.”
“I actually used to like the guy,” she says. “Always seemed like a straight shooter, but I guess I read him wrong. Still, I would have taken you to see him if I knew you wanted to go.”
“I’m a big girl, Frances. I can get a cab.”
She rests her head back against the couch, staring at the ceiling. “He wasn’t involved in what happened to you. I checked him out. Photos of him at a tattoo convention in Chicago were all over social media.”
“Why would you even think he was involved?”
“Just being careful.”
“Another woman was attacked and robbed in the same area as me the week before. The police officer who interviewed me at the hospital said there’s a good chance the attacks are linked.” The words come faster and faster, until they start to run into each other. “It was random. Not directed at me personally.”
“Don’t get worked up. Like I said, just being careful.” She shrugs. “It’s part of the job description. As a cop. As your sister. No harm in that.”
“Was he ever . . .” I swallow. “Was he violent with me? Or anyone?”
“Tattoo parlors are not the most peaceful places in the world, in my experience.” She frowns. “But no, violence was not one of Ed’s faults.”
“From what I’ve seen on daytime TV, people screw around on each other all the time. It’s not that uncommon and it rarely leads to trying to kill the other person.”
Frances squeezes her eyes shut for a moment. “I realize your knowledge is limited, but trust me when I tell you that life is not accurately reflected by daytime TV. And I’ve seen enough victims of domestic violence to be wary of situations involving a recent breakup. Though, as I said, he never gave me those kind of vibes.”
She has a point. Two, actually.
The pained look on her face is familiar. Same goes for her favorite wide-eyed and mouth slightly open expression. That one is used for shock or surprise. My sister is a pretty dominant-personality type. And I’m guessing previous me was quieter, less prone to speaking her thoughts regardless of consequences. Doctor Patel warned me it could be a problem.
On the screen, a crocodile drags a zebra into the water. Lots of thrashing and blood. At least it’s not pointless violence, since the crocodile needs to eat. I like to think whoever assaulted me was desperate, starving, and alone. Out of their mind on drugs, maybe. It’s still no excuse for the ferocity of the attack, but it helps a little. I can’t spend the rest of my life in hiding, afraid of everything, and hating on civilization.
“He bought me a small can of mace,” I say.
“How romantic.” My sister grabs a pillow, stuffing it behind her head. “Actua
lly, that’s a pretty good idea, now that you’re going out again. Same with getting you a phone. Things have just been so hectic, I hadn’t gotten around to it yet.”
“You’ve done enough already. I need to figure out how to look after myself.”
She doesn’t speak for a moment. “Did he pay for the cell too?”
“No, I did.”
“Hmm.” She sighs. “You would have had to find out about him eventually. Your name is still on the mortgage for the condo you two shared. He owes you half the down payment back.”
“Really? He didn’t mention anything about that to me.”
“It can be hard for people to remember that you don’t remember.”
“True.”
She says nothing for a moment. “So far as I know, he was in the process of getting the paperwork sorted to take your name off the deed, and I think you were giving him time to pay you back the money. But you’d have to ask him what the actual agreement was. It’s what you sank your half of Mom’s life insurance into.”
“So, I’m a homeowner . . . sort of. Not that I’d be welcome there.” I stare at the TV, letting all of the new information settle inside my head. “I’ve never had anyone look at me with such animosity before. He really doesn’t like me.”
“And how do you feel about that?”
It always makes me smile when she tries to play therapist. Like I haven’t spent a good chunk of my second life around the real thing. “I feel very little regarding him, Frances. Why would I? The guy’s a stranger. And before you ask, no, nothing looked familiar.”
She just nods.
“You should have told me about him.”
“I would have gotten around to it eventually.”
No apology is offered for her lie of omission. For not telling me about Ed. This is why I need new sources of information. My sister can’t be allowed to pick and choose what I know. To try to dictate who I was, or the person I might become.
Whatever her reasons for keeping things from me, it can’t be allowed. We’re family, but sometimes I’m not exactly sure we’re friends.
Chapter Two
Clem: Hey. Question: How would you describe my personality?
Ed: Used to be a bit of a worrier. Uptight sometimes. Detail-orientated.
Clem: Sounds awful.
Ed: Maybe I’m not the right person to ask.
Ed: Once upon a time it seemed cute.
Ed: No idea what you are now.
Clem: Me either.
Clem: What did I used to do with my time?
Ed: Read, watch TV, we’d go out most weekends or have friends over.
Detail-orientated made sense. Previous me worked at a bank. Given my current situation, the chances of me going through retraining and returning are slim. Doctor Patel warned me the first two years would be the worst. Brain injuries are tricky. “Possible cognitive and behavioral issues. A long list of side effects.” So I need to figure out what to do with my life. I have some savings, but they’ll run out eventually. After the breakup with Ed, I’d temporarily moved in with Frances. And despite how good she’s been about letting me stay here, I get the feeling she likes her space.
Ed thought previous me was cute. I’m almost jealous of my former self. Which makes no sense at all.
The cell goes into sleep mode. My sister lives about twenty minutes from the city, out in the suburbs. Sometimes, the quiet gets to me. But right now, it’s peaceful.
Clem: Where did we live?
Ed: Condo near the shop.
Ed: I’m still there. The memories suck, but it’s convenient.
Clem: Frances said we bought the place together.
Ed: Yeah. You gave me six months to pay you back your share of the down payment. That changed? I’d rather not sell the place if I can avoid it.
Clem: Let’s stick to the original agreement.
Ed: Good.
Clem: What was my favorite color?
Ed: Shouldn’t you make your own mind up about this sort of thing?
Ed: Go outside. Look at some flowers. Find a rainbow. Take a position.
Clem: Was just wondering. Will go out later when this headache is gone.
Ed: You have a headache? Is that normal? Headaches?
Clem: It’s not a big deal.
Ed: Violet was your favorite color. Hence your tattoo.
This makes sense too. There’s a fair amount of the color in the wardrobe she left behind. It’s not a definite for me yet, however. Maybe I’ll pick another color. I don’t know.
Clem: What about food?
Ed: Italian.
Ed: Try Vito’s in Old Port.
This information makes me feel a bit better about previous me’s last meal. It still sucked what happened to her. But she truly had eaten what she enjoyed. And if the attack hadn’t occurred, I would never have come into existence. Complicated situation. Let’s be honest. Any and all possible wrong ways of dealing with amnesia? That’ll most likely be where I’m at.
Clem: What’s your favorite food?
Ed: You don’t need to know about me. Anything else?
Clem: No. Thank you.
So much for making conversation. It’s not as if I even care what he eats. Not really. I’d just been trying to picture our life together. Us out at a restaurant, a happy couple talking and laughing. Him sitting across a table from me without the anger and distance in his eyes.
What I’d most like to ask is if he loved me, if we were in love. But if he won’t even tell me his favorite food, chances are emotional statuses are a real no-go area. He might even get mad and block me. It’s too much of a risk.
I slide my cell onto the bedside table, close my eyes, and try to nap.
I don’t know where the pornographic dream about Ed comes from. But it’s very pleasant. The one of being lost in the dark with warm sticky blood in my hair, far less so.
* * *
It’s been three days since I’d texted Ed.
Meanwhile, I’ve done a thorough inspection of belongings. Clothes-wise in the bedroom closet, we have the uniforms from the bank and a mix of summer and winter stuff in mostly light, happy colors with some floral prints. Some of it is okay, but a lot of it just doesn’t feel like me. There are a couple of pairs of sensible heels, some wedges, sandals, a couple pairs of ankle and knee-high boots, and sneakers.
In the garage, there are eight boxes. One is full of old assorted paperwork and family photos I’ve already seen. When I was in the hospital, Frances brought them in to see if I might recognize anything. I never did. The other seven are full of books. Lots of books. Apparently Ed was right about the reading.
I bring the most worn and beloved-looking of them upstairs. Anne of Green Gables by L. M. Montgomery, Beauty by Robin McKinley, The Stand by Stephen King, and Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen. A reasonably eclectic mix judging by the blurbs.
I finally regained access to my email and other digital things. Nothing interesting in any of the emails or text messages. And any mention of or photos taken during the period of dating Ed are gone. Whatever happened, previous me sure seemed determined to erase all trace of the man and anything related to him.
There aren’t many people in her contacts list. No close family to speak of and few friends. The exceptions being a co-worker at the bank, a nice-sounding woman from high school, and a guy she used to share an apartment with (platonically, so far as I can tell). There are no others. According to her phone log and text messages, she hadn’t contacted any of these people in months. She was a bit of a shit friend, and I kind of resent the fact she hasn’t bequeathed me a few more sources of information about my past life.
Though maybe I’m being too hard on her, given the breakup, et cetera. Three friends/acquaintances isn’t a bad amount. Enough that you could catch a movie sometime or grab a cup of coffee with someone if you wanted.
It’s not like the new me is rushing to bond with anyone.
Speaking of coffee, I’m waiting in line at the local café.
A small, popular place with yellow walls and bright aluminum furniture. It’s about fifteen minutes’ walk from Frances’s place and I go there every morning. This way, the exercise box gets ticked while I receive my recommended daily dose of caffeine and exposure to people in the outside world. My sister would rather I wait until she’s home to go out. But I’m not big on having my hand held. I mean, it’s just not feasible. You can’t live your life that—
The only warning I get is an odd taste in my mouth, then my left arm suddenly stiffens. Everything goes black.
* * *
I hear Ed before I see him. The heavy thud of his footsteps and raised voice demanding, “Where is she?”
“Sir, just—”
The curtain around my bed is thrown back and the man himself appears. Eyes wild and a sheen of sweat on his skin. He looks like he ran all the whole way here. Of course, sweaty and worked-up look good on him. The man has presence. Meanwhile, I probably look like hell.
“I didn’t know they called you,” I say.
“Your face . . . holy shit. What the hell happened?”
“I had a small seizure. It’s fine. They happen sometimes after a brain injury.”
“A seizure?”
“You’re good to go.” Doctor Patel calmly rises to his feet. Luckily, he was here visiting another patient. Even Nurse Mike stopped by to see me earlier. It’s just like old times. “See you at our next appointment, Clementine. Don’t forget.”
“Good one.” I attempt a smile. It’s kind of our inside joke, not that it’s particularly funny. But I’ve found I have a certain appreciation for gallows humor these days. Meanwhile, I feel like utter shit in all the ways.
Ed sits on the side of my hospital bed, staring down at me. Then he takes my chin in hand, gently turning it this way and that to inspect the damage. It’s weird, being touched by him. How he feels he has certain rights to my body. I can’t deny I’m pleased to see him, but this is not okay. Apart from a couple of awkward hugs from Frances, the only physical contact I’ve ever had is from disinterested medical staff going about their business.
