by A. J. Banner
“That is weird,” I say. “Did they ever find out who he was?”
“Some American guy with major problems. His ex-wife had remarried. He’d lost his job. Everything was going wrong. One theory is his brain reset itself. Wanted to start over.”
“The brain is a mystery,” I say, looking down into my coffee.
“Yours is a beautiful mystery.”
I feel another blush coming on. “This coffee is good . . . What is it?”
“Peet’s Gaia Organic.” He adds kindling, lighting a match to the crumpled paper. “But you stopped drinking coffee about two years ago.”
“Because we were trying to . . .?”
“Yeah. Start a family. You were off caffeine.” He takes a cloth from the firewood rack next to the woodstove, wipes the soot off his hands. He puts the cloth back on the rack.
“And now?” I grip the mug so tightly I’m afraid the handle might break. I wish I could remember wanting a family with him, but even sleeping with him would be like picking a random man off the street. A handsome, caring man, but a stranger.
“We’ll take our time. We can talk about it when you’re ready.”
“What if I’m never ready? What if I’m a different person now?”
“You’re not different. You just don’t remember who you really are.”
I peer into the dark liquid in my cup, but I see no answers there. “Thank you for filling me in.”
“I hope the pictures help, too.”
“More than anything.”
He sits beside me and reaches for one of the photo albums on the shelf beneath the coffee table. He tried showing me images on my computer, but if I stare at the screen too long my brain turns to mush. Dizziness slams into me, and nausea—the aftereffects of a head injury. Jacob assures me that these symptoms will subside over time. My inability to concentrate makes me want to throw the computer across the room.
I’ve gone through the printed photographs a few times since we arrived, dwelling on my childhood with wistful nostalgia, on images of my parents. My father, slightly chubby when he was young, sported a handlebar mustache, which he later shaved off. My mother was delicate-boned and perpetually cold, even in California. We fit squarely into the middle class in our modest stucco home on the Riviera in Santa Barbara. My mother taught high school math; my father mechanical engineering at the university. In an instant, their lives ended on that stormy night on Highway One, when their car skidded off the cliff and plunged into a ravine. They were heading north to Mendocino for their anniversary.
My parents are gone, but I remember them. I remember my childhood, my teen years. But when I flip to the pictures of Jacob and me, the ground slips away beneath me. I remember nothing. I do know the smell of him, a mixture of subtle, spicy cologne and his own indefinable scent. When he’s close to me, my heart beats faster. My nerve endings come to life when he places his hand on my arm to steady me. I love the way soft wrinkles form next to his eyes when he smiles. His habits echo with familiarity. He cracks his knuckles when he’s preparing to take on a task, like cooking a meal or going for a jog. He clears his throat when he’s thinking hard or trying to decide what to say. If I ask him to relate a particularly difficult emotional memory, he squints off into the distance before answering.
Here we are in Pike Place Market, perusing a produce aisle. A stranger must’ve taken the picture. We first met in front of the famous flying-fish counter. He caught a frozen salmon as it sailed through the air, almost hitting me in the face. Jacob to the rescue.
Even the pictures of Linny and me feel distant, since they were taken in these last foggy years. In one photo, she wades into the water at Alki Beach in West Seattle, releasing a giant Pacific octopus into the Puget Sound. I must’ve been the photographer cheering her on.
At least she keeps me sane by email. Her encouraging words are a breath of fresh air. You’ll be okay. You’ll rediscover your love for Jacob. Trust me.
I flip through an album of wedding pictures and mementos. I don’t recognize the guests in their formal attire, only Linny and Jacob. I taped a silver key onto a page, and I wrote the sentence below: You hold the key to my heart. Jacob did the same on the opposite page. I pressed dried white rose petals into the album, printed a wedding invitation, and included a delicate lace coaster from the reception dinner. Our wedding cake was a three-tiered affair with ocean-blue icing, covered in vanilla sea stars.
In another album labeled “Our Adventures,” Jacob printed photographs of us on hikes, dives, and outings in the city. On the second-to-last page, I stop at a photograph of Jacob and another man. I don’t remember seeing this one. But I must have. I’ve flipped through this album before. The two men are standing on a bluff trail with the sea stretching out behind them. Jacob’s in rain gear, but the other man is in a thick black turtleneck, hiking pants, and lace-up boots, as if the weather doesn’t bother him.
“Who’s that?” I say.
“That’s Aiden Finlay, buddy of mine. The three of us were hiking at Ebey’s Landing, on Whidbey Island. You took the picture.”
I took the picture. Aiden Finlay. The name echoes in a far recess of my mind. He looks vibrant, alive, with his ruddy cheeks, tousled dark hair, and a carefree expression. That expression. He’s offering his hand to help me down from a steep embankment. I see it now. I slipped in the mud. His hand felt warm, firm, steady. I fell into Aiden’s arms. He held me, and I could smell the damp wool of his sweater, the fresh soap on his skin. The fleeting image is so vivid it’s startling. I wanted him to hold on to me. A shot of adrenaline rushes through me, an interior tremor like the beginning of a tectonic shift.
Jacob inches closer to me, sending the memory skittering away. A headache claws at my temples. I get up and turn to the map on the wall, my back to Jacob. I’m afraid if he sees my face, he’ll know my secret. He’ll know I was attracted to Aiden. It’s as if my guilt is tattooed on my cheeks. But am I guilty of anything, really?
I focus on the map showing the archipelago of islands. San Juan Island lies at the southwest corner, Orcas Island to the northeast, surrounded by the other islands. Mystic Island is barely a dot just north of Patos and east of Saturna. It’s as if I’m looking at the constellations, and we live on a tiny star far removed from the others.
Jacob comes up next to me. “You’re not seeing all the islands on this map,” he says. “Not even all the named ones.”
“There are more?” I say.
“One hundred and seventy-two have been named, but there are four hundred and fifty islands in the San Juans.”
“Easy to get lost there.”
“People do. Especially when they’re looking for buried treasure.”
“You’re a fountain of information.”
“Mostly useless trivia.” He traces a line on the map between the islands, following a circuitous route. “That’s the ferry passage. The boat stops here and here.” He points to San Juan Island and Orcas Island. “A small ferry runs to Mystic. You have to take your own boat to the other islands.”
“And we wanted to have a family here in the middle of nowhere?”
“Nobody has to lock their doors here. We’re safe. Our children will be safe.”
Our children. What a peculiar thought. Did I want safety for them? Or did I want to step off the grid to escape reminders of Aiden? To arrest my own tendency to stray, the way an addict might enter a monastery? But that’s a stretch. Falling into Aiden’s arms does not mean I slept with him.
“How did you and Aiden meet?” I say.
“I knew him in college.”
“When did you introduce him to me?”
“I think it was about six months after you and I started dating—”
“You and I met at Pike Place Market. You bought me roses.”
“That was after I intercepted the fish. I told you.” His voice tightens.
“Sorry, right. You intercepted the fish. Then you bought me a bouquet of roses.”
“Your face li
t up when you smelled those flowers. I fell in love with you instantly. At first sight.”
“There’s no such thing,” I say.
“All I had to do was look at you. Then I couldn’t get you out of my mind.”
“Did I play hard to get?”
“You were cautious, yes. But I knew I wanted to marry you. The moment I met you, I planned to spend the rest of my life with you.”
“But you didn’t even know my personality.”
“Sure I did. I could see your personality in your intense gaze, your focus, your spontaneity. You burst into laughter when I bought you the flowers. But then you looked sad. You said you would rather see blooms on living plants. You hated seeing them wither and die. So I brought you a potted hydrangea on our first date.”
“I lucked out. You’re so romantic.”
“We had living plants at the wedding, too. Hydrangeas everywhere.”
“How lovely! Linny was my maid of honor, right? Aiden was your best man.”
He rubs the bridge of his nose. “I told you all of this already.”
“Thank you for being so patient. I’m trying to retain it all.” I want to scream at my faulty brain, but I sit on the couch again, feigning calmness. “I wish I could remember our wedding.” I know this weighs on him, my inability to recall the most important ritual in our history together.
“We could, you know . . . get married again,” he says.
“You mean go through the ceremony?”
“As best we can, here on the island, with our friends. A renewal of vows.”
“You would do that?”
“Absolutely. When you’re ready.”
“Tell me more about what we said to each other. We could repeat exactly the same things.”
“I recited a poem by E. E. Cummings.” He sits next to me and kisses my cheek with tenderness.
“ ‘I carry your heart with me,’ ” I say. The echo of a voice tickles my memory. i carry it in my heart . . .
“More like, ‘i like my body when it is with your body.’ ”
The heat rises in my neck. “We didn’t recite erotic poems at our wedding, did we?”
“No, but I wanted to.” He whispers in my ear. “ ‘I like your body. i like what it does.’ ”
I see the words the way they appeared on the page. I see Jacob handing me the paperback copy of E. E. Cummings erotic poems. An early birthday present, he says. The gift was charged with meaning. I’m flushed all over now. Flushed and flustered. I reach under the coffee table, grasping for a distraction, for the powder-blue baby album. I flip through the pages labeled, first words, first steps, weight, personality, handprint, footprint, and on and on. Empty pages, waiting to be filled. Inside the front cover, Jacob wrote in his neat script: The story of our child. He places his warm hand over mine. “We don’t have to look at this now. We have plenty of time.”
A tight ball of panic forms in my chest. “I want to know what we were planning. For a family. You say we tried to get pregnant.”
His lips turn down, and he looks off into the distance. “For several months.”
“But we didn’t succeed. I couldn’t, or you couldn’t?”
“There’s nothing physically wrong with either of us, if that’s what you mean.” Us, as if we are one person.
“When did we make the decision to try?”
“A couple of years ago. We talked about it a lot.” He smiles, and an endearing dimple appears in his right cheek. “We talked about everything. We both loved our jobs, so we decided to compromise. We figured I would work from home at least three days a week.”
“But how would that have been possible?”
“I’m the boss. I can make anything possible.”
“I don’t doubt it.”
“I was so ready to be a stay-at-home dad. I love children. I was so ready to . . .”
“What?”
“To make a baby with you.”
I can’t deny the electric charge every time he touches me. But I was also drawn to Aiden. I don’t yet understand the implications, or where the attraction went, if anywhere. But the photograph burns into my mind.
“I don’t remember.” My breathing is fast and shallow, and the tingling returns to my fingers.
“Hey, just breathe.” He takes the album from me and puts it away. “I knew we were rushing this.”
“I’ll be okay.” I take deep breaths.
“You should take up yoga again. You were good at it.”
“Yoga.” Here, let me show you the downward facing dog, I said to Jacob. He tried to imitate me, but he couldn’t push his heels down on the floor. “I remember teaching you a pose.”
He squeezes my hand. “That’s amazing. We should celebrate. What else do you remember?”
“Nothing else right now.”
He lets go of my hand. “I’ll make your favorite mushroom omelet. How about that? Go and take a long, hot shower. Forget about any worries.” We’ll go away and forget about all this, he whispered in my ear, long ago. Forget about all what?
In my room, my refuge, my breathing slows. The seashells I gathered on beach walks are lined up on the windowsill. They bring me comfort. Finger limpets, the elongated shell of a bivalve, the Northwest ugly clam. Entodesma navicula. The Northern slipper snail, which resembles a slipper when turned upside down. These are the former exoskeletons of living beings, remnants made of mostly calcium carbonate and only a little protein. These mementos hold silent reminders of my past, as does my purse in colorful printed seashells on pleated cotton fabric.
As I’ve done before, I turn the purse upside down and empty the contents on the bed. Sometimes I forget what I’ve found inside. Maybe I’ll discover a new clue to my past. The objects in a woman’s purse reveal a lot about who she is. Where did I hear that, or read it? I find natural lipstick. A small hairbrush. A tiny tube of lotion. A small bottle of hand cleanser. A gel pen. A keychain with no keys attached. The logo reads, Not all stars belong to the sky, with an image of a sea star. A slip of paper with a list: Haircut, Lingerie, Print ticket, Get you know what . . .
Why would I be so cryptic?
Inside my wallet, I find my driver’s license, three twenty-dollar bills, a debit card, some coins, a local library card, and my PADI Open Water scuba diving certification card. The logo on the bottom right shows a blue globe with a red diver swimming across the bottom in scuba gear. Birth date, certification date, and diver number. I’ve successfully completed the training to become an open water diver. Jacob, on the other hand, is a Master Diver. He’s qualified to teach.
I slip my fingers into the pocket behind the card holders. There’s another pocket, one I missed, hidden behind the first pocket. I reach inside and touch a flat, square package. It’s difficult to extract. But when I pull it out, I stare at it for a minute, confused. It doesn’t compute in my mind, and yet here it is. The shiny blue package is a Durex brand ultrathin latex condom.
The expiration date is three years from now. The package is unopened. But we were trying to get pregnant. Why would I hide a condom in my wallet? I couldn’t have used the condom with Jacob, if he wanted a child and I didn’t. A condom would require his complicity. If I wanted to prevent pregnancy, I would have gone on the pill or used a diaphragm or . . . what? What if I used the condom with another man? With Aiden? What if I had an affair? Or planned to have one?
If Linny were here, she would know what to do. I can hear her bossy advice in my head, across the miles. You were taking care of yourself, woman. Go with it. Linny, fiercely independent and adventurous, never married. What makes a woman so sure of herself? She has to know who she is, and to know who she is, she needs knowledge of her past. She remembers falling in and out of love, making a decision to marry or remain single. She remembers the choices that define her. But I don’t have that advantage.
This condom was a choice I do not recall. I drop the offending evidence into my purse, take off my wedding ring, and put it on the dressing table. May
be I have no right to wear it.
Outside, the sky has clouded over. In the sudden rush of rain, the expansive view disappears, and the world shrinks to the size of this room. A rhododendron branch scrapes the window like a fingernail scratching the glass. Jacob whistles softly in the kitchen. Pots and pans clank, water runs from the faucet, and the refrigerator door swings open and closed.
In the bathroom, I strip off my clothes. My body looks unfamiliar, thin and frail after weeks in rehab. As I turn on the shower, a vague image materializes through the mist, the faint, muscular outline of a man. He turns toward me—he’s Jacob, inviting me in. The thrill of anticipation soars through me.
I step into the shower, holding my breath, reaching for the memory, but he dissolves. As the hot water runs over my body, I try to conjure him again, but he’s gone. Through the translucent shower curtain, I can make out the vague shapes of the sink, the mirror, and the blue towels hanging on the rack. I pick up the soap, lather my skin, rinse off. The hot water soothes me.
“Kyra?” Jacob says, pushing the door half open. I can’t see him on the other side.
“Hey,” I say, my heartbeat kicking up.
“Omelet’s ready.” The door starts to close.
“Wait. Don’t go.” I turn off the shower.
“I’m still here.”
“Hand me a towel?”
He reaches in and hands me a towel.
I dry off, wrap the towel around me, and push the shower curtain aside. The room tilts, the floor rushing up to meet me. Jacob grabs my arm, holds me steady. “Whoa, you okay?”
“A little dizzy.”
He steers me to sit on the toilet. The air seems to ripple, the walls undulating. Nausea rises in my throat.
“Deep breaths,” Jacob says. “In through the nose, out through the mouth.” His soothing voice envelops me, and the room settles around me.
“I’m better now. I had a memory of us.”
I hear a catch in his breath. “What kind of memory?”
