by Sheila Lowe
e l e v e n
Driving away from Dr. Gold’s office, it felt to Jenna—she stubbornly clung to the name—as if she were leaving the safety of an oasis. Her head was throbbing like a drum. No, more like an entire steel band.
She had been unable to bring herself to share with Dr. Gold what she experienced in her hypnotic state. Upon opening her eyes, she had mentally folded the scene in a tight little package and locked it away in the furthest recesses of her mind.
Did the car accident cause the amnesia?
Of course it did. What else could it have been?
In any case, Dr. Gold’s presence had been comforting, something solid to hold on to. She was grateful that he had not pressed her to talk about why she emerged from hypnosis shaking and sobbing, or why she refused to tell him what she had experienced. He had handed her tissues and the glass of water, assuring her that he would stick with her and help her work through the events that had resulted in her memory loss.
Before she left his office, Dr. Gold had arranged for her to return on Saturday to meet Claudia Rose and her detective friend. Jenna was frankly curious to meet the woman who had analyzed her handwriting. Would she remember Claudia? Or would her face be as unknown to her as all the other faces in the world? She had not remembered meeting Dr. Gold.
As she signed the release for Dr. Gold to discuss her case with Claudia, it seemed one more cruel irony that aside from the signatures on her driver’s licenses and credit cards, Jenna had no idea what her own handwriting should look like. Beyond ironic, it was downright spooky that after analyzing her handwriting, Claudia already knew more about her personality than Jenna herself did.
Traffic through Santa Monica and Pacific Palisades was rush-hour heavy back to Coast Highway. At Chautauqua the light turned yellow and the minivan in the lane ahead of her surged into the intersection. Its back wheels were already across the white line when the driver changed his mind about running the light and hit the brakes.
Jenna’s foot automatically shifted to the brake pedal. The Nissan’s tires burned rubber, squealing to a halt just kissing distance from the minivan’s rear bumper. The driver behind her laid hard on the horn, his own tires squealing, too.
In a flash she was Jessica, back on the dark mountain road, staring into the driver’s malignant scowl; unbuckling her seatbelt and turning to comfort the crying child. She felt the impact of slamming into the semi, the sensation of flying.
This time, there was no Dr. Gold to recall her to safety.
A madwoman was screaming.
Then, abruptly, she was back, halfway into the Nissan’s backseat, clawing her way to rescue a child that did not exist. The screams registered as her own.
The traffic light had cycled to green. The blaring horns emanated from the line of impatient motorists backed up behind her. If a cop saw her she would get a ticket for obstructing traffic.
Or for being crazy.
Shut up. Shut up. Shut up!
The motorist behind her had climbed out of his car and was striding toward her. Jenna twisted back into the driver’s seat and hit the gas. The Nissan launched across the intersection.
She drove a few miles, pulling onto the dirt shoulder as soon as she could find an empty spot. Her throat was raw from screaming. A pall of misery had seeped into her very bones.
Not caring whether she ever made it back to the apartment, she sat there for a long time at the side of the road, trying to escape the terrible sense of impotence. She could not bring herself to think of it as home.
Hours later, Jenna lay in bed, staring at the ceiling long into the night, the accident scene endlessly looping in her head: the car veering off the road, plunging down the hillside. The soaking rain. The utter despair of knowing that she was helpless to prevent what was going to happen next. She told herself that she shouldn’t have let Dr. Gold hypnotize her; that she would have been better off not seeing those images.
The accident she had witnessed in her trance state felt more like a dream, not something from a waking memory. Yet, somehow, it felt real, too.
How can it be both?
The late summer air was warm and heavy, but she drew the covers up over her head and curled up like a fetus, as if that could protect her from the nightmare she had just escaped. When at last exhaustion overcame her, she dropped into a troubled sleep, waking sometime later, sweating, from a dream.
She knew she had not been dreaming about the accident, so what was it? Lying still in the dark, waiting for her pulse to return to normal, she tried to remember.
Little by little, images oozed back: men in dark clothing grabbing at her. A big hand covering her mouth, muffling her cries for help. It felt all too real in the same way the car wreck felt real. Who were those men? Neither was the driver of the car in her hypnotic state.
If the car accident was the cause of the amnesia as she had begun to believe, what part did the men in her dream play? Or were they a creation of her imagination, a symbol of the sick fear that lived within her every moment, waking and sleeping? And what about the powerful person who wanted to kill her? Had she told Dr. Gold the truth about that?
Why would I lie?
Why don’t you know who the hell you are?
She threw back the covers and rolled out of bed. She washed her face, drank some water, wandered the apartment, trying to familiarize herself with the place.
Outside the kitchen window the sky was a striped blanket of orange, red, and steel blue. Too early to get dressed. No TV to take her mind off thoughts that chased each other like rats around a maze.
Turning on the computer, she Googled BioNeutronics Laboratories, where according to the badge in the zebra purse she was employed. She learned that human biology figured prominently in the laboratory’s universe. Words like DNA, karyotyping (she made a mental note to look that one up) sexually transmitted diseases, genetics, human behavior.
Eventually, she fell back into bed and lay there unmoving, as if her immobility might generate the memories that refused to come. Counting backwards from one hundred, she drifted off somewhere between sixty and fifty. Jarred awake again. Drifted off again, and again.
Around the fourth or maybe it was the fifth awakening, she made a decision. Somewhere among all the missing pieces she had discovered a stubborn streak of courage. Whether or not she ever recovered the life she had lost, she was not going to be beaten into submission by whatever or whoever had put her in this untenable position.
At six o’clock, the bedside alarm was a rude intrusion into the seesaw between restless sleep and troubled wakefulness. Her plan was to rise early and show up at BioNeutronics Laboratories.
Could she pull off going to an unfamiliar building with which she should be accustomed, and interact with people she was supposed to know, but who would be strangers to her?
The neat-as-a-pin lineup of petite business suits in the closet showed good taste and at least a degree of compulsiveness in the way they were hung according to color. She chose a navy blue skirt and jacket ensemble that she particularly liked and laid them out on the bed.
Testing out a tentative smile in the mirror, she was pleased to find the image that looked back at her was beginning to feel more familiar. She aimed the hair dryer at the short hair and fluffed it up. Her fingers touched the scar behind her ear.
Was there really a car wreck, or is my imagination filling in the gaps?
If there had been no wreck, why would her mind have produced that particular scene under hypnosis? The heartbreaking cries of the child in the backseat echoed in her head.
“No! We’re not going there.” She spoke the words out loud to cover up the sounds. Instinct told her that otherwise, the pain would be more than she could manage.
You can’t pretend forever.
Says who?
Denial is not just a river in Egypt.
Why don’t you shut up.
With a decisive snap, she switched off the argument in her head and turned her mind back to the jo
b. According to her badge, she was known at BioNeutronics as Jenna Marcott.
Jenna. Jessica. Jessica. Jenna.
Which one am I? Both?
Why not just tell them you don’t know?
No!
The strength of her reaction startled her. She thought about the nightmare that had woken her in the night, about the men attacking her in the dream. And she wondered what had happened to Jessica Mack.
t w e l v e
From the street, the BioNeutronics Laboratories resembled a warehouse, an anonymous concrete and glass facade that would not catch the attention of thieves looking for drugs. No outside signs advertised the building’s tenants.
Uncertain at first whether she had found the right place, Jenna drove into the parking lot and double-checked the address on the entry doors at the rear of the building.
It was seven-fifteen when she parked next to a black Mercedes CLS. With the employee ID badge around her neck she strode across the lot pretending to know where she was going and entered the building.
The lobby was blessedly empty. She bypassed the vacant security desk and went straight to the wall directory next to the elevators. According to the listing, BioNeutronics Laboratories shared the building with an assortment of financial advisers, lawyers, and therapists who had space on the first floor. The lab’s offices comprised the second and third floors. The research lab proper was in the basement.
Jenna was still asking herself what would come of this insane gamble as she pressed the button for the second floor. She had not found an answer by the time the elevator doors opened onto a reception area.
Facing the elevator was a semicircular desk with a high counter. A nameplate on the ledge said the attractive young woman sitting behind it was Keisha Johnson.
Despite the chic outfit she wore, a mop of bronze Orphan Annie corkscrew curls lent her a pixyish appearance.
As Jenna walked toward her, Keisha Johnson’s beautifully manicured eyebrows shot up; her mouth a big O of surprise. She jumped up and leaned her elbows against the counter, making a twirling motion with her index finger. “Look at you, girl! Turn around, show me the back.”
And as Jenna, understanding that Keisha must be referring to what Zach had said was a new haircut, pivoted in a slow circle, the receptionist said, “It’s friggin’ awesome!”
“Glad you like it,” Jenna replied with a shy smile.
“You killed it.” Keisha dropped back into her chair. “I wonder what Simon’s gonna say. He’s trippin’. That man does not know how to function when you’re not here to hold his little hand.”
Simon. Jenna let go of the breath she was holding. Knowing her boss’ name answered one important question. But like the ball bearings in a pinball game, a dozen more caromed around her brain:
How will I know him? Where do I go? What am I supposed to do?
And How could you be so stupid to think you could pull this off?
“Is he here yet?” asked Jenna.
“Oh, yeah. He beat me in.” Keisha lowered her voice and threw Jenna a knowing glance. “He’s in the lunchroom, trying to figure out how to pour himself a cup of coffee.
He—” She broke off as a door behind her opened. Keisha tipped her head back and flashed a smile full of innocence at the man who stuck his head around. “Oh, there you are, Dr. Lawrie. We were just talking about you. Look who’s back.”
The ground seemed to slip away under Jenna. Of all the mind-shattering bombshells she had lived through in the past thirty-six hours, this one registered a ten on her personal Richter Scale.
The man Keisha had identified as Simon Lawrie stared across the desk at her, looking as stunned as Jenna felt. He was clean-shaven now, sporting an elegantly tailored white shirt and conservative tie, but she had no trouble recognizing the George Clooney looks, the sensuous lips of the man in the torn photo she had pieced back together. The man whose size 42 Long suit was hanging in her bedroom closet. The man Zach had referred to as ‘Mr. Mystery.’
She recognized the instant he recovered his composure. “Jen! I didn’t expect—I mean, I didn’t think you were coming back...today.”
What did it mean that she saw relief in his eyes?
This must be what it felt like to have an out of body experience. She struggled to pull herself back into her head and find something intelligent to say. All that came out was an awkward mumble. “I uh, figured it was time I got back to work.”
Simon Lawrie turned to the receptionist, who was following the exchange with undisguised interest. “Coffee please, Keesh. My office.”
He turned back to Jenna, not quite looking her in the eye. “Let’s go. We’ve got some catching up to do.”
With a secret smirk at Jenna, Keisha rose, smoothing down the tight skirt of her gunmetal grey suit, and exited through the door Simon Lawrie had just entered.
Not sure whether she was supposed to follow, Jenna hesitated. Then Simon Lawrie was holding the door open, looking at her expectantly. Rounding the reception desk, she entered a long corridor with closed doors on either side.
Simon fell into step beside her, saying nothing. They passed the lunchroom door where Keisha had veered off.
Simon’s long strides meant that Jenna had to hurry to keep up with him. She would have to wait until later to study the series of framed posters that lined the hallway walls, advertising BioNeutronics’ accomplishments.
They boarded another elevator, where Simon swiped a card key to access the third floor. As if there were a tacit agreement between them to wait for the privacy of his office before they spoke, the elevator rose in silence. Simon stared up at the floor indicator as if they were two strangers, which in Jenna’s mind they were, but should not be in his.
If it were not so tragic it might have been comical. Five minutes earlier, her biggest worry had been how she would find her work area. Now she was fretting over how she was supposed to deceive a man with whom it appeared she was intimately acquainted. And the bigger question—why did she feel compelled to deceive her lover?
The few inches between them yawned as wide as a football field, but her need to understand about the torn photograph had just gone from a slight tickle to an obsessive itch that demanded scratching.
What happened to our relationship?
I should tell him that I don’t remember him.
No!
Why not?
Just....no.
On the third floor, Simon stopped at a door whose brass nameplate bore his name and the title, “Director.” Next to it, another door, this one with Jenna’s name and ‘Assistant to the Director’ on a markedly less grand nameplate. Sliding his card key through the reader, he opened the door and stepped aside.
Jenna entered, ducking past him like a truant called to the principal’s office, Simon following close on her heels. She scarcely had time to take in the tasteful furnishings—the Persian rug, the sofa that would have been at home in a luxury salon, the polished conference table, the floor-to-ceiling windows that gave on a panoramic view that terminated at the horizon over the Pacific Ocean.
Simon kicked the door shut and closed the few feet between them. Edginess crackled off him, an electrical current, as he wrapped her in his arms and whispered into her hair, “Thank God. Thank God you’re safe.”
Jenna could feel his heart hammering as hard as if he had just run a marathon. Crushed against his chest, the frantic pressure of his fingers on her arms shocked her. She pushed away, trying to put some space between them, and protested, “You’re hurting me.”
Immediately, he relaxed his hold. “God, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to...” As if he were afraid that she might disappear, his hands stayed on her arms. “I just—I didn’t know—I was scared...”
Shrugging free of his grasp, Jenna took a step back and looked up at him. “What did you think?”
“What did I think? Where have you been?” The question was more than a simple request for an answer. It held a fierce heat, hinting at dark emotions sim
mering just below the surface
Her body had not responded to his touch. There should at least have been a physiological response. From the intimacy of Simon’s eyes on her body, they must have made love countless times. Surely she should feel something for this man who had apparently hurt her so deeply that she had destroyed their beautiful photograph.
She tried to convince herself that she recognized his woodsy cologne, but the faint scent of wild thyme and tangerines were foreign to her.
The sharp tick-tick of high-heeled shoes in the corridor came to a halt outside the door and saved her from having to find an immediate answer. There was a knock, and Keisha’s voice called out, “Incoming.”
With a muttered oath, Simon spun on his heel and strode to the big window at the rear of the office. Jenna took a deep breath to steady herself and went to admit the receptionist.
Keisha entered holding a small tray with two mugs and accoutrements. “Here you go, hon. Hot tea with honey for you, ‘cause you look like you could use it. And your coffee, Doc. Conference table or desk?”
“Desk,” Simon snapped as if he’d forgotten that he had asked for the coffee. Keisha splashed cream into his mug and stirred in a package of sweetener, then sashayed out, giving Jenna one of her arch winks before closing the door behind her.
What does he think happened to me?
As if she had spoken her thoughts aloud Simon turned and saw her looking at him. “Where were you, Jenna?” he asked again, striding across the room to her. “I was out of my mind. I didn’t know what—I thought—”
“What did you think?”
Taking one of the guest chairs at his desk, Jenna picked up the mug of tea and brought it to her lips. Handsome though he was, Simon Lawrie was a stranger to her and she could not pretend that she wanted his hands on her.
