by Marni MacRae
I nod. “I don’t remember learning to play the piano, but I remember how.”
“Good, that’s just it. You are you. Mary as Eve is still kind. Still active. These are instincts, muscle memories we have built in over years and years of actions, training. Behavior.”
“So who I am now is who I was before, without remembering how I got to be this way?”
“Exactly. If you remember your past tomorrow, it won’t change you. If you are afraid of connecting with others because you may become someone else someday, don’t. You are you. The few rare cases where amnesiacs changed personality or became different personas are ones with brain injury or a physical trauma that brought on the memory loss.”
Valerie sips from her tea and waits for me to comment. I let her advice sink in.
“It almost seems like a wasted opportunity.”
“How so?”
“Well, I go through the trouble to wipe the slate clean, but remain me.”
“Hmm, interesting thought. There have been a few cases of people waking up not knowing who they are, starting a new life in a different town and then one day recalling that they had another family, that their name was Tom, not Robert. But none of those cases ever noted a change in character.
“So, I am me.”
“Yes, you are.”
I like Valerie. I sip my tea, relieved that not only was this a pleasant experience, but I am looking forward to coming back. The remainder of my visit is spent sharing my plans. Discussing the things I feel strongly about, such as the garden that brings a feeling of belonging and familiarity. And Nick. How he makes me feel heightened as if I am more alive when he is near.
Valerie claims that is a normal reaction toward someone I’m romantically invested in, but I still want to chat with Laurel about it. I’m sure Dr. Leesing is being honest, but I think the feisty nurse might give me more insight on what to do about it.
We touch on the mountain of things I feel I am lacking in, my unfamiliarity with electronics or music, despite my ability to play the piano. Common foods that are unfamiliar to me. And the even greater mystery of so much of the world I have encountered in the last three days feeling off.
Dr. Leesing gives me a book filled with blank pages.
“There are no words in this book.” I am confused for a moment before it hits me she wants me to write in it. Embarrassment floods my cheeks with heat, and I focus on running my fingers over the smooth brown cover of the book.
Valerie doesn’t seem to notice my moment of confusion or embarrassment, and I am grateful for her art of making me feel so at ease. She is wonderful at her job.
“It’s a notebook. It has section dividers inside. I want you to begin writing down three things.” Valerie hands me a pen. “Take these home, and over the weekend find time to address these three things.
“First, ‘who am I.’ Make it a topic for a section in the notebook and answer it with truths. You can make the truths as simple as ‘I am a woman’ or ‘I am lost,’ whatever it is that you know about you. The second topic is ‘what do I know.’ In this section, describe the things you are certain of. You know how to play the piano. Search further in that knowledge. Do you know what scales are or how to read music? You know simple things like how to tie your shoes, but do you know any other knots. You know how to read and write, but can you remember a story or can you write a poem? Write down what you know, and as you do this, ask questions of yourself to expand that list.
“And, finally, in the third section, write down what you don’t know. The last list should be specific things that you feel you should know but do not. You mention things feel off. Pinpoint that feeling. Find specifics. Ask Laurel or Nick to help with your lists. Bouncing thoughts off others is therapeutic and a great trigger for thought.
“I will schedule you for next Thursday at five. We can take a look at the lists, and you can ask me questions if you have them. In the meantime, allow yourself a break. Enjoy each day and let the police do the searching while your subconscious works on its own processes. Don’t pull the knot.”
“Don’t go back to the field.”
“Well, Eve, I can’t tell you that you can’t do something, but I would advise you not to cause further trauma to an already fragile state. If you were in harm’s way and your mind chose to forget that, rushing back toward it may not be the wisest choice. As long as you have a place to be safe here, and it sounds like you do, and you have a support group, which, happily, you also do, then there is no persistent reason to push against that wall. Now, if you were homeless and alone and felt a need to get back to where you have come from, I would reconsider giving that advice. As it stands, there is no evidence that knowing who you are right now will help you.”
I grip the pen and notebook and turn my face to the window to watch the rain slide along the glass. I am grateful for direction, the tiny steps of the three topics and the permission Valerie has given me to just be me. Eve or nameless. A weight of guilt begins to slide off my shoulders, and I feel for the first time like I can get a handle on my reality and begin to take action toward figuring out the mystery.
Chapter 18
The sound of hammers ringing out around me, occasionally drowned out by compressors kicking on or men shouting out in the crisp spring air, is calming. I may be a minority in that opinion, but there is a rhythm and song to a well-run building site. It has its own tempo, its unique instruments, and admittedly a fair amount of foul language, but it carries a voice and purpose that can’t be matched.
Up on the roof of the project, I pause to take in the progress and stretch my back. My foreman, Odell, is currently finishing up an inspection with Bart Sintle. Dealing with the meanest inspector in the county, I don’t envy Odell his job. I catch sight of the two men standing in the yet to be paved road, boots thick with mud, hands gesturing in whatever argument Sintle has come up with for not passing the current inspection.
The last hour had been spent crawling over the new roof, with Bart eyeing every nail, dragging out what would normally be a quick inspection of sheathing into a fine-tooth comb over every board laid down. Odell has the hard job of keeping up on inspections, making sure the crew is dialed in to pass the eagle eye and foul mood of Sintle and, hopefully, maintaining the project on schedule.
I watch as my foreman reaches out and places a hand on Bart’s shoulder in a calming gesture. It’s like watching a father soothe a child. Odell, the darkest skinned African American I have ever met, stands at six-seven in boots, is covered in muscle with a visage like an angry pro wrestler, and has a presence that precedes him. Most men cross the street before they come within fifty feet of him. What few people know is that Odell is a poet, a father, a husband, and a gardener in his spare time. I have never in the ten years I’ve known him, heard him raise his voice to another person. He’s the epitome of a gentle giant.
Bart Sintle, however, is a bully. A small man with a power trip he enjoys abusing by drawing out construction jobs and picking any small detail to refuse to pass inspections. I can see he’s met his match with Odell, as he climbs into his car, escaping the rain, the soaked clipboard tucked against his coat.
Odell strides back through the mud toward the site. He briefly lifts his dark, wet face into the rain to glance up at me and give me a thumbs up. His white teeth flash in a grin before he pulls his hardhat down over his brow and disappears inside the house. Swallowed into the hammering song of a regular workday.
When this job wraps up, I plan on giving Odell and his family a bonus consisting of a weekend at Disney World. All three of my foremen and my superintendent are good men. A couple of them are moody, which comes with the territory of construction work, and Mike, my super, has a foul tongue on him, but he’s sharp as a tack and doesn’t miss the details.
Most days, as owner of Donovan Construction I find myself with little to do but push papers or make calls for bids. I hate it. I started the company to build. I studied construction and business in college with this sing
ular goal in mind. To spend my life constructing homes. Quality homes. The kind that a person is proud to live in, to pass down to their kids.
I grew up in a craftsman style home on the south end of town and fell in love with the attention to detail in the carved crown molding. The exposed beams. The solid wood staircase that bore the brunt of many a chase between Lee and me. The long, sturdy banister that we slid down when our mom’s back was turned. I never wanted to build cookie cutter homes, and even though architecture interests me, I wanted to have my hands in it. Not draw it or use a computer to do the work for me. I wanted to carry the lumber. Drive the nails. Set the doorframes. Put myself into the soul of the homes that would shelter families making memories of their own. I found out quickly that being a business owner means paperwork, permits, zoning, banks, and ledgers.
I purchased the tract of land we are building on from Ms. T two years ago. We’ve finished ten houses in that time, and I have only strapped on my tool belt for three of them.
I need to change that. Delegate my office work to Mike. No, his mouth will lose us contracts. I should hire someone new. A woman. A smart woman who can sweet talk banks and keep the boys on task.
I roll the idea around as I make my way back down to firm ground. Well, semi-firm ground. Mud envelops my boots up to the laces. I make the decision to start looking around for a good stand-in for my job so I can spend more time in the heart of the building process, less time on the phone in an office.
“You heading to lunch, boss?” Odell’s massive hand lands on my shoulder as I round the front of the building.
“I’ve got an appointment I need to get cleaned up for. But I may be back before the crew takes off for the day. I want to look at the portico drawings before we start cutting. How was Sintle? Still trying to push off passing the sheathing?”
“Nah, I got him to come around. Just needs a little love does Bart.”
I choke on a laugh and shake my head as Odell stops beside my truck. “I think only his mother could love that man. Even then, she probably has to keep convincing herself to do it.”
“Ah, he ain’t as bad as all that. Most likely fell into the job and doesn’t appreciate the finer nuances of we construction folk.”
“Hmm, you mean the cussing, the noise, and the dirt?” I lean against the hood and look back at the building I just climbed down from. It still has the look of an undressed woman. Her beams peeking out in spots. The gaping entryway waiting to be dressed with its double doors. Windows empty of glass. Siding yet to be put up.
She will be gorgeous though. Amongst the mud and lumber piles, the lifts, and the scaffolds stood a woman preparing for her grand entrance. A few more months and she’ll be finished and detailed. Her makeup on, her gown wrapped around her. She’ll be a gem in a row of women on a brand-new street just waiting to be filled with laughter. Families watching TV. Newlyweds beginning a new life together. It warms me to see the potential in the bones of the house, slick now with rain, splattered with mud, but becoming something to hold history inside it.
“Yeah, well, it takes a certain type to get up in the cold and rain to come here on purpose.” Odell is taking in the same sight as I am, watching men crawl all over and through the structure, hollering at each other, calling out measurements and insults, tracking boot prints onto the floorboards, that in themselves, will be a part of the history as the home comes together.
“They may be a tad salty, but they're ours,” Odell said. “Bart passed the sheathing. Said our nails aren’t flush. When I asked him to go back up and point those out to me, he gave in.”
“He knows that sheathing is perfect.” I know it, too, as I spent the morning walking the roof, eyeing the nails, the spacing, alongside him.
“He does, but he wouldn’t be Bart Sintle if he didn’t try to accuse us of shoddy work.“
“Thanks for handling him. You’ve got the magic touch.” I slap Odell’s shoulder and head around the front of the truck, “I’m off to shower. You going to the barbeque at Lee’s tomorrow?”
I met Odell through Lee over a decade ago. As I recall it had something to do with a bet on a Bengals game and Lee looking to his big brother to get him out of a spot. I made him pay up and vow never to bet on a game again or else I would tell dad. Lee was far more afraid of Dad than Odell. The three of us have been friends ever since.
“Rain or shine. You know I never pass up an opportunity for a pretty lady to feed my family.”
“Smart man. Your boys will put Anabel to the test for sure.” Odell’s boys were not even approaching teen years yet and both were pushing toward six feet with appetites that could break a bank. “I’ll see you there then if I don’t get back here before you guys wrap up for the day.”
“Sounds good.” Odell taps the hood of my truck and wanders back into the controlled chaos of the site.
As I start the engine and pull down the muddy track, I turn my eyes toward the completed projects as I pass by. I’m proud of the work we’ve done here. Working alongside my father from an early age, I developed a passion for woodworking, building, the detail in the creation of something that had once been sticks on the ground. I’m glad I decided to come out to the site today. I needed the focus, and I wouldn’t have gotten it in my office.
Last night was a turning point. I acknowledge that to myself although I know there is no way I can act on it. Carrying Eve out of that field, scared I had brought her there only to watch her break further had opened up a vulnerable place in me. I admit I’m attached. I admit I hardly know her, not like I know Odell or Doc Eston, or even Ms. T. That lifetime of knowledge about a person, of having spent weekends camping or letting the Doc mend a broken arm after jumping off a rock with a sheet for a cape. Those kinds of knowing are slow building. People talking and sharing rumors or little encounters adding up to a long history, building trust, dependability, understanding.
But even in all those relationships, there is a distance. I’m not best friends with Doc, though we have played golf at the club a few times. Ms. T is an icon, most of what I know of her is legend and business dealings. Odell is a great guy. I know his wife, his boys, but we don’t share deep thoughts.
I have a long list of acquaintances—all good people, interesting people. They watched me grow up. A few were there when I broke my arm in my sheet cape. But all are surface—none of them inside that barrier. That real place where the wrong word can hurt, the right one can make you think you can fly.
In four days Eve got there. She didn’t even try. I don’t really know how it happened. One second I’m driving down the road, planning the workweek, orders that need to be made, siding unloaded. The next there’s a girl in the road, and from the first word, something struck me. When she screamed, I ran to her. Something in me reached out and couldn’t let her go.
Over the past few days, I have come to know Eve as she has begun to learn herself. She is naturally kind and curious. She has a spirit in her that wants to know the world around her, to not take it for granted. She is gentle and loving and makes friends faster than anyone I have ever met. People seem to feel about her the way I do. They want to help, to protect. Even Laurel with her sassy spirit and flamboyant style seems to enjoy Eve, teasing and playing like they are sisters. So, yeah, after carrying her from that field, watching how her whole body changed in reaction to whatever she saw there, I couldn’t help but keep her close. I needed to be sure our little trip hadn’t done harm.
Laurel and Tuck had helped to keep the mood light. We ate pizza, drank some beer, laughed, and watched Dirty Dancing of all movies. But I hadn’t noticed the film at all. Eve had tucked herself beside me and every nerve in me had been on edge, heightened. Her breath beside me lifting her chest. Her hand, idly playing with my fingers. The warmth of her slight figure seeping into me until I couldn’t wait for the movie to end, for Laurel and Tuck to leave.
But then, watching her laugh in the kitchen as Laurel attempted the lift, her eyes lighting up, her whole body alive with d
elight, I would have stayed in that moment all night. She shone and she was like a beacon to me.
I know I’ve gone past just helping her find answers, find out who she is. I have moved solidly into how do I keep Eve near me for the long haul.
I need help. I need answers, direction, I don’t want to push, and after last night, kissing Eve on the couch, I knew I could push her easily to welcome me into her bed. She responds with such passion and purity to my touch, I’m certain we will burn the house down when that moment comes.
But I know it would be wrong. She has a past. One that involves pain and mysteries. Mysteries that may involve others. A husband. A child. We don’t know. Starting something now would be irresponsible and completely unfair to Eve.
So, I’m keeping my promise. I had said I would go and talk to Dr. Leesing, and now, more than ever, I could use some impartial, non-judgmental advice.
* * *
Valerie welcomes me into her office like an old friend. Aside from seeing her around town and having been introduced at a summer function a few years back, I don’t know her. That’s small-town Kentucky though. Everyone knows everyone—if not directly, then through the grapevine. I know Ms. Leesing is divorced, no children, graduated from a fancy college in New York and lives in a big two-story home over on Ash street. I would bet good money the pretty doctor has a good idea of me as well. Of course, growing up here I have a thicker dossier for the grapevine to share.
“Nick, so good to see you again.” Valerie shakes my hand, gesturing with the other toward a couch against the far wall. “I’m glad you asked to see me. If you hadn’t called, I would have tracked you down to meet.”
“Oh?” This surprises me. Valerie is only five or six years my senior and quite attractive, but we don’t run in the same circles. I can’t think of a reason she would want to track me down.
