by Nicole Snow
Something nudges my chin. Something with velvety fur and long pokey legs and breath like fish.
I’m eye to eye with the cat. “Savanny.”
The name just pops out of my mouth from nowhere.
Holy crap. I know that’s the cat’s name. It’s familiar. A play on the Savannah breed.
The little beast meows and headbutts my chin with her leathery nose again, big ears brushing my face, making this muffled, grinding purr.
“Savanny,” I say again, testing how the name just sticks.
She seems to remember, too.
This time the cat rubs my chin with the top of its head, firmer than before. I scratch the sweetness behind those big ears while searching my mind, wondering if I’m on a roll.
This amnesia schtick is getting old. I’m ready for my life to come back so I can get on with living.
I huff out a breath of frustration. Guess I was hoping for too much.
Yep, I know the cat’s name, but nothing else.
Just how?
How is that even possible?
Eyes closed, I concentrate on thinking, on remembering. Try until my head starts to hurt. I open my eyes again a minute later, sighing, knowing it’s no use.
Sadly, it looks like Flint and Dr. Ivers are right.
I can’t force my old self back.
Savanny starts purring louder. I smile because at least I remember this old routine, and scoop her up in my arms. Hmm, she’s lighter than I expected.
She’s rather large for a house cat, but slim and spindly on tall legs, so she can’t weigh a ton more than other felines. She swats playfully at a tuft of my hair while I admire the tawny color, the leopard spots, and those bat-like ears just screaming aww-dorable.
“If I know your name, why don’t I know more?” I ask the beast. “Were you my cat or Flint’s? Or did we get you together after we got married?”
No answer, of course—I’m not that crazy yet—she just looks up at me with big gold eyes.
Curious, I check the collar danging from her neck. There’s no name to confirm my memory, and the tag hanging under its chin seems more like...a medallion? It’s heavier than a standard pet tag, I think.
In fact, it looks like an emblem of sorts. There’s a beautiful black-crowned night heron embossed on the gold disk, complete with a tiny blood-red ruby for the eye.
Strange. A bird on a cat’s tag?
Poor bird.
Wait. How do I know that’s a black-crowned night heron?
Am I a birder watcher?
No, hummingbirds and ducks don’t feel like anything special. They aren’t significant. Not like this regal heron.
Why?
I’m doing it again. Making my head hurt.
Flint’s right, I’m trying too hard. And where is Flint?
His place beside me feels cool to the touch. Empty. Same for the room. He’s been gone well before I woke up.
Savanny scrambles out of my arms and jumps on the nightstand. I reach over, grabbing the base of the lamp so the cat doesn’t knock it off and stare harder at the clock.
It’s ten fifteen. It can’t be that late. I never sleep in.
Or do I?
Shaking my head, I shove aside the covers and flip my legs over the edge of the bed. The movement reminds me how achy and sore my body still is, how stiff lying around so much has made me. I stretch my arms over my head and twist, left then right, flinching as the muscles groan.
After a few head rolls to loosen up my neck muscles, I stand. I’m cautious until I’m sure my legs will support me, and then I lean over and touch my toes, stretching the muscles in my calves, back, arms, and hands.
Everything burns, but I hold the position for a full count of ten, knowing it’ll help me regain my strength.
Savanny jumps off the table and brushes up against the side of my leg, belting out a loud mew!
Not wanting to give myself a head rush, I rise slowly until I’m standing straight again. That’s when I notice a cell phone and a single slip of paper on the nightstand.
I pick up the paper and read.
Running a couple errands. Won’t be long.
If you need anything, just call.
Flint.
Setting down the paper, I pick up the phone and hold down the button on the side until the screen lights up. It’s newer, but also looks weirdly used. Only a few apps, too, the regular ones that come pre-installed. I click on the contacts icon and see one name.
Flint.
For a second, it bothers me. Why does this phone look like it’s been wiped, and the only person I’d ever need to call is my husband? Did my phone get wrecked in the accident?
Possibly.
I can’t think of anything I need, but have a strange urge to call and ask when he’ll be back.
An inkling of fear bubbles in my stomach. Anxiety is a heck of a thing, and the worst part is, I’m not even sure if I’m more anxious over this mystery phone or being so alone.
Still, I’m an adult, and Flint’s been nothing but kind and doting. I can be alone for a few minutes and trust him...can’t I?
I carry the phone to the bathroom. Savanny trots after me on long, stilted legs, and I tell myself I’m not alone when she’s with me.
We’ll wait here with our two bad selves until Flint comes home.
After using the bathroom, I wash my face and brush my hair, all the while telling myself over and over we’re fine.
Then the doorbell chimes.
Crud. We’re so not fine!
Shaking my head, I glance at the silky set of pj’s I’m wearing. Shorts and a button-up top. Light pink. Not something most people would answer the door in.
But what if it’s Flint? Maybe he forgot his key or something.
Savanny is already walking out the bathroom door. I follow, and along the way, spy a robe hanging next to the door and slip it on. A dark-blue velour material at least one size too big. I roll up the sleeves awkwardly while making my way through the enormous house.
This place commands respect in every glance, all soft earthy tones covering the walls and glistening wood floors. I can’t help wondering if I helped with the decorating. I truly admire each painting, every piece of furniture, the decorative pieces made of stone and monkey tree wood on the floating shelves.
It’s elegant, if a bit dark and overly masculine.
Still, the clean lines and open spaces are just homey. It’s a nice balance of classy and rustic, very Hawaiian and very modern. The perfect place to just be.
There’s a window on the front door covered with a tan curtain that’s sheer enough to see through.
It’s not Flint standing there, but a young boy with sandy-brown hair. Maybe in his preteens.
He sees me through the glass and grins.
I twist the knob, but it’s locked. Same for the deadbolt. Thankfully the manual controls still work, even though they’re the newfangled smart home stuff that can be accessed remotely with an app.
After fumbling around for a minute unlatching everything, I throw the door open.
“Can I help you?” I ask, looking down at the chubby kid.
“Hi!” he says. “My name’s Louie Stevens, and my Boy Scout troop is selling popcorn to fund our activities.” He swipes up a colorful ordering form. “We have, uh...popped and unpopped corn in many different delicious flavors. Even microwave packs! Wanna buy some?”
Before I can respond, he flips open the flyer and starts pointing at colorful pictures, explaining the type, amount, and cost. He’s obviously practiced his little dog and pony show many times because he’s talking a mile a minute, sucking in air every now and then so he doesn’t forget where he’s at in his spiel.
I can’t help but smile at how adorable he is. He even specifies which packages are the 'all-time gourmet bestsellers' on his order form.
Somehow, I doubt any gourmet chef ever slaved over freaking mass market popcorn, but he’s a good little salesman.
He’s still going
strong when a black truck whips into the driveway between two wrought iron gates. My heart skips a beat at the driver.
Flint. Good timing, maybe he’ll want to buy some.
Then a shiver rips up my spine. There’s a vicious scowl on his face when he jumps out of the truck and starts storming this way.
“What’s going on?” he growls at the boy. “Who’re you?”
“Louie Stevens!” the boy answers, his eyes going wide, backing up a step as Flint marches forward. “You know...fr-from up the road. M-my Boy Scout troop is, um...Mister?”
“He’s selling popcorn,” I tell Flint as the boy swallows hard.
Jeez.
Stepping forward to place a reassuring hand on Louie’s plump shoulder, I shoot Flint a glare before smiling back at the boy. “We’ll take two number fives, Louie.”
Flint keeps frowning, but he doesn’t look like he’s ready to impale a man anymore.
I still have no clue what gives.
Taking the brochure from Louie’s clammy little hand, I hold it out to Flint. I don’t even know what type of popcorn comes in the number five pack, but it’s another 'gourmet bestseller,' supposedly.
Flint takes the flyer, glances at it quickly, nodding his head.
“Two number fives,” I repeat, this time aimed at Flint.
“You, um...you can pay when I deliver it,” Louie says meekly, swallowing. “I’m friends with Bryce.”
“Put us down for two number fives and two number tens,” Flint says, digging out his wallet. He hands the paper back to Louie. “I’ll pay you now, no problem. Did you open the gate?”
Louie nods.
“Mind if I ask how?” Flint studies him. There’s still a gentle edge in his voice, but it looks like he’s come back to his senses over...whatever that was.
“I’m sorry, Mister! Bryce showed me once. He said drop by anytime and I guess I just...dropped by.”
Flint’s face softens the first time this kid says the name Bryce, and again when he mentions it a second time. Of course, the name doesn’t mean anything to me. I can’t remember any names besides Savanny, who sits by my feet, swishing that long spotted tail at the ground.
“Thanks, Louie,” Flint says, passing him cash for the popcorn. “Didn’t mean to growl at you. Say hi to your folks for me.”
Louie nods, takes the cash, and then sprints down the steps, the sidewalk, and the driveway.
I’m sure he keeps running long after he passes through the gate.
“Jesus. You scared him half to death with the way you flew in here, huffing and puffing.” I’m shocked because I’d never seen this side of Flint. Not that I remember, anyway. “Where’s your aloha?”
He rakes a hand through his thick hair, a dangerously sexy mess despite how annoyed I am with him. “Don’t know, Val. Just misplaced it. Didn’t mean to bark shit at the kid.”
I side-eye him again. There are a lot of things I can’t recall, but I know a little aloha spirit goes a long way on all the islands. Hawaiians strive to treat everyone with kindness, love, and respect, whether we’re born and raised here or just transplants.
Sure, this state has its share of jackasses just like anywhere else. But it’s the principle of the thing.
It’s what makes this place a little more beautiful and welcoming to visitors and residents alike.
Honestly, I’m not even sure why his freak-out peeves me so much, but I get the funny feeling it’s an integral part of me. Something I believe in, deep down.
“Whether you meant to or not, I don’t get it. You treated him like a masked bandit trying to break in,” I tell him, folding my arms. “What gives?”
“I overreacted, yeah,” he says, clicking a button on his key fob and looking past me out the door. The gates slowly close in the distance while he watches. “Guess because I’d locked the gates, and my phone pinged me they were open when I was a block away, I feared the worst. Thought something happened to you. Maybe you’d wandered off or...or, fuck, maybe someone broke in.”
I cock my head, wondering who’d possibly be crazy enough to break-and-enter this place. But the stern flicker in his eyes tells me he’s deadly serious.
My heart softens at his concern. Misplaced or not, it’s absolutely real. “No need to fret. I’m still in one piece, and I didn’t wander off to get abducted by aliens.”
Flint snorts, fighting back a grin. “I’d kick their asses if they took you. Martians are a big improvement over Satan, honey.”
Biting back my own smile, I shake my head. “You’re crazy. Little Louie was just selling popcorn, one of those silly fundraisers kids his age always do.”
“No shit. I know that now,” Flint says, a bit sheepishly. “Give me a second. Got a few things to bring in from the truck.”
“Do you need any help?” I ask as he walks toward it.
“Nah, thanks, go on inside. I’ll pull into the garage.”
He still sounds kinda grumpy.
Probably because I’d chastised his caveman act. Can’t say I regret it, though. The poor kid will probably be too scared to ring any door bells for the rest of the day.
I’ve never been a big fan of how these programs turn kids into mini sales teams, but I get how they need money to fund their activities, always running on shoestring budgets.
There it is again, another odd little thing I know.
Why do I remember such peculiar stuff like how middle school fundraisers work, but nothing important?
Maybe that’s the way this works, the little things coming first?
No clue. I’ve never had amnesia before—not that I remember.
Another question for Cash Ivers, I guess, lame jokes aside.
I shake my head again, this time at myself, and step into the house, holding the door while Savanny bolts inside. As we walk through the living room, I take a few seconds to appreciate the tan, plush leather furniture and bamboo coffee table and end tables topped with frosted glass. The monkey wood pieces and matching finishes really make this house pop.
A matching shelf sits in front of the huge set of windows overlooking the front yard. Several potted plants, books, and large seashells sit on the five glass shelves like they’re meant for each other.
How tranquil. That’s the best word for this home.
I wonder if my life has always been so peachy. Or was it the opposite, and that’s why I’m so appreciative of my surroundings now?
A chill runs through me, wondering if it’s the latter. But I won’t let myself dwell on it. Not now.
Hearing a door, I continue on to the kitchen. Flint sets several bags on the center island.
“How’d you sleep?” he asks.
“Oh, just fine. I woke up a little while ago.” I lean across the island countertop and grasp the top of a bag. “Just in time to hear Louie’s sales pitch.”
Flint grins. “Hope you like popcorn. We just bought a year’s supply.”
I grimace. “Oh, crap. That much?”
“Close enough,” he chuckles. “Guess we’ll find out how much popcorn a hundred and twenty bucks is when he delivers it.”
“A hundred and twenty bucks on popcorn?” I’m not sure if that’s a normal thing or not.
It feels like money doesn’t mean that much to me, or hasn’t in a while. Or maybe I’ve just never bought an expensive mess of popcorn from a Boy Scout before.
“The number fives were forty bucks each, plus the rest. Shit adds up,” Flint says.
I shrug. “He said they were bestsellers. Gourmet. So...it must be delish, right?”
Flint laughs again, his blue eyes twinkling. I’m mesmerized by how handsome he is again. He’d been so upset earlier, mad enough to scare poor Louie.
He’d been worried for me. I can forgive that. And I guess I can see why I fell in love with him at some point.
He’s a man of strong convictions, hardheaded and righteous. There are worse things to be, even if it leaves him rough around the edges.
He folds up one of
the shopping bags. I remember I’d been about to peek inside the other one.
“So what’d you make the run for? Anything good?”
Unfolding the top, I see it’s full of cat food. Several varieties. Enough cans to make the Tinman blush.
“What the...is this all for Savanny?” I ask before he can answer.
“Savanny?” His brows furrow.
I nod at the cat sitting on the floor. “I remembered her name. I’m right, aren’t I?”
“Yeah, Savanny. That’s his name,” Flint answers, staring at the gangly beast as it twines through my legs first, and then his.
“His?” I shoot him a questioning look.
“Yup. That cat’s got a set of balls bigger than I’ve seen in some locker rooms.”
Oh. Holy crap, he’s right.
One glance tells me how wrong I’ve been this whole time.
“Hey, at least I figured it out before I took him shopping for heels or something.” Smiling, I start unloading the bag of dry cat food plus the haul of cans.
Flint grins. I wonder if he really finds me funny. “You remember anything else, or what?”
“No. It just popped into my head when he was with me on the bed this morning. I tried to remember more but...you know how it goes. Just his name. Little bites, I guess.” An image flashes in my mind, blending the dried food with the canned stuff, and Savanny gobbling it up happily. “Where’s his bowl? I’ll mix him up some lunch.”
Flint opens a cupboard and passes me a bowl. Shrugging, he says, “I just ran them through the dishwasher.” He takes out a second bowl and fills it with water.
I open a can, dump the meat mush in the bowl, and then tear open the bag and pour some of the hard food over the top. “Spoon?”
“Second drawer,” Flint says. “Want some eggs?” He holds up a box. “Or a malasada?”
My stomach growls with excitement.
“Definitely a malasada.” My mouth waters. I love those things. “Custard?” I ask hopefully.
“Damn straight, plenty of variety. Still warm, right off the truck. Those guys in town don’t fuck around with baked goods.”
“Yum!” I set the cat food on the floor, climb up on a stool, and open the pink pastry box he sets down. I’m so ready for this I don’t even laugh at how crude he talks about...well, everything.
