by Scott, Kylie
“Right, okay. Ed had mentioned something like that happened, but it’s good to know for certain.”
“Yeah. When I heard what happened to you, and I just wanted to reach out and see that you were all right.”
“That’s nice of you.” I tip my head. “Do you live in the area? I haven’t seen you here before.”
“No. I was driving to your sister’s place and happened to see you heading in here, so I just . . .”
I nod.
Her smile finally waivers. “Should we grab a table? Have you got time to sit down for a minute? I’d really like to know how you’re doing . . .”
“Sure. Outside would be good.”
I lead the way, finding one at the end situated against the shop window. There are a couple of men in work clothes. Probably belonging to the French Town Electrical van parked nearby. Some women in athleisure wear. Several of them look askance at Shannon’s shaved head and tattooed limbs. Ah, life in the suburbs.
“So I met you through Ed?” I ask, carefully prying off the lid to my coffee and blowing on the liquid to try to cool it down.
“That’s right.”
I just wait. When the amnesia first struck, and I was around people I was meant to know but didn’t, I’d often stay silent because I had no idea what to say. But it turns out keeping your mouth shut is actually a good technique for getting information out of people. If you wait for people to fill the silence, they usually do. They just can’t help themselves.
“It was sad, I mean . . . you and he tried so hard to make it work, but there were just some fundamental differences, you know?”
“Not really. Why don’t you tell me?”
“God.” She giggles and rolls her eyes. Like my lack of memory makes her uncomfortable. “Whatever you want to know.”
“You and I were that close?”
One of her shoulders rises. “Well, yeah.”
Previous me’s life continues to make little sense to me. The way she disappeared on people who supposedly mattered to her. But I’ll take all the information I can get.
A bird pecks at the remains of a muffin on a nearby table. The sounds of chatter from patrons and the noise from an occasional passing car fill the air. Shannon rests her elbows on the table, leaning in. There’s a certain wide-eyed innocence to her. I don’t trust it, but then again, I’m paranoid. Or maybe I’m just having a shitty day and am jealous that she gets to spend quality time in Ed’s presence while I’ve been exiled.
“I’d like to hear your take on it all,” I say, settling into the chair. “If you don’t mind.”
“Of course.”
And the girl opens her mouth and talks for over an hour, while I listen.
Seems there are two types of people in this situation. People who probably do know you better than you know yourself yet manage not to rub it in. And people who think they know you and have plenty of opinions about you and are more than happy to shove it all in your face. Shannon belongs to the latter.
* * *
Operation Get a Life starts with me enrolling in a self-defense course in the city. Something I’d been wanting to do ever since the police informed me of how I’d wound up in the hospital. Not even Frances can object to me leaving the house for the sole purpose of better learning how to defend myself. Though she does try. With her on night shift, I continue to Uber around. Suits me fine. I can’t take part in all the physical aspects of the classes, but I sit and watch, soaking it all in.
The instructor, Gavin, a fit-looking Korean-American guy, tells us to look at any odd thing we hear or see when we’re out and about. To let anyone following us know they’ve been spotted. To let them know that we’re not an easy target through confident body language. He also talks about things in our handbags, such as keys or a ballpoint pen, that could be used as a weapon. Step three is to remove yourself from the area as swiftly as possible. During the next lesson, we’ll move on to the three key attack areas: eyes, throat, and groin. Gavin doesn’t mess around.
He spends a fair bit of time making sure I’m following everything. Maybe he’s just a good teacher, making the new student feel welcome. Or maybe it’s more than that. The bruises on my face haven’t gone away yet. And sharp enough eyes might even make out the scar on my forehead, not completely hidden beneath my bangs. Easy for Gavin to conclude that my interest in self-defense is not an idle one.
After class, I walk from the West End where class is held down to Old Port. It’s only about eight o’clock and there are plenty of streetlights and people around. But I can’t stop looking behind me, my small can of mace held tightly in my hand. Being out and about is good.
Fuck being always afraid. I won’t do it. I can’t live that way. The mace goes back in the bag, and I swing my arms as I walk. I stop thinking about eyes-throat-groin, and force my attention to the surroundings.
Pavement turns into cobblestones and there’s a more touristy feel to the shops in Old Port. Lots of beautiful, over-a-century-old brick buildings. I’m almost tempted by a waterfront lobster place, but continue on, looking for Vito’s—the Italian restaurant Ed recommended I try.
And I’m glad I did. It smells amazing and has heavy wooden tables and dark red napkins, silver cutlery glinting in the low light. There are plenty of shadowy nooks and atmosphere aplenty, despite the crowd.
Just when I think I’m going to get turned away, the maître d’ smiles, obviously recognizing me on sight, and leads me to the only available table.
I feel comfortable here. Maybe it’s the warm welcome. Or maybe some part of me deep down recognizes this place. Unlike the froufrou clothing, Vito’s still fits. Though I should probably dress up more next time. Black yoga pants and a T-shirt is a bit slummy.
“Clem?” asks a familiar deep voice.
I raise my eyes from the menu to find Ed staring down at me. He looks good. But then, he always does. More dressed up than normal in gray slacks and a white button-down shirt with his hair slicked back. God, he’s so handsome and smooth looking, like a movie star out of an old black and white movie. Just behind him is a woman with wavy shoulder-length dark hair. She’s beautiful too. Of course she is. They make a great looking couple, dammit.
Meanwhile, the maître d’ stands nearby, visibly flustered. “I’m so sorry. I just assumed . . .”
“Shit,” I say, realization dawning. “This is your table.”
Ed clears his throat. “Yeah.”
“Awkward. Okay.” I slide out of the chair, grabbing my usual bag with money, cell, and book inside. God. The brunette is dressed in a sexy off-the-shoulder number and I look like crap. “What a coincidence, huh? Enjoy your meal.”
And I’m out of there, pronto. Not even the cooler air outside can take the heat out of my face. It’s just as well that I’m wearing sneakers and not heels. Otherwise, there would be no chance of moving fast on the cobblestone streets. The usual ache/awkwardness caused by the thought of Ed escalates into an agonizing kind of pain. I think I’m having a heart attack. Or maybe my heart just hurts. Which makes no sense at all because he’s not mine. Not in any way, shape, or form. The man doesn’t even like me. And I definitely don’t enjoy the riot of feelings he inspires.
“Clem, wait!” Ed runs after me, his expression tense. “Are you all right?”
“Sure. Why wouldn’t I be?”
He just looks at me.
“That was unfortunate, them thinking we were still together and meeting for dinner. I mean, what were the chances of me turning up here tonight?” I babble, staring at his shoes. Much easier than meeting his face.
“Random,” he says.
“It’s just that you told me to try this restaurant and I was in the area, so . . .”
“Yeah? What were you doing?”
“Taking a self-defense class.”
“Good. That’s good.”
I cross my arms over my chest. Only it feels defensive, best to just let them hang at my sides. He’s freshly shaved, the strong line of his jaw dram
atic in the low lighting. All of the planes and angles of his face are so perfect. Also, he smells incredibly good. Probably some expensive cologne or just his general coolness leaking from his pores. I don’t know. But at such a close distance, I can almost believe the emotion in his eyes is something other than annoyance or pity.
“Anyway,” I say, taking a deep breath. “You should get back. I guess I’ll try the place another time. Make my own reservation next time.”
“It was always your favorite.”
That stops me. “You’re taking your date to my favorite restaurant?”
“I happen to like the place too.” Lines crease his brow. “What, we need to divvy up the town now?”
“No, just . . . my favorite? Really? Isn’t it weird, going somewhere we made memories?” I raise the corner of my lips in distaste. “Obviously not, or you wouldn’t be here with her and this wouldn’t have just happened. Never mind.”
Now the lines have spread to beside his beautiful eyes.
“Though maybe that’s the point, you want to overwrite everything we did together. Make newer and better memories.”
“You know, maybe I do.”
“Fantastic. Awesome. Best of luck with that.” My voice rises in volume. “I hope she’s everything for you that I never could be. A paragon of female worthiness. A lady on the streets, a wildcat between the sheets, and all that shit.”
A couple passes by, darting looks at us. Fair enough.
“And I’m yelling at you on street corners now like a deranged person. Great.”
“Please continue, Clem,” he bites out. “I for one am enjoying the hell out of all this honesty for once.”
“Oh, fuck off back to your date, Ed.”
His shoulders rise on an exceptionally heavy sigh and honest to God, I feel exactly the same way. Apparently this city isn’t big enough for both my ex and me. Not tonight, at least. I might have forgotten the initial breakup. But we were sure making up for the loss of those memories now. And I barely even know the guy. It shouldn’t have mattered where he went, let alone with whom. It shouldn’t hurt. Empty was so much safer.
“I don’t want to yell at you. I don’t want to be this person. Give my love to Gordon,” I say, sounding much calmer than I feel. “Hope you have a nice night.”
“Clem . . .”
I don’t stop walking and I don’t turn back.
* * *
Frances laughs so hard when I tell her about the showdown with Ed that she nearly falls off the kitchen chair. “It’s like you’re an evil twin of your former self or something.”
“So glad my trauma amuses you.”
“Oh come on, you’re not really upset about this, are you?”
I finish making our sandwiches, putting a bit of extra oomph into the knife work. Bright early afternoon sun shines in through the window, a lawnmower roars in the distance.
“God, you are.” She frowns. “I warned you not to get too close to him. It was bound to be confusing, given your history.”
“I didn’t get too close to him.”
“Don’t lie to me. You sat up crying last night after you got home, didn’t you?”
“No.”
She just waits.
“Maybe. A little.” I place our lunch on the table, pulling out a chair and taking a seat. “But I was dealing with the death of Matthew Cuthbert as well. It was very sad.”
“Who is Matthew Cuthbert?”
“Anne of Green Gables.”
“One of your fictional friends. Right. Sorry for your loss.” My sister takes a bite and chews, talking all the while, because we’re classy like that. “You always put Ed on a pedestal and thought you weren’t good enough for him. Which is absolute bullshit. I don’t like that he’s hurting you again.”
“He’s not doing it on purpose. At least, I don’t think he’s doing it on purpose.” I turn it over inside my head. “No. Mostly he’s not doing it on purpose. It’s pretty much just me and the remnants of my messed-up mind.”
“How is he even upsetting you if you don’t remember him?”
“I don’t know. I guess I grew new feelings for him . . . sort of.”
She chews on, raising her eyebrows to display her disbelief.
“We probably won’t even see each other again, so this discussion isn’t required.”
“Pretty sure that’s what you said last time.”
“Guess Shannon was right. There were fundamental problems in my and Ed’s relationship.”
“The chick from the tattoo parlor?”
“Yeah.” I rip the crust off one of the pieces of bread and tear it into little pieces. Heartache deserves chocolate cake. Not Swiss, turkey, and lettuce on rye. “She’s the receptionist. Apparently we were close.”
“Makes me feel like a crappy sister for not knowing all your friends from back then.” A trace of a scowl hardens her eyes. “Thought you said she gave you bad vibes.”
I raise a shoulder. “Everyone gives me bad vibes. My head is a catastrophe. I can’t even trust myself, so how can I trust anyone else?”
“Huh.”
“Don’t you think that was a dick move on his part, though? Taking a woman to my favorite restaurant?”
Frances just shrugs. “They do have really good cannoli. Met you there for your birthday last year. Much as I don’t like to defend Ed, once you’ve found a place like that, it’s tough to give it up.”
I scowl. Desserts shouldn’t come before sibling loyalty. Not when matters of the heart are at stake.
“What are you doing with your day, apart from hating on Ed Larsen?” she asks.
“I’m not hating on him. I’m just openly expressing disappointment in his life choices.”
“Got it.”
“Why do I have to deal with the fallout from a relationship I don’t even remember being a part of?”
“Just plain dumb luck, I guess.”
“It’s not fair. And I don’t want to be attracted to him either. It’s inconvenient.”
Frances laughs. “No time for romance in your planner?”
“Hardly. What do I even have to plan? When to clean the toilet next? My life sucks.”
“Things will get better,” she says. “Give it time. You’re recovering from a serious injury.”
“I know.” I sigh all the sighs. “Maybe he’s not inconvenient so much as he is extremely confusing.”
She nods. “I can see that. You are, after all, a born-again virgin.”
“True.”
“You’re also quite bitchy and whiny today. Did you want to get out and do something this afternoon or not? I’m feeling you could use the distraction.”
“Don’t you have stuff to do?” I pick up the sandwich, give it a long hard look, and put it back down. My stomach just isn’t interested. It’s probably evening out the pack of Oreos I comfort ate last night. “Shouldn’t you be out spending time with your friends or maybe getting laid? One of us should have something resembling a fully functioning existence. I feel like me and my problems chew up all of your time.”
As usual, Frances remains nonplussed by my outburst. “This again? Clem, when Mom was sick, you just dropped everything to look after her.”
“Huh.”
My sister stretches her neck, first to one side, then the other. “I was adjusting to a new job and dealing with a marriage that was falling apart at a startling rate. You didn’t bitch about having to be the person to put your life on hold and move back home to look after Mom. You just did it. I always admired you for that.”
“Okay.”
“Basically, what I’m saying is, let me be here for you now.”
“All right. Though it feels weird inheriting all this baggage, both the good stuff I did and the bad.” I shrug. “Thanks.”
“No problem.” She flashes me a brief smile. “What’s the next step in figuring out the contents of your head/getting a life type plans?”
I push my plate away, brushing off my hands. “We should get a
dog. If we had a dog, he or she could eat this sandwich.”
“We’re not getting a dog. Focus, please.”
“Fine.” I sigh. “Some of the books have a stamp on the inside cover from a secondhand bookstore. I’d like to check the place out.”
“Still seeing if anything is familiar?” she asks. “Makes sense. And let me guess, this place is downtown.”
I just smile. Or maybe it’s a wince.
* * *
Braun’s Books is a couple of blocks away from Ed’s shop. In a city of over sixty-thousand people, however, surely I can go a day without running into him. Surely. Frances drives us in. It’s another sister-outing type thing, which is nice.
Behind the counter is a woman with long white and gray hair tied back into a braid. At the sight of me, her whole face lights up. “Well, about time! Where on earth have you been? I was getting worried about you.”
Apparently we have the sort of relationship where hugging is required. Before I know what’s going on, she’s out from behind the counter and squeezing me tight. I stand there mildly stunned while Frances watches in amusement.
“Got a couple of things put aside for you,” the woman says, rushing back to her counter. “Including a beaten-up but original copy of The Flower and The Flame. Awesome, right? I knew you wouldn’t care if it had a little wear and tear. You’re lucky I didn’t decide to keep it for myself. New Alyssa Cole came in last week too and I knew you’d be all over that.”
“I’m sure she’ll be delighted with them,” says Frances, barely holding back a grin. “But she doesn’t know who you are.”
The woman raises her brows. “What?”
She holds out her hand for shaking. “I’m Frances, her sister. Clem was attacked a month back and sustained some damage to her frontal lobe. She has amnesia.”
“No.”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
I lift my bangs to flash the scar at her. It makes for great evidence.
Immediately, the woman’s jaw drops. “Holy cow.”
“That’s part of why we’re here,” explains Frances. “Revisiting places to see if anything’s familiar to her. Figuring out parts of her life. You know.”
