Toronto Collection Volume 2 (Toronto Series #6-9)

by Heather Wardell

  "Want to try?"

  "I can't make my foot. It'd be way too hard."

  "What's the worst that could happen? A little wasted clay. Get down here."

  I slip off the couch while he fetches more clay, then he shows me how to use the various tools to remove different amounts of clay to get at what I want to create. When I've got the basic idea, he says, "Go to it. Make your foot."

  I've been watching his hands on the tools and so I say, "I'd actually rather make your hand. You've got gorgeous ones." He does, big and strong, with a few nicks from the tools that only add character, and I'd like to keep looking at them. He's clearly a man, not a boy like the guys I knew at school, and looking at him reminds me that since I'm older than him I am a woman not a girl.

  He clears his throat. "Sure, if you want." He rests his left hand on his knee and I look back and forth between it and the clay. He gives me tips on how to proceed but doesn't take over or do any of it himself, and I work away for ages, gradually turning my lump of clay into something that resembles his hand. It's not even close to perfect, and it takes me forever to carve out one finger and his thumb, but I love doing it. I love watching as his right hand keeps perfecting the toes of his sculpture too. Different from doing it myself but still fascinating.

  When my stomach growls, I look at the watch Hannah gave me. "It's six o'clock! Where'd the time go?"

  Jake laughs. "That's called 'being in the zone', Kate. Best part of being an artist."

  I smile at him, then we both have the same idea at once.

  He begins, "Maybe--" but I talk over him. "Yeah, maybe I am an artist. I did take art in grade nine, I remember. I liked it but I wasn't very good. But maybe things changed. Maybe it's my career now." I glance at my still rather poor effort. "I'm sure not a sculptor, but maybe I do some other kind of art. You think?"

  "I do. So we should go to lots of different art shows and things. See if anything sparks a memory for you."

  He sounds nearly as excited as I feel at the idea of figuring out some part of my past, and I'm touched by his support. "You're so sweet, Jake. I'd love to do that."

  Our eyes meet and something sparks between us. My mind is still struggling with the lost years but my body knows it's an adult, and apparently it knows Jake is one too. A cute one.

  Without looking away, he puts his clay-flecked hand over mine. "I'll take you out tomorrow. Deal?"

  Most definitely.

  *****

  Over the next two weeks, we go out a lot, to everywhere Jake can think of and a few places I find on a Toronto tourism web site. We visit the ceramics museum and every art gallery we can find and even the Science Centre, go shopping at the Eaton Centre and take a brisk walk along the waterfront, eat everything from Lebanese food to crepes.

  And not a single thing brings back anything I've forgotten.

  I remember going to the Science Centre as a kid, my giggling classmates and I trailing our frustrated teacher, and I even remember some of the layout of the place. I remember being at the Eaton Centre with my mom. But I remembered all that when Jake suggested we go. My old memories are fine, but those fifteen years are still gone.

  I began the two weeks like Jake did, filled with excitement and hope that we'd find my past. He's still got most of his enthusiasm, but mine has faded away. Sometimes I think Hannah's calming herbals are the only things keeping me from bursting into tears and slumping to the floor never to get up again.

  On Saturday afternoon, three weeks after my appearance in Jake's life, he ushers me back into the apartment after visiting yet another art gallery. "Okay, so that didn't do much. I was thinking tomorrow we could check out--"

  I turn on him. "There's no point. We have been everywhere and we might as well be in a foreign country for all the good it did. I just don't remember anything. We've tried everything. It's not happening. There's no point in going somewhere else. It's all gone, I can't... can't..."

  I can't keep talking.

  Jake turns me toward him then slides both arms around me and pulls me close. We've hugged a few times when I felt overwhelmed touring the city, and held hands as we hurriedly jaywalked across a particularly busy street, but there's a strength and confidence in his hold on me that wasn't there before. I think Jake's getting used to touching me.

  I'm certainly getting used to it. I burrow into his chest without thinking, winding my arms around his waist, and let myself cry.

  He smooths my hair gently. "Come on, Kate. It's okay. We'll find where you belong."

  A twinge of confusion slips through me. I feel like I belong here, in Jake's arms. If we find what I've lost, then maybe I'll have to go away. I don't want to.

  But Jake's thought of that too. He snuggles me closer and says softly, "Whenever you belong, I hope I get to keep seeing you."

  "You will," I mumble into his shirt, tightening my arms around him. I'll make sure he does.

  We stand together until I stop crying, and for quite a while after that. His embrace feels so good. I only remember hugging a few guys, and kissing one, but I feel sure that whatever I've forgotten can't be as nice as cuddling with Jake.

  Eventually, he gives me a squeeze and sets me a little away from him. "Ready for dinner? I was thinking pizza."

  "Sounds good."

  He orders while I fetch our laundry from his building's basement laundry room, and when I come back I say, "Where were you going to suggest we go next? You said something before I got upset."

  He seems to be thinking, and I figure he's forgotten, but then he says, "Never mind. Probably a dumb idea."

  "You don't have any dumb ideas."

  He laughs. "That's sweet. Misguided and dead wrong, but sweet. You really want to know?"

  "For sure."

  He pulls me down to sit beside him on the couch and digs in his jeans pocket then hands me a wrinkled sheet of paper. I unfold it to see an advertisement for a local talk show that's seeking interesting stories. I read it over twice then look up at him. "You want me to go on TV?"

  He tilts his head from side to side. "I don't know, I thought it might help. Get people to see you."

  A shudder tears through me from somewhere deep inside, a place where I feel sick and awful at his suggestion. "I don't want people to see me."

  His brow furrows. "Why not? Someone will know where you belong."

  He's right and yet I don't want to do it. "It's creepy. All that attention? I shouldn't have that much attention."

  Jake puts his hand on my shoulder. "Kate, I don't understand."

  I sigh. "Me either. I know, it makes sense to get as much publicity for me as we can, but I just hate the idea. I can't do it."

  "Take some time to think about it. You might have to suffer through it to--"

  I stand up, his hand slipping from my shoulder as I do, and glare down at him. "I do not have to do anything. The show horrifies me so I won't do it. Don't think you're making all the decisions here."

  His eyes widen, and mine do too. I didn't sound anything like myself. I sound like... I don't even know what. Like someone in complete control.

  "Okay." He takes my hand. "Okay. Sit down. It's up to you and of course I won't try to make you. I never intended to do that."

  I sink back to the couch and he says, "Wow. You went totally different there. I wonder if you're a politician or something. Or the CEO of a company. You just got this 'boss addressing her underlings' tone. I think I was a little afraid of you for a second."

  I lean against his shoulder, still holding his hand. I don't want to tell him how furious I'd been at him, how the mere suggestion that he knew better than I did had made me want to punch him, how disgusted the idea of the show had made me feel. "I'm a little afraid of me too."

  Chapter Seven

  "Are you sure you don't mind?" Hannah looks back and forth between me and Jake then grins when we both nod. "Great, thanks. I haven't shown anyone and I'm so excited about it. I'll go print it."

  She disappears into her bedroom and J
ake calls after her, "I didn't think you were serious about starting your own business."

  She sticks her head out as the printer begins to grind. "Really? I thought it was obvious. I give everyone I meet fashion consultations, I've even helped random women in stores, and..." She gestures at her bookshelf, which I notice holds tons of books on marketing and sales and business planning. "I bought half of those with you."

  Jake just shrugs. While I like Jake, as a friend and maybe as something more, I've come to realize that he's not a noticing kind of guy. I wore Hannah's clothes for a full two days before he saw I had new outfits. I'm lucky he noticed me at the bar and took care of me.

  Hannah looks disappointed but just says, "Well, I'm becoming a fashion consultant. And I'll show you how in a minute."

  "I think you'll do a great job," I say, and she smiles at me before going to get the printout.

  I do think she will. When Jake and I went shopping that afternoon I used the advice she'd given me as we assembled outfits to buy a purple sweater and dark blue jeans that really make me look good. She's got a great eye for color and shapes.

  We've hung out at least once a week over the six weeks since we met, and I've come to like her despite our rough start. I suppose she was right to be worried about her friend taking up with some random girl he met drunk and clueless at a bar, and especially right when it's pretty obvious to me now that she has a crush on Jake. He, unsurprisingly, doesn't seem to have noticed, but I have. She smiles at him, touches his arm when she talks, sits a little close on the couch.

  In short, she treats him the same way I do.

  She comes out with her business plan in her hand and gives us each several sheets of paper, then settles onto her beanbag chair with her own copy. "Okay, let me know what you think. I put a ton of time into it but it's hard to see my own mistakes. Tell me if you think it'll work."

  I'm not sure I can help much, but I owe her so I begin working through the plan anyhow.

  Halfway through the first paragraph, I notice she's expecting seventy percent of her clients to refer their friends, which seems high. The next sentence has unrealistic hopes for returns on advertising. Not wanting to throw little things at her as I go, I say, "Can I make notes on this copy?"

  She blinks. "Is it that bad?"

  "Not at all. I just figured I'd tell you everything at the end."

  She doesn't look soothed by this but gets me a pen.

  Jake is finished the three-page document by the time I reach the end of the first page. "Looks good to me, Hannah. Maybe I should be your first customer. Get myself some style."

  I look up and smile, but it freezes on my face when she laughs and tugs at his omnipresent Hogs t-shirt, letting her fingers brush his arm as she does. "I don't take hopeless cases, and anyone with as much sports-related clothing as you is probably hopeless." She has every right to flirt with him, of course, but I don't have to like it.

  They banter back and forth, teasing each other about useless consultants and slovenly men, but I return my focus to the plan and soon don't even notice them. The core is good but there's so much wrong with the details. I scribble corrections and suggestions in the margins and even on the back of a sheet, and I'm on the last page when Hannah says, "God, Kate, are you writing a novel?"

  "One second." I don't want to forget the latest thing I noticed. I get it all written down then shake out my aching hand and say, "No. Just a few things."

  Jake takes my pages and flips through them. "I don't know what any of this means, but you wrote a lot. Are you sure about all this?"

  "Yeah," I say, surprised. "Why wouldn't I be?"

  Hannah retrieves my work from Jake and skims it, her eyes widening and her face paling as she goes. When she's finished, she lets the papers fall to her lap and breathes, "You're so right. All of it. Every last comment makes sense." She shakes her head. "I don't understand. How'd you do that?"

  "I don't know," I say, as confused as she sounds. "It all came into my head as I was reading, and it just seemed right."

  "Did you take business at university?"

  I raise my eyebrows and she says, "Yeah, right, you don't know. In high school?"

  "Definitely not. I remembering taking music and art." I smile at Jake. "We know I'm not a sculptor, though." My model of his hand now has five fingers but they're still lumpy and misshapen.

  He smiles back. "I'm afraid not."

  My amusement fades and I rub my forehead. "So where did all that come from?"

  Jake takes hold of my wrist. "Remember yesterday? I said you were probably a CEO."

  Hannah looks like she feels left out, so I tell her how Jake suggested I go on television and how horrified I was at the idea, and Jake ends the story for me with, "I thought she was going to fire me. Or have me killed. She just lit up with power somehow."

  Hannah nods slowly, then says, "As a side note, the TV thing makes sense to me too."

  I take a breath to reply and she says, "Don't kill me, I get that you don't want to. I just figure it can't hurt to get some exposure."

  "People die of exposure," I snap back, the quick retort popping to my lips like I've said it a hundred times before, then my anger shimmers away and I shake my head. "Guys, this is nuts. It's like I've been possessed by Donald Trump."

  Hannah laughs and Jake presses his palms together as if praying and says, "Please, don't let her develop his hairstyle."

  We all laugh, then Hannah brings us back to my bizarre business savvy. "Even if you were a CEO, you've forgotten all that stuff. So how could you do this?"

  I shrug, but Jake says, "Her procedural memory's probably intact."

  Hannah and I turn in perfect unison to stare at him and she says, "Her what now?"

  Jake looks sheepish. "I looked up amnesia. There are two sides to memory. Declarative is stuff like dates and stories and where you live, and Kate's obviously got issues with that. But procedural is memory for stuff you learned how to do, your skills. Some people with amnesia can still play piano if they could before even if they don't remember that they know how. Maybe Kate's like that, but with business plans."

  Hannah seems skeptical but I have to agree with Jake. "It felt like I knew how to do it. Like I'd seen tons of plans and assessed them. The things that needed changing just jumped out at me. Maybe I am a CEO. But then wouldn't my company be looking for me?"

  "Not if you were an obnoxious boss."

  I give Jake a mock glare, and he says, "See? Like that. Bullying your underlings." Then we both laugh.

  Hannah breaks in. "The CEO thing would make sense. Or you were rich or living with a rich man."

  I turn to her. "Why would you say that?"

  She tugs at the sleeve of the sweater I bought that afternoon. "Jake pays for everything and you just accept it. You either come from money or someone's been taking good care of you for long enough that it hardly registers with you any more."

  I blush, and feel sick too. She's right. I haven't even thanked Jake for the money he's spent on me. It never crossed my mind. I thank him nearly every day for letting me stay with him but not for what he's bought.

  Jake gives my shoulder a squeeze. "It's okay, Kate. I don't mind doing it."

  "I do appreciate it," I mumble. "I just didn't think to thank you." I turn to face him, clear my throat, and say, "Thank you, Jake. For everything. You've been so good to me."

  He wraps his arm around me and I snuggle into him as he says, "Consider it payment for your foot modeling."

  We laugh, and Hannah looks like she'd rather see me spend Jake's last dollar than see him holding me.

  Chapter Eight

  When Jake wakes me up the next morning, I make my tired eyes focus on the alarm clock then blink up at him. "Six o'clock? Is the apartment on fire?"

  He laughs. "Nope."

  I pull the comforter up to my chin and shut my eyes. "Then come back in three hours. Or four."

  "Can't. We're going downtown."

  I force my eyes open again. "We are?
"

  "I think we should. I woke up a few minutes ago with the idea of watching the people at rush hour. If you are a CEO or even a big shot in some company, there's a good chance that someone in the business district will recognize you."

  I grimace but have to admit, "It's a good idea."

  "Then why the face?"

  "I don't want to get up."

  He chuckles. "I'll take you to McDonald's for breakfast after."

  Jake knows what I like. We've gone there a few times and I adore their hotcakes and sausage. "Okay, fine." I sit up. "What should I wear?"

  He shrugs. "Look as business-like as you can, I guess. Maybe leave your hair down? A ponytail is less CEO, I think. Anyhow, it's up to you. I'll let you take a shower and get dressed. We should leave in about thirty minutes if you can be ready by then."

  I swing my pajama-clad legs out of bed and stand up. "No problem."

  He heads for the door and I say, "Jake?"

  He turns around.

  I look at the floor, suddenly shy. "I do appreciate everything you've done for me. I just didn't think to say thank you. For buying me stuff and feeding me, and for doing research into amnesia, that was sweet, and--"

  "It's okay," he says, sounding like I feel. "Don't worry about it."

  But I am. I had a terrible time getting to sleep last night because I kept thinking about Hannah's words. What kind of pushy beast am I in my real life, if I never even thought to thank a guy who has literally saved me from living on the street? If I could get mad and snap at a guy who'd done so much for me? I can't tell Jake, of course, but I'm becoming less sure I want to know who I was.

  "I'll make coffee," he says, and scuttles from the room before I can thank him again and embarrass us both any more. I had coffee for the first time, that I remember anyhow, a few days after meeting him, and it turns out I love it. I wonder if my other self likes it.

  That thought sparks a whole bunch of others as I take a quick shower then dress myself. Physically we're the same person, of course, so wouldn't it make sense that we do like the same things? But she has tried so many things I don't remember, I assume anyhow, so maybe our tastes aren't the same as a result. Weird to think about her. Me. Her.