by Marta Acosta
Mrs. Grant glanced over and said, “You have no idea what you’re doing, do you?”
“No, but maybe if I go through the motions, it will come back. Sense memory. I’m guessing that I must have learned how to cook.”
“You did, but maybe you should just make the coffee this morning.”
“No problem!” I looked on the counter and spotted an intimidating chrome espresso maker. I approached it and began waggling the handles.
Mrs. Grant sighed. “There’s a drip coffee machine in the cupboard to the right of the sink. You can grind beans, can’t you?”
“Yes, I can grind coffee beans on my own,” I said, and I had an odd sense of almost remembering something. And then it was gone.
Oswald came for breakfast, looking extremely man-pretty in faded jeans and a navy T-shirt under an old cotton flannel shirt. He gave Mrs. Grant a kiss on her pale cheek. “Morning, Grandmama.”
“Hello, dear.”
“Morning, Milagro,” he said. “How’s your memory?”
“Happily vacationing elsewhere,” I said. “Perhaps it will send a postcard saying ‘Wish you were here.’”
“I’ll keep checking the mailbox.” His crooked smile was more charming every time I saw it. He said, “How do you feel otherwise?”
“Fine, although I still have a sense of unreality. I’m sure the French would have a term for it, because they’re so good at phrases for elusive feelings. Esprit d’ookiness, or in Spanish, espíritu de ookiness.”
Lily came into the kitchen, wearing a cornflower blue linen dress and carrying a huge shopping bag. “Morning!” she said cheerily.
Oswald grinned. “Hi, Lily. Did you sleep well?”
“Yes, my room is as comfortable as a luxury hotel.” She looked at me and said, “How’s our patient?”
“Incapable of making pancakes,” I said, “but able to grab insects out of the air.”
She looked a little confused, but smiled and held out the shopping bag, showing a jangle of gold bracelets on her wrist and gold and amethyst rings on her slim fingers. “I picked up some things for you at the spa in town.”
“How sweet!” I took the bag, then glanced down and saw dun-colored material.
“They’re your new outfits,” Lily said. “It’s part of your therapy. Let’s go to your room and you can change.”
As we went together to the maid’s room, Lily said, “Oswald explained that you find dressing appropriately challenging, so I thought we could eliminate that one area of worry and discomfort for you.”
I placed the bag on the bed, already worried and discomforted about what I would find. My dread was justified. There were four identical pairs of beige drawstring pants and four shapeless beige, round-necked smocks. “These are …”
“Organic undyed cotton and hemp,” Lily said. “You’ll feel so relaxed in them.”
At the bottom of the bag were several pairs of beige granny panties, baggy beige socks, beige stretch bras, and thin beige gloves. The pièce de repugnance was a collection of beige scrunchies.
“Those are yoga bras, so they’re not constricting,” Lily said. “We need to break down your artifice, so you’ll be more in harmony with the natural world around you.”
“I’m a gardener. I’m always in harmony with the natural world.”
“Milagro, since drug therapies would have no effect on you, I thought we would go this route.”
“How do you know? You haven’t even tried giving me drugs!” But I remembered how I hadn’t felt the scotch.
“It’s part of your particular condition,” she said. “No makeup, no jewelry, and I’d like you to wear gloves around others, so you don’t revert to your pattern of presenting your sexuality to divert from meaningful interactions. If you pull your hair back, you won’t be prone to some of your flirtatious gestures.”
I stared at her in astonishment. “You’re wearing mascara and lip gloss and a pretty dress and you’ve got a darling ’do!”
“I’d like you to stop and think before automatically comparing yourself to other women.”
I regretted telling Lily that I’d go along with her therapy. “Sure, fine, whatever.”
Lily smiled brightly and said, “Change your clothes, and I’ll see you at breakfast.”
It was with a heavy heart that I put on the dismal clothes. The bra smooshed my bozooms like overly ripe fruit, and the granny panties left significant, visible lines. But when I went to the mirror to see the totality of the horror, I was stunned.
My eyes shone and my complexion was bright. My hair was shiny and healthy. How had this happened when yesterday I’d looked like a cadaver?
I French-braided my hair and put on a heinous scrunchie. I dabbed on clear lip gloss and a little mascara and brushed on a hint of blush, since it would be a crime to waste my newly stunning cheekbones.
When I went back to the kitchen, Mr. Grant had come downstairs. Everyone turned to look at me.
“Oh, good grief,” Mrs. Grant said with a roll of her eyes that was so extravagant that I knew I had to practice eye-rolling later.
I smiled serenely and said, “I find this clothing very liberating, very freeing, very evolved. Thank you, Lily, for this thoughtful gift.”
We sat at the long trestle table. The delicious food and vase of bright flowers were in striking contrast to the ramen and tortilla-based meals I subsisted on in my crappy basement apartment.
AG smiled at his ex-wife. “This is delicious, Edna. I wish you cooked when we were married.” He looked at the rest of us and said, “All she could do was mix Manhattans and set out bowls of cashews.”
Mrs. Grant narrowed her green eyes at him. “That was a long time ago. I did raise children, AG.”
Oswald looked at his grandparents, shook his head, then turned to me. “Milagro, we’ve got a call scheduled with Mercedes and my cousin, Gabriel, in half an hour.”
Lily said, “And after that we’ll have a session. It will be a real treat getting into your mind.”
Mrs. Grant hmmphed and said to Lily, “Your optimism is sadly misplaced. Milagro’s mind is like quicksand: the harder you struggle to escape, the deeper she’ll drag you in.”
“Grandmama,” Oswald said at the same time that AG said “Edna.”
Lily looked surprised and turned to the older woman. “Let’s not discourage the recovery process. Milagro is in a very vulnerable place right now.”
“The Young Lady is about as vulnerable as a crocodile in a bunny hutch,” said Mrs. Grant. “I warn people, but they keep hopping within range of her jaws.” She got up and put her dishes in the dishwasher.
AG said, “Edna, I thought we could drive over the mountain and do a little sightseeing.”
She gave him a look that wasn’t encouraging, but it wasn’t discouraging either. “All right, AG,” she said, and they left the kitchen to head toward her cottage.
When Oswald ran down to the barn to talk to his ranch hand, Lily and I cleared the dishes. She said, “I hope you won’t let Mrs. Grant’s attitude bother you.”
I thought Mrs. Grant’s pointed remarks were as delightful as the stunning red barbs of the Wingthorn rose, but I tried to look wounded. “I’ll try not to, Lily. Thank you for your support and sympathy.”
When Oswald returned from the barn, his jeans were a little dusty and he had a strand of hay stuck to his shirt. The golden filament against the dark navy fabric disturbed me, and I was going to dust it off, but Lily was watching, so I just followed him to the study for our phone call.
“Come sit close,” he said as he made the call.
I took the chair near the desk and, after a few clicks, I heard Mercedes say, “I’m here with Gabriel.”
“Hey, girlfriend,” I said.
“This is Gabriel,” said a man’s voice. “Milagro, how are you doing?”
I reached over and brushed the hay strand from Oswald’s shirt. “I’m absolutely fine.”
Oswald glanced at me. “She looks much healthier today, b
ut she still can’t remember anything. Lily Harrison is having a session with her later. We’ll see how that goes.”
The man, Gabriel, said, “Mercedes has updated me on everything she knows and I’ve contacted the Council.”
“What’s that? Or who—if it’s counsel?” I asked.
“What,” Oswald said. “The Council is our extended family’s governing body.”
“You sound very organized,” I said. Families were all a mystery to me, since I didn’t have one to speak of.
Gabriel said, “Wilcox’s assistant, Matthews, reported his employer’s disappearance two days after they flew into the country. In fact, Matthews is near the ranch now. Until things are cleared up, Matthews will be visiting his daughter, Nettie, in town. She’s Granddad’s new assistant.
“Wow, that’s a coincidence,” I said.
“Not really,” Oswald said. “His family has a longtime working relationship with our network of families.
“What does Matthews know?” I asked.
Gabriel said, “Only that he was on the flight after Wilcox’s and they were supposed to meet up. He knew that Wilcox was having a surfing vacation and visiting you. Wilcox was supposed to call him that night, but never did.”
“So we’ve still got nothing,” I said.
“Milagro, Matthews told the Council that you might be connected to his employer’s disappearance. He and his daughter are very upset. You met Nettie in London.”
“I can’t believe I forgot a trip to London.”
Mercedes said, “Gabriel would like permission to visit your loft with a forensics expert and see if they can find any fingerprints or trace evidence.”
I imagined a crime scene light illuminating body fluids everywhere. “Um, so long as you understand that I’m a single girl entitled to some privacy.”
“Thanks,” Gabriel said. “We’ll keep out of your lingerie drawer. I’d also like to go into your bank records and track the days leading up to and after Wilcox’s arrival.”
“Sure. I’d like to know where I was, too.”
Mercedes said, “We’ll tell you whatever we find out.”
“What about my missing time? I mean, in addition to the two years I’ve lost.”
There was a pause on the line and then Mercedes spoke, “Lily advises, and we all agree, that you need to recover your memory ‘organically’ to prevent the possibility of false memories.”
She was keeping something from me, but I didn’t seem to care.
Mercedes said, “Okay, I’ve got all your account info from the last time I upgraded your laptop, and I’ll give Gabriel the key to your place.”
“Sure, whatever,” I said. “Where’s my laptop?”
“Don’t you have a therapy session?” Mercedes said. “The faster you recover, the better chance of us finding Wilcox’s killer.”
I said good-bye to my friend, and Oswald put the call on hold and told me that Lily was waiting for me in a small parlor down the hall.
I went past the staircase and saw an expansive family room through one doorway.
The parlor, on the other side of the hall, was a cozy room lined with bookshelves with a plum-colored velvet sofa. I’d look wonderfully melancholic reclining on this sofa while I mused about the intricate workings of my psyche.
Lily was sitting at a delicate writing table, working at her laptop. She looked up as I came in. “Hi, Milagro. Please take a seat.” She reached for a notepad and a ballpoint pen.
When I sat across from her, she said, “Let’s start off with a few word associations.”
“Fantastic. I’m all about the words. I like them whether they’re mono- or multisyllabic. I like onomatopoeia and foreign words and expressions. I like funny words like ‘bric-a-brac’ and ‘noodle’ and ‘persnickety.’”
“Good. Just say the first thing that comes into your mind without thinking,” she said. “Hot.”
“Chocolate.”
“Cold.”
“Hands, warm heart.”
“Cat.”
“Pickles.”
She paused before writing down my answer and then said, “Tree.”
“Prune. The verb, not the fruit.”
“Just one word is fine, Milagro. Black.”
“Bra.”
“Red,” she said.
“Wine.”
“Blood.”
I wondered if she knew that I snacked on the steaks and said, “Blue.”
“Blue?”
“Blue-bloods. Fancy-pants, hoity-toity.”
“Oh.” Lily wrote for a few seconds. “Knife.”
An image flashed through my mind of a knife slipping through flesh, crimson fluid welling in the cut, a man’s hot mouth hungry for my flesh, but I answered, “Spork.”
Lily looked confused, so I said, “It’s the combination of a fork and a spoon, a spork. Ah, the elusive charm of the spork!”
We went on in this fashion for a few more minutes. I must have done well, because Lily looked utterly captivated by my answers. I said, “I’d be thrilled to do some inkblot tests, or we can go outside and I can tell you the shapes of clouds.”
“That’s all right. I need a little more of your personal history, so I’d like you to tell me your earliest memories.”
It was refreshing to talk nonstop about myself. While I gabbed, I also tried to use my brainpower to lift a book off the shelves. It was a slim volume called Spiritual Transformations: Adventures of a Shapeshifter by someone called Don Pedro. I scrunched my face in my effort to make it move.
Lily put down her pad and said, “I know this is a painful process.”
“It’s arduous work, but I’m happy to soldier on.” The damn book hadn’t budged a smidgen.
“I’d like you to process what we’ve discussed and we’ll have a session this afternoon.”
“Okay, thanks,” I said, and when Lily glanced down at her notes, I grabbed the book and took it back to the maid’s room.
It had an intriguing cover with a man morphing into different shapes, including a platypus. The memoir used the same flowery language I’d seen in the composition books I’d brought, and I recognized several of my favorite words and expressions.
This must be the memoir I’d ghostwritten, and I knew I was commissioned for a follow-up. I went back and forth from the book to my outline and somehow I knew the story I wanted to write. When I put my pen to paper, the words flowed easily.
Lily and I had a quick lunch of strawberry yogurt and then she said we should return to the small parlor.
“The day is too nice to be stuck inside. Let’s go outside.” She pursed her lips as she thought, so I added, “It’s wrong to waste such fresh air.”
“All right. Let me get my notepad.”
She left the kitchen, I spotted a half bottle of zinfandel on the counter and took several glugs to quench my red-thirst. I was wiping my mouth when she came back with her notepad and a jaunty cotton hat.
We went into the garden, where there was a table and chairs in the shade of the old oak. I noticed that the truckasaurus had been moved to the covered carport. I grabbed the red-handled pruners from where I had left them.
“You don’t need those,” Lily said. “I want you to focus on our session.”
“Gardening puts me in the zone. Otherwise I’ll just be distracted by all that needs to be done here.”
“All right. I may as well weed while you whack.”
“Do you know anything about gardening?”
“My parents garden,” she said. “I had my own flower plot and worm bin growing up, but I don’t know much about roses. Are these heirloom varieties?”
I grinned and said, “Let me get my gloves so you won’t get snagged by thorns.”
I dashed to the ugly truck, grabbed my goatskin gloves and a plastic bin for green waste, and ran back. I handed Lily the gloves and led her to a large shrub growing over an arch. “She’s called Reve D’Or, or Dream of Gold. The flowers get more goldy-pink if the plant is in pa
rtial shade.”
“It’s gorgeous,” she said.
“The best thing is the fragrance.” I plucked off one of the creamy flowers and held it to her nose.
“Heavenly.” She crouched down, and I saw her pinch a weed at the base and pull it up by the roots. Pleased that she knew what she was doing, I began to snip at the roses.
Soon we were working harmoniously, moving from one shady area to the next as the sun moved across the sky. The novelty of giving a self-centered monologue wore off. I preferred the interactive drama wherein I nattered as inanely as possible and Mercedes tried to talk sense into me, or Nancy said something even more outlandish.
“Lily, where do you live?”
“Lately in Boston, but I’ve been all over for college, med school, and training,” she said. I’d given her the pruners and she was holding them toward a shrub. “My folks are north of Seattle. What about this branch?”
“Leave it, because we can train it over the top of the fence. What do you do for fun?”
“I like to sketch and do watercolors.”
“What about guys? Do you have any patients doing transference and falling madly in love with you, or hot docs who want to do in-depth consultations?”
She laughed. “It’s completely unethical to get involved with patients, and my situation is complicated by the family condition.”
“You and Oswald keep using that word: ‘complicated.’” I reached over and plucked a leaf out of her hair. “I look at Oswald and I can’t imagine what our life was like together, and the sex …”
“Mmm?”
“He must have been incredible, or why would I get engaged to him? I look at those long fingers and think of what they could do to a woman’s body, and that mouth, oh, my. The way he smiles crookedly is sexy, don’t you think?”
“Well …,” she said uncomfortably. “He does have a nice smile.”
“‘Nice’? There’s such a thing as taking understatement too far, Lily,” I returned to waxing poetic about our host. “I’m enraptured by the way his jeans lovingly embrace his ass, and those eyes, like the color of storm clouds, portending something thunderous to come, and by ‘come’ I mean—”
Lily said, “Milagro?”
“Hm?” I glanced up from the damp soil and saw Lily staring at something behind me. I turned and saw Oswald. “Oh, hi, Oswald.”
