by Leona Karr
Andrew suddenly had a bad taste in his mouth. This kind of speculation didn’t sit well with him. Her reluctance to go back and face the situation gave him the feeling that she was just using him.
He said rather stiffly, “Have a seat. I’m sorry it isn’t more. I’m afraid my bachelor life is lacking in the finer things of life.”
She shot him a quick look as she sat down on the bench facing him. He’d never used that tone with her before, and she knew what was coming. She had over-stayed her welcome. Her stomach tightened. If only he would give her a little more time to remember why she had a deep fear of someone knowing where she was. Any story she’d been able to think of had too many holes in it to convince him to let her stay. If she lied about being on vacation alone, her belongings would have to be somewhere. No doubt, he would offer to drive her back to her lodgings, and then what?
Sitting across the table from her, Andrew watched her pick at her chicken and salad, really not eating but just going through the motions. Was she putting on an act? He’d been taken in by manipulating women when he first came to the city, but he’d learned his lesson. Hadn’t he? Looking at her appealing femininity, he wasn’t sure.
He set down the chicken leg he’d been eating, wiped his hands and then leaned toward her. “I think it’s time you leveled with me, Trish, don’t you?”
She deliberately took a drink of water, delaying the moment when she’d have to speak. She wished now that she’d told him the truth in the beginning, but she’d been too frightened to think clearly. Like a hunted animal, a deep protective instinct had warned to protect herself.
“All right. Let me guess,” he said when she was slow in answering. “You’re running away from some unpleasant situation that you don’t want to face.”
“Maybe.” I don’t know. I don’t know.
“Maybe?” he repeated, with a disbelieving edge to his voice. “Either you are or you aren’t, Trish. Frankly, I suspect that some man is beside himself wondering where you are.”
“Do you think so?” she asked almost in a whisper.
The anguish that flashed across her face made him soften his tone even though he was getting impatient with her evasiveness. “Trish, I’m thankful that I was around when you needed rescuing, but hiding out here isn’t going to work for you—or for me, either.”
“I know.” She sighed. “You’ve been more than patient, and I don’t know what I would have done if…if you hadn’t found me.”
“You’ve got to face up to whomever, or whatever you’re running away from, Trish.” He reached across the table and took her hand. “Why don’t you tell me about what was going on?”
She laced her fingers through his, drawing strength from the contact. Maybe he would accept the truth. Or would he just think she was making everything up in an effort to wring enough sympathy from him so he’d let her stay?
“What is it, Trish? I have to know.”
She drew in a deep breath to settle the quivering in her chest. “The truth is that I don’t know who I am. And I need a little time to figure it out.”
His mouth quirked as if he didn’t know whether to laugh or let his irritation show. “That’s the metaphysical question for this generation, isn’t it? Who am I? I can’t believe how many people get on this quest—”
“That isn’t what I mean.” She jerked her hand away from his. Her eyes flashed as she said each word with loud emphasis, “Don’t you understand? I don’t know who I am.”
Andrew simply stared at her.
“I’ve lost my memory. I remember your rescuing me from the beach. But that’s all. Nothing before that.”
“I see.” An inner voice warned him to be careful. “You have amnesia.” Skepticism laced the statement.
Trish could tell from his tone that he didn’t believe her. He obviously thought she was trying to put something over on him. Her hopes that he would understand took a sickening dive. Any lie she could have dreamed up would have had a better response from him than the truth.
“Yes, I have amnesia,” she repeated firmly.
“Well, that is a problem, isn’t it?” he said as if he were addressing a child who had just told a whopper of a lie.
“Don’t patronize me,” she flared. “I’m telling you the truth. I don’t remember anything from the moment I opened my eyes and saw your face bending over me.”
“But you said your name was Trish,” he protested. “Did you just make that up?”
She hesitated, and then answered thoughtfully, “I don’t think so. The name just kind of floated up and seemed familiar.”
“And you don’t remember anything else?”
“I know I have a blue-and-yellow cosmetic bag with butterflies on it. I remember that,” she said triumphantly.
He watched as her blue-green eyes lost their flatness. There was such joyful thankfulness in her face when she said she had remembered the bag that he had a hard time believing it was just an act. Still, it was a stretch to accept this bizarre story as the truth.
“You don’t believe me, do you?” She sighed, watching his brown eyes narrow as he looked at her, and deep lines furrow his forehead.
“Frankly, I don’t know whether I do or not,” he answered honestly. He’d heard of retrograde amnesia when a person would remember things after a trauma and nothing before. Clearly she’d been in a state of shock when he’d found her on the beach, but keeping such a frightening state to herself didn’t seem rational. Was this very appealing woman cleverly manipulating him to her own ends?
“I’m telling you the truth,” she insisted, reading the skepticism in his expression.
“You have to admit that you’ve been rather adept at keeping your loss of memory from me. I mean, I would have thought you would have told me right away.”
“I couldn’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because…because I had to protect myself any way I could.” Her gaze dragged his face with pleading intensity. “Deep down I knew that I was being threatened by something or someone. By keeping quiet, I was just trying to protect myself—and you—until I could remember and know what to do.”
Andrew’s thoughts whirled like dry leaves caught in a devil’s wind. He knew that her nightmare had been real enough. Some of her vague answers and behavior could be symptoms of complete disorientation. When he thought about her behavior in the context of her not remembering anything, there was a ring of authenticity about it. Still, her determination to keep such an appalling state a secret bothered him. “You should have told me.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“How long did you plan to keep me in the dark?”
“I thought—I hoped—that at any moment, my memory would come back. Plus I wasn’t sure you’d believe me if I told you the truth.”
He hesitated. “I’ve heard about people losing their memory when something horrendous happens to them.”
Her lips quivered as she looked across the table at him. “I don’t know why I’m in danger, but it’s a deep-gut feeling that I can’t deny. I feel safe here with you, Andrew, and that’s why I don’t want to leave. Please say that I can stay.”
All rational arguments against opening himself up to this disruptive intrusion in his life fled. He walked around the table and eased down beside her. Putting an arm around her slumped shoulders, he heard himself saying, “Of course, you can stay. We’ll sort this thing out.”
He felt a surge of protectiveness that was alien to anything he’d felt before. His cautious, rational approach to life deserted him as he was suddenly filled with desires that made him a stranger to a surge of bewildering hunger. He wanted to trace the sweet curve of her cheeks with his fingertips, and bury his lips in the smooth loveliness of her neck. He bent his head close to hers and as a soft breeze tugged at wayward strands framing her face, he knew that in another moment, he would forget himself completely.
Gently he withdrew his arm and took a steadying breath, hoping that she was unaware of his phy
sical response to her nearness.
“There are things that we can do right away to find some of the answers,” he said, allowing his methodical intellectual nature to take over. Then he added as lightly as he could, “We’ll find out why you showed up like a drowned kitten on my doorstep, and it will all make sense. Until then try to relax, and let me see what I can find out. Okay?”
Gratitude made her voice unsteady as she thanked him. “I’ll try not to be an intrusion. Why don’t you let me sleep on the cot?”
“No, I like to work late, and sometimes get up in the middle of the night to try out an idea. It’s better if you take the bedroom.” He eyed her nearly untouched plate. “I guess you don’t like chicken.”
“Yes, I do.” She found herself relaxing for the first time since her rescue. “It’s strange, but I seem to know things like that—what I like and what I don’t like. I saw your guitar in the house and I know I like music but I’m not sure what kind. Some of the books on your shelves seemed familiar even though I can’t actually remember reading them.” She frowned. “That’s weird, isn’t it? I know a lot about myself, but none of the important things like what my name is and why I have a compelling instinct to hide.” She shivered. “None of it makes sense, does it?”
“It will make sense when we know the whole story.”
A sudden tightening in her chest made her plead, “But don’t let anyone know I’m here, not until we know for sure who I am. Promise?”
“Promise.”
Even though his mind had already been racing ahead to printing flyers with her picture on it, he knew she was right. If she had been a victim of foul play, it wouldn’t be wise to let other people know who and where she was until they found out the whole story.
“What do you think we should do first?” she asked, her spirits rising with hope for the first time.
“I’ll get a list of missing people in the area, and you can look over the names and see if any of them seem slightly familiar. We’ll go from there.”
His confidence was like a healing balm and when they went back inside the house, Trish felt stronger and less fearful than she had before, and she chided herself for not telling him sooner. She was able to look at her situation in a rational light for the first time. She belonged somewhere. She had connections to others. Every question in her dark memory had an answer.
“Getting impatient isn’t going to help,” Andrew had warned her earlier when she confided in him that not knowing the simplest things about herself was devastating.
She knew that he had been skeptical in the beginning, and who could blame him? This whole scenario was something out of a soap opera. But in the end, he had believed her. The warmth of his protective arm around her spoke volumes. She had an ally. She was no longer alone.
THAT NIGHT, ANDREW USED his computer to run off everything he could find on amnesia due to traumatic shock. When it came to facing any problem, he was always meticulous in his approach. That was just his nature, and one of things that made him successful in creating sophisticated software. By the time he turned off the computer, he had a fistful of research material.
He quietly went back into the living room and slumped down in his easy chair as he studied the printouts. The mantel clock was striking two o’clock when he finished reading.
Experts seemed to agree that hysterical amnesia resulted from a person’s desire to dissociate from a particularly intolerable situation when the victim chose to block out that incident and everything that went before it.
Leaning his head against the back of the chair, he closed his eyes as he tried to digest the information. One unrelenting question stabbed at him with demanding clarity.
What was the intolerable situation that made Trish choose to lose her memory?
Chapter Three
When Trish got up the next morning, Andrew was already gone, and her sense of well-being faded instantly as she faced another long day alone. Somehow she hadn’t expected him to go to the office two days in a row. Even though she was tempted to go back to bed, she dressed slowly in the undergarments she’d washed out the night before, and put on the same white slacks and blouse.
The same swirl of disorientation poured over her as she moved about the kitchen. Just like the first morning, he had made coffee, but there was no sign that he’d already had breakfast. Maybe he hadn’t gone to work. Her hands were suddenly clammy and cold even though they circled a hot mug. Could he have decided to take matters into his own hands and gone to the authorities? What if he reported that a strange, delusional woman had invaded his house? Surely, the authorities would come for her. And then what? Maybe she was responsible for something terrible. For the first time, she entertained an unnamed guilt, and a fear that whatever had happened to her, she had brought it on herself.
Panic suddenly overwhelmed her. She set down her coffee cup with such force that the liquid spilled all over the table. Everything that lay hidden in her mind seemed to crystallize in one thought—she had to leave the house before the danger lurking in the shadows of her memory found her.
She lurched up from her chair and started across the kitchen toward the back door, but before she reached it, she stopped dead in her tracks, frozen in horror. She was too late! The firm sound of footsteps warned her that someone was coming up the back stairs. They were already here! Before she could turn on her heels and flee, the door opened and she screamed.
Andrew stared at her in disbelief. “Trish, for godsake, what’s the matter?” He’d never seen raw terror on anyone’s face before, but he saw it on hers.
“Andrew,” she breathed, giddy with relief.
“You look as if you were expecting a ghost.” He was wearing a jogging suit, running shoes, and his moist sun-streaked hair was held back with a sweat-band.
“Not a ghost,” she managed, leaning up against the counter to keep her weak knees from buckling.
He searched her ashen face. Who had she expected to see coming through the door? Had her memory returned? “Tell me what’s going on, Trish. I’m not used to being greeted with bone-chilling screams when I come in the door—at least, not so early in the morning,” he added, trying to lighten the situation.
She ran an agitated hand through her dark hair. “I guess I let my imagination run away with me,” she admitted, totally embarrassed by the way she had lost control. “I’m sorry. When you weren’t here, I thought you’d decided to turn me over to someone else. And that frightened me.”
Even though he knew that in her present state, she was vulnerable to distrust, it really bothered him that she thought him capable of callously tossing her out of his house. “I thought we’d agreed on how we were going to handle this thing? Didn’t we?”
His briskness told her that she had offended him, but she didn’t know how to explain that the frightening scenario had developed in her mind because of his absence. She nodded, not wanting to admit that panic had driven everything out of her mind.
“All right, then.” His tone softened. “I promise I won’t do anything without your approval.”
“I’m sorry I jumped to conclusions.”
“You should be. I don’t recall that anything was said about me bringing a paddy wagon up to the back door and hauling you away,” he chided. “At least, not before breakfast.”
In his teasing smile, she saw a steady uncompromising strength that invited her to trust him. She prayed that whatever truth she discovered about herself would not destroy that trust.
“Now, sit down and finish your coffee while I whip up some French toast. Oui, Mademoiselle?”
She laughed at his corny accent, and couldn’t believe how deftly he had changed the whole timber of the day. For the first time since her rescue, her past didn’t seem as important as letting herself momentarily enjoy the present moment.
As the day progressed, there were times when she wished that he wasn’t so intent upon following up every avenue that might end the protective sanctuary that she’d found with him. Deep do
wn, she knew that she was using him as an anchor in the morass of her unknown problems, and that it wasn’t fair to attach herself to him on any emotional level, but she couldn’t help herself.
When he brought her a list of the people who had been reported lost in the state of New Jersey since the storm, she carefully read every name of women in her age group. Saying the name aloud, she paused to see if there was any flicker of familiarity. When she’d made it through the list, her lips trembled as she handed it back to him.
“If my name is there, I don’t recognize it.”
“It’s okay. There are other lists,” he reassured her, even as he hoped that they wouldn’t have to go through the missing persons records for every state in the union. She could have come to New Jersey from anywhere and for a thousand different reasons. “I’ll get a similar list from New York City and Long Island.”
When he gave them to her, Trish was appalled at the hundreds of names of people reported missing in only a three-day period. Once again, she tried to connect any kind of memory with each of the possible names, but with the same result.
“Nothing. I guess this isn’t going to work,” she said, holding back a wash of despair.
He was silent for a moment. “Of course, the best way to handle this might be to come at it from a different way,” he said thoughtfully. “We could pass out flyers with your description and picture and see if—”
“No!” she protested vehemently. “I have to know who I am first. Don’t you understand?”
“I’m not sure I do,” he said quietly. She was suddenly like a wild creature backed into a corner. “I would think that you’d want to use any means you could to find out who you are.”
She searched for words that would help him understand. Drawing a shaky breath, she tried to explain. “There is some deep terror buried within me. I don’t know how to explain it, but I’m afraid that whatever happened to me before is out there waiting to happen again. I have to find out who I am before I’ll feel safe.”
