Mind Lies

by Harlow Stone

  “I hope so, Portia. I really do.”

  The first four laundromats where a bust. Three were single-story buildings—no apartments above. The fourth was at the bottom of a ten-story building that looked nothing like the one from my memories.

  Rounding the street corner, Portia parks the car beside a two-story building. I sign out front reads, Ming’s Coin Wash. As we start on the sidewalk, the low heel of my boot catches on the concrete, causing me to stumble. Luckily, I right myself as my vision starts to blur.

  “Don’t leave me here, Lachlan. Please! I can’t stand it anymore,” I beg. Strong fingers tighten around my arm, catching me as I stumble on the concrete walkway heading toward the back of the building.

  “I’m sorry, Lass. I truly am. But this is safest place for now. Trust me.”

  My laugh is harsh when I reply, “I’m so fucking done with safe, Lachlan. I love you, and you leave me. Every damn time. I’d take unsafe with companionship over safe, lonely, and empty. I can’t keep doing this, Lock. I can’t.”

  “Jerri!” Portia’s harsh voice snaps be back to the present. We’re still at the side of the building. The cool, grey concrete against my back feels better than the sweat accumulating on my temples. Taking a deep breath, I open my eyes to meet Portia’s concerned ones.

  “This is it. It’s up there.” I nod toward the red, rusted staircase to my left. I feel relieved, and scared, that we’ve found it. On one hand, I’ve confirmed that I’m not completely insane. But on the other, I worry about the constant references in my memories regarding my safety.

  What did I need to be safe from?

  Better yet, from who?

  The side door opens, and a tiny Chinese woman with greying hair exits carrying a bag of garbage. Tossing it into the bin, she turns and looks at us with a mixture of shock and happiness. “Miss Jerri, you back! You see sign, apartment for rent,” she says, pointing to the stairwell.

  I did not see the sign.

  I feel slightly shocked that this woman recognizes me. Portia takes the lead. “Hi! I’m actually the one apartment hunting. I’m Jerri’s friend Portia,” she says, smiling kindly, reaching for the little older woman’s hand.

  “I Ming. You come. I show you,” says the woman known as Ming. She starts dragging Portia by the hand to the staircase. Hanging onto the railing, I follow at a much slower pace, still cautious of my healing body and cloudy mind.

  “Miss Jerri live here one year. Always pay rent. Last man no pay, so he go!” Ming jabbers on as she leads Portia through the door to the apartment. I pause on the landing to take a deep breath before crossing into the apartment. Memories continue hitting me.

  “Would you listen to me, Lock? I don’t want to be here without you! I’ll go wherever you want me to go and do whatever you want me to do. I just want to be together.”

  I begged him to stay right here in this very spot, in an apartment he put me in to keep me safe. Taking a few more steps inside a place that smells like fabric softener, I come to the wall that separates the kitchen from the entry way—the same wall he passionately fucked me against while I was pregnant with his child.

  The child I miscarried.

  Where is he?

  Waiting for something to hit me, another memory, a clue that could help me figure out why I left, I blindly follow the two through a place I once called home.

  “So, the apartment comes with the furniture, Ming?” I hear Portia ask. I feel bad for the kind woman taking her time to show us an apartment we have no intentions of renting.

  “You bring own bed. Everything here stay for you,” Ming tells Portia as she bobs her head up and down.

  “I believe it’s time to christen the new bed, Lass,” Lock groans in my ear as he pulls the dress off my shoulders.

  Glancing toward me where I lean against the wall, Ming adds, “Miss Jerri no look good. You come.” She waves her hand at me, shooing me toward the bathroom, and I blindly follow. Wetting a cloth in the sink, she stands on her toes and presses it against my forehead.

  “You need rest in condition, Miss Jerri.” She tells me, waving her hand up and down my body. I nod, taking a few deep breaths to calm my head and stomach.

  “I’m just a little light headed. Thank you, Ming.”

  I take the cool cloth from her hand as Portia squeezes my shoulder. “We should get you home, Jerri.”

  Approving, Ming nods before pointing at my flat stomach. “Too much for baby. Must be boy. Boy make tired very early.”

  I smile a little, lifting my hair and pointing to the stitches in my head. “I’m tired because of my head injury, Ming. No baby.” I’m sure she noticed the ugly bruising on the side of my face; perhaps she was just too kind to say anything. She simply shrugs her shoulders and mutters, “Boy make tired,” before wiping down the sink with a towel.

  “Ming?” I ask. She looks at me. I continue. “Do you remember the man who lived here with me?” She shakes her head. My shoulders deflate.

  “Man no live here with Jerri. Man come after and ask where you go. I tell him Ming not know.” She gives me wide eyes as if to say that even if she did know the man, there would be no way in fuck she would tell him where I had gone.

  “Do you remember what he looked like?” Portia asks. Ming shakes her head and points to my hair. “Hair dark. He tall.” She raises her hands above her head, flicking them to indicate “much taller,” and shifts her eyebrows up and down in a way that suggests she very well may have liked the way this tall, dark-haired man looked.

  I watch Portia pressing her lips together in an attempt to stall a laugh. “Thanks so much, Ming. I really should get some rest,” I say.

  Portia adds, “I’m hoping to find a two-bedroom apartment, Ming. But if I change my mind, I’ll definitely call you.”

  We follow her out of the bathroom, and as we pass the beige couch in the living area, I pause and grab onto the back of it as a memory takes over.

  With my hands braced on the back of the couch, Locklin sweeps my hair over my left shoulder, exposing my right. He starts to place kisses along my skin. His teeth graze my ear lobe. He whispers, “Sing, Jerri girl.”

  Leaning my head back against his shoulder, I do just that.

  Sing.

  “Let’s get home, girl.” Portia says, oblivious of my aching heart.

  Chapter Eleven

  “I know what we need to do.”

  Rolling my head to the side, I stare at my good friend lying next to me on my bed. I collapsed as soon as we came in the door, but I haven’t fallen asleep yet. With too much on my mind, and so many unanswered questions, it seems like an impossible feat.

  “What’s that?” I ask.

  She sits up, twisting her hands together trying to find the right words. “You’ve had two memories now about the song he asked you to sing to him, right?”

  I nod. “Yes. It seems really personal. I don’t know who the artist is or anything. I googled the words, but nothing came up.”

  “You’re always humming and singing to every song on the radio, Jer. So I’m going to preface this by saying you have a beautiful voice,” she tells me with a straight face.

  “I’m sensing this is where you drop the bomb?” I ask her with a raised brow.

  She confirms. “Not a bomb per say. I was just thinking that if I record you singing whatever song it is you sang to him, I could stick it on YouTube, and maybe it might bring us some luck, you know? Maybe this Locklin guy will see it. If he doesn’t see it, maybe someone who knows him will and pass the message along.”

  I frown. “What message?”

  She shakes her head. “That you’re trying to find him. We can add that message to the video. There’s tons of shit like this that gets posted on YouTube. People are hit sensations overnight.”

  I cut her off. “I don’t want to be a hit sensation, Portia.”

  She places her hand on mine. “I know you don’t. You’d hate all the attention. We don’t need to put your face in the video. But we cou
ld put your face in profile or something and attach a message to the song. Cooper can help.”

  It feels so personal.

  Like an invasion of my privacy.

  From what I remember, each time I sang that song to Locklin, it was in the middle of a passionate moment, something I feel should only be experienced between the two of us, certainly not with the world.

  But what other choice do I have? I don’t know what else to do to find him. Going to the apartment didn’t help me get any closer to finding him, and other than the coffee shop and the cabin, which I have very little memory of, I’ve run out of places to look.

  I guess I have to consider how badly I want to find him. But maybe I should be asking myself whether or not he wants to be found.

  “Let me sleep on it, okay?”

  Reassuring me with a kind smile and understanding eyes, she tells me, “Take as long as you need, Jer. It’s just a suggestion.”

  I nod in thanks before she heads home to her husband.

  * * *

  “Run, Jerri!”

  Tripping over the loose gravel of the driveway, I do my best to stay on my feet. There’s blood running down my leg, and my hip is on fire. Locklin’s grasp on my fingers tightens to the point of pain as he pulls me off the driveway and down the hill.

  My bare feet, now torn from the gravel, slip on the damp grass, and I stub my toe on a sharp rock. I cry out, only to be silenced by Lock as he pushes me to the ground, one arm banding around my waist, his hand tight on my mouth.

  Silent tears stream from the corners of my eyes. He tries to comfort me. “Shh, Lass. I won’t let anyone hurt you, but you need to be quiet.”

  I nod, understanding, grateful he’s here for me.

  I shiver at the thought of what may have happened if he wasn’t.

  Lights reflect off the water, and Locklin uses his body to shield my own as they skip over the hill, narrowly missing us. The headlights of the car continue around the bend before they disappear from sight. “We’re travelling to the far dock over there. Do you see it, Lass? Not far.”

  I take hold of his hand. He pulls me up off the ground, steadying me as my legs shake. Whether they shake from fear or from blood loss, I don’t know. Closing my eyes, trying to gain what little strength may be left, I swallow down every emotion and focus on survival. Steadily, I place one foot in front of the other, wanting desperately to be far away from this part of hell.

  I should never have been here this late.

  I should have listened to my gut and left a long time ago.

  My vision begins to blur despite my best attempt to stay upright. The blood loss is too great. The cool breeze on my leg confirms that it’s wet from hip to toes with blood. I wobble as we near the dock, swaying slightly while clinging to Locklin’s hand. Sensing my struggle, he puts one arm under my legs and another behind my back. Easily, he cradles my body in his arms as he briskly walks toward the boat.

  “Hang on, Lass, I’ve got you.”

  “Don’t leave me, Lock, please.” I mumble into his chest as I begin to lose consciousness.

  Placing a kiss on the top of my head, he replies, “Never.”

  * * *

  Jolting awake, I rip the sweat-soaked sheets from my body and clutch my chest.

  What the hell were we running from?

  Swinging my legs over the side of the bed, I head for the bathroom. I flick on the vanity lights and turn on the taps, repeatedly splashing water over my heated face. Reaching blindly for the towel, I clean myself off, still panting from the shock of my dream—or memory. I almost hope it were a dream; if it were real, I’m afraid to know what it was about.

  “Think, Jerri, think,” I mumble to myself.

  Turning to exit, I bang my hip on the counter, the same hip bleeding profusely in my dream.

  “Dammit.”

  Lifting up my nightshirt, I glance down at my left side to look for any type of scarring. I see nothing out of place, but I’m determined to prove the dream wrong, or perhaps to prove myself wrong, to confirm that my dreams are not a product of my amnesia-filled mind. I need it to be real. Flipping on the bright overhead lights, I pull down the side of my boy shorts and twist toward the full-length mirror on the wall behind me.

  “Holy shit.”

  There.

  It’s there.

  A three-inch scar sits on the back of my hip in a spot that would normally be covered by the waistband of my jeans. It’s not raised but is actually rather smooth, suggesting it was probably a clean cut. It had happened some time ago; either that or a well-to-do surgeon did a good job ensuring it healed properly.

  I stare between the cut and my ghostly white face in the mirror. A mixture of fear and shock sends me to my knees. Quickly, I crawl to the toilet and empty the contents of my stomach. I heave until there’s nothing left.

  I’m completely empty.

  Who am I?

  Not knowing is literally killing me inside. If I had led a normal life or had a friend who could explain my thirty-two years, the not-knowing pill would be a little easier to swallow. If these dreams are in fact memories, I can’t help but feel pain, knowing that I have literally alienated Portia, my best friend, from the first few decades of my life.

  And for what?

  If the dream is real, if Locklin is out there, why hasn’t he come for me? He saved me from whatever the hell happened in my dream. If he’s a good man, why hasn’t he been here with Portia—with me?

  If he isn’t a bad man, if he made me safe all those years as my friend, lover, and protector, why haven’t I mentioned his name to Portia? Why have I kept him a secret?

  In one of my dreams, it was mentioned that he and I would stay in contact by cell phone. Portia had replaced my missing cell the other day, and although the picture file on that phone is empty, the contact list is full. Rushing into my bedroom, I unplug the phone from its charger and open the contacts folder. Eighty-seven contacts. Furniture vendors, art suppliers, upholstery specialists. No Locklin.

  “Damn it!” I huff. “Alright, Jerri Sloane. If you had something to hide, where would you put it?”

  I sit down on the side of my bed and start checking the nightstands. They’re an obvious place to start. And seeing as I have no idea where anything is—and the only place I had rummaged through, as per Katherine’s suggestion, was the desk in the living area, which only revealed paperwork and finance reports—I figure that I have nothing to lose.

  The contents of the top drawer include lip balm, sleeping pills, an e-reader, and hand cream. Opening the bottom, I find a few books and a decorative box. Opening the box’s lid, I can’t help but smirk. “Well, Jerri, you’re nothing if not resourceful.” I chuckle as a return the box filled with every gadget guaranteed to get a woman off.

  The nightstand on the other side of the bed has nothing of help, but I’m determined. My need to find something helpful is more important than my need to breathe. Rushing to the closet, I erratically pull shoe boxes off the shelves. I dump their contents at my feet, wondering if something useful could be inside.

  I dump it all with no remorse for the mess I create.

  I pull coats off their hangers and fling socks from drawers. I empty it all as if I were a jealous woman searching for evidence of a husband’s betrayal. No drawer remains full, and no coat pocket is left turned in. Receipts and loose change litter the small space once everything has been ransacked.

  “Fuck!”

  Collapsing onto the floor with my head in my hands, I finally allow myself to weep. More is lost than just my memory. I’m just a shell of a woman, lost in a ransacked closet with nothing but sobs to keep me company. There is nothing valuable about the expensive footwear and clothing surrounding me.

  No.

  The only things worth any value are those of which I can’t remember. Those that are lost. I have no man to keep me company, no mother to hug and tell me this too shall pass. I have no idea what makes me happy or what brings me peace.

 
I don’t know where I’ve been or where I came from.

  I. Have. Nothing.

  So I let myself weep on the floor of this closet. I shed tears for everything I may have had and what may never come back to me. I weep until long after the sun rises and Portia finds me. She finds me with silent tears still streaming down my face. She falls to her ass beside me without saying a word. We’re connected from shoulder to hip on the floor. She takes my hand in hers and leans her head against my own.

  No words.

  Just silence and understanding.

  It almost makes it hurt more.

  She knows who Jerri is. She’s aware that words weren’t going to fix this breakdown, so she didn’t bother to speak them. There is no “I’m sorry” or “Don’t worry, Jerri. It’ll get better soon.” There is just silent support in an unwavering form. It’s one woman, literally leaning on another—as if she is saying, “I won’t let you do this on your own.”

  I have no idea how long we sit on the floor in the closet. The sun is higher in the sky, and my shoulder is damp from mixed tears. My mind has been running in circles, processing the little I know, trying to process what I don’t know and the many things I still wish to find out.

  I have nothing left to lose.

  Recalling Portia’s idea from the previous day, and coming to the conclusion that things can’t get any worse before they get better, I make the decision.

  Clearing my throat, I softly tell her, “Let’s do it, Portia. Let’s make the video.”

  She squeezes my hand.

  Chapter Twelve

  Staring at the window, eyes squinting from the brightness of the sun streaming through, I adjust myself on the ottoman while waiting for Portia to find the perfect spot behind me. After leaving the closet, we talked over coffee and came up with a plan. My desire to remain somewhat anonymous is very important to me. Portia confirmed it would have been important to the old Jerri as well.

  We set the ottoman up for me to sit in front of an east-facing window. The light is nearly blinding for me, but it’s perfect for Portia to use. The exposure creates a glow around my body, blurring the edges and concealing my face.