You Are Here

by S. M. Lumetta

  Vivi initially came to my room while my injuries healed and I lacked the energy to go to her office. She made it clear from the beginning that she wasn’t going to pussyfoot around any issues, which both relieved and terrified me. When I confessed to the vision, she stumbled.

  “Wait, what? Is that—are you saying you remember your boyfriend?” She looked up from her notes and scooted the chair noisily across the linoleum toward my bed.

  “No.” I’d shaken my head, certainty warming me from the center of my being. “This hasn’t happened yet.”

  She’d blinked three or four times before her mouth hung open in anticipation of her next question. “Are you sure?” She had scoffed at herself, choosing to rephrase. “That is, it may just be a memory of how you met. Sounds like a great love at first sight story to me.”

  “I realize it sounds ridiculous, lady, but if there’s anything I do know,” I’d said through my teeth, defensive and embarrassed, “it’s that this. Has not. Happened. I remember gagging on those horrible runny eggs for breakfast yesterday—I nearly yakked all over the floor. That kind of memory feels different. This one feels … anticipatory.”

  She’d held my eyes for a moment before looking down and scribbling on her notepad. “Okay. What makes you so certain it’s different?”

  “I feel it in my gut. It’s called instinct.”

  To my surprise, she hadn’t reacted to my impatience, but moved on to ask questions about every detail, physical and perceptual, surrounding the premonition. In every subsequent meeting, she’d tried to trigger memories and always prodded for my feelings on everything.

  Remembering how kindly she’d treated me despite the crazy-sounding claim of clairvoyance, I felt even worse about offending her. I was struck by the oppressive feeling of guilt, the strongest reaction I’d had to anything since I awoke with no memory.

  ~

  When an orderly showed up to take me to my morning session, I refused to get out of bed.

  “I remember you,” I said, my voice weak and sad even to my ears. “Hank, right?”

  His demeanor visibly shifted from professional distance to childlike surprise. “Yeah, that’s me. Most people don’t bother to learn my name.”

  I smiled for show. “I have a lot of room up here,” I said, tapping my temple.

  He frowned, but checked himself. He insisted we had to get to Vivien’s office, but I told him I couldn’t go. Eventually he left.

  It wasn’t long before Vivien herself arrived at my door, appearing incredibly uncomfortable. “May I come in?”

  I set down the September 2009 issue of Popular Photography I was perusing for the third time in as many days. I was at once nervous and hopeful. I chewed the dry peeling skin on my lower lip. “Of course. Please.”

  Hesitantly, she came in, set her briefcase to the side, and sat primly in the guest chair. Gulping and inhaling slowly, she released her breath and looked me in the eyes.

  “I apologize, Lucie,” she began, “but I have to recuse myself as your therapist.”

  My stomach plummeted to my feet. Given my overstep at our session, I couldn’t fault her. “I understand. I’m sorry for getting so personal. It was—”

  She trampled my apology as though she hadn’t heard me. “I shouldn’t … I shouldn’t share this, but I miscarried just after the New Year.”

  I gasped, feeling the delayed aftershock of an epic case of foot in mouth.

  “Crap,” I said, brilliantly. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Don’t apologize, please. It is crap because this is my third. I keep avoiding the tests they want to do.” She pauses to laugh humorlessly. “Stupid, right? I help people face their fears for a living, but I refuse to face my own.”

  I felt like I was watching a car wreck. She stood and pulled a Lady Macbeth, wearing circles in the floor and wringing her hands. She would stop and go, avoiding various mental walls while worries and obstacles bubbled off her tongue. Soon enough, she went silent and stepped up to the side of my bed. It was only then that I understood that the nerves were all a preamble to the greater precipice. I watched her gather her courage and leap.

  “You asked me when I was due. Why? What did you see?”

  False hope was a horrible thing, and though I firmly believed in the truth of each foresight thus far, the last thing I wanted to do was mislead anyone.

  Suspended in a brief reticence, we eyed each other with similar scrutiny. I deliberated but eventually opted for utter transparency.

  First asking her to sit, I kept my voice low as I recounted the premonition clearly, as if I were watching it on the wall behind her. When I’d finished the short but vivid story, I watched her tears fall in horror. Telling her had clearly been a mistake. I opened my mouth to apologize again, but she jumped up and hugged me, practically landing in my lap.

  “Okay, if anything is inappropriate, it might be this,” I half joked. A big part of me relished the affection, however awkward and potentially unprofessional. I had the sinking notion that it was something my life had sorely lacked.

  She snorted a laugh and released me, standing up straight. Now unguarded and off the clock, Vivien Bonnar was an entirely different person. “It’s so dangerous for me to believe you, but I can’t stop myself from hoping. At worst, it reminds me that it’s still possible.”

  I smiled, relieved.

  “I’m also absolutely positive that I cannot be your therapist.”

  “Yeah, you broke up with me already,” I said, snark and sarcasm saving me from the dread of seeing someone else and talking through all this crap again.

  She laughed and it brightened my spirits. “I’ll make sure you’re referred to someone great, I promise. Don’t worry! I can see your wheels churning.”

  “Now who’s psychic?”

  “Well,” she said, grinning widely. She leaned forward to squeeze my hand. “I hope I’m not overstepping any bounds myself by asking if you could deal with me as your friend?”

  “Excuse me?” Trying to loosen her up during our daily sessions over the past couple of weeks had failed to significantly crack her professional demeanor. I couldn’t help but be surprised.

  She laughed again, louder. “What? You don’t have room in your entourage?”

  I smirked. “Rude.”

  I felt better than I could remember.

  Chapter Two

  Grey

  Numb

  I scanned the entirety of the rundown restaurant, spotted my reflection in the window, and paused. Washed out and pale with a generous five o’clock shadow, I turned away. I knew what I looked like, but it was all a lie. I didn’t really exist. And after more than a decade in this profession, that was probably the only thing I truly believed.

  I was a faceless, nameless ghost. No one noticed me unless I wanted them to, and if I did, I was the last thing they saw.

  Assassin, hitman, mercenary. No matter the title, I was the definition of a killer and an unfortunate reality most of the world would rather not acknowledge.

  The air conditioning in the diner was maxed—unsurprising for July in the South. The row of windows along the front offered an unobstructed view of the parking lot and adjacent roads. With five families, two senior couples peppering the booths and three separate men at tables, the diner was busy but not overcrowded. The long, curved counter hosted a solitary truck driver and a couple of young girls a few seats down from me.

  I occupied the end with a full scope of the room. I kept silent, the wall at my back. Not paranoia, just routine. For me, though, they were the same thing.

  One by one I sized them up. Evaluating surroundings for potential threats was second nature.

  The clinking of dishes and pans and the sizzling of the grill told me the number of kitchen staff—five, not including the waitstaff going in and out. Of those, there were three. Some conversations were muddled and quiet, attempting privacy, while others, like the largest of the families, clucked and snapped obnoxiously. The oldest had been grounded for
sneaking out her window to see her boyfriend. The youngest two dueled with lightsabers via the available spoons, complete with sound effects.

  Two tables over, an elderly couple silently eschewed conversation for staring blankly out the window. The wife absently picked at her mashed potatoes and smacked her dentures.

  I avoided eye contact with the two girls and sipped my ice water. One giggled and whispered to the other, throwing glances my way. I didn’t have to look to see. My better-than-average hearing picked up plenty, and I rarely had to look directly at a person to catch pertinent information.

  “He’s so hot,” one said. “I wonder if his—”

  I sighed, cutting off the audio feed. I groaned and set down the last bone of my spare ribs. I was killing time. My trigger finger twitched. Overuse, perhaps.

  The waitress returned with packets of hand wipes to clean the sauce from my fingers. I thanked her and asked quietly for the check. She winked as she dug in her apron for the slip. I fixed my gaze on the Formica in front of me, cracking the slightest of smiles. I had to remind myself to act like a normal human being, part of functioning society. How else was I to go undetected? I had a job to do.

  I tossed a bill on the check, providing an ample tip. Good, but not too much. Throwing a quick glance out the window, I noted it was almost dark. The city’s skyline faded past orange. Clouds were rolling in.

  Time to get to work.

  Chapter Three

  Lucie

  Adrift

  “So how did you feel when you woke up?” Vivi asked, shoving a handful of cheese fries in her mouth. The possibility of any coworkers witnessing her potato slaughter in the middle of the cafeteria clearly did not faze her.

  When she had stopped by to check in and ask me “out to lunch,” I asked her if visiting me was part of her community service hours.

  “Naked midnight yoga in the park is a perfectly legitimate pastime—despite what the law says,” she deadpanned.

  “I told you,” I said, blinking away the disturbing image of her packing away so many fries. “I panicked! I knew basic facts, I remembered how to tie my shoes and all that, but I was gone. I had nothing to center me. It was terrifying.”

  She held up a hand as she swallowed.

  “Thanks for not speaking with your mouth full. Again,” I teased, to which she flipped me the bird. “Elegant.”

  She grabbed for another round of fries but spoke again before inhaling them. “So you weren’t blank.”

  I crossed my eyes and let my mouth drop open in a zombie-like groan. “You can be blank and panic.”

  “You were confused,” she continued, pausing to gulp down some ginger beer. “The situation created fear.”

  “I thought you fired yourself as my therapist?”

  She froze, her eyes wide and playful. It was a little jarring, given how professional and straitlaced she was in session. Her lower lip jutted out as she seemed to shrug her entire body. “I’m talking to you as your friend.”

  Her broad smile told me otherwise. “You’re just nosy.”

  “Friends are the nosiest.”

  “I’ll have to take your word for it,” I muttered, my amusement dying a little. I didn’t feel sorry for myself, though. It felt good to have a friend, even if I didn’t remember what it was like. It was more than a vague inclination that I had no one outside of my parents, an inclination proven by the lack of visitors. That only made me more curious and a little sad. But as much as I wanted to know why I didn’t have anyone, I found myself equally apprehensive of possibly getting an answer.

  Her expression was anything but solemn. “Good, you should.” She winked, but got a little more serious. “Your nurse Mary Lynn said you had a neighbor ask after you yesterday.”

  I nodded slowly. “Sweet lady but I didn’t recognize her. She said we moved from Long Island a couple years ago. Her son asked me out once, but apparently my dad wouldn’t have it. Don’t remember that either and yes, she showed me a picture of the son—definitely not my stranger,” I said, pointedly addressing the ideas she entertained if the sparkle in her eyes was any indication. “In any case, she couldn’t tell me much else except that we mostly kept to ourselves but were friendly. Nothing clicked, so she offered her condolences and left.”

  It’d been a fair disappointment. I had already struck out with school records—they couldn’t find any on me in New York, Pennsylvania, or New Jersey. They’d widened to a national database, but nothing so far. I have no idea if I was homeschooled or went under a different name. “Lucie Gideon” had registered for Rutgers University at some point, but never attended in person. I took some online classes but didn’t complete a degree.

  The knot of anxiety tightening in my stomach became uncomfortable. I had to divert the focus. “Why are you so interested in being my friend, anyway?”

  She eyeballed me, but I stared her down.

  She sighed, grabbing a napkin to wipe cheese off her fingers.

  “I promise,” she said, “it’s not about your vision. You just have a … a carácter vivaz as my abuelita used to say. My grandmother was forty-seven when she came to New York from Argentina with her three kids and my sixty-year-old grandfather, who was actually Italian by birth.” She stopped to laugh, remembrance shining in her eyes. “Sorry, I digress. What I mean is you have this fire. It reminds me of my best friend from high school. Jade had an amazing kind of heart—she was brutally honest, funny, and kind. And I get a similar feeling from you, so I’m following a hunch that you could be the kind of valuable friend she was.”

  “That’s a gamble,” I said, hollowed by the truth in my words.

  She grinned and narrowed her eyes. “No risk, no reward.”

  I looked down, possibly blushing, and picked up a cold fry, nibbling the cheesy end. Still good. “So, don’t you see her anymore?”

  The smile left her eyes. “She died in college. Drunk driver broadsided her.”

  “Oh, God,” I groaned, grabbing her hand. “Are epic cases of foot in mouth common in amnesiacs?”

  She laughed before we decided to wrap up our cafeteria stay. She walked me and my IVs back to my room where she promised to visit again soon and bring some magazines from this decade.

  Vivi’s visits continued just about daily unless work kept her away or I was in a mental or physical therapy session. “I’m not stalking,” she said at one point. “I’m already in the hospital anyway.”

  As promised, she brought magazines of various types, so I might see what interested me. I felt as if she was still on the job, but I didn’t mind the kindness. I came to rely on her visits—someone who was not looking to take my pulse or my statement. Still, I found it comforting to talk about how my sessions were going with her. It was better therapy in a way. She was quickly becoming my rock, and I told her I feared that I was becoming too attached.

  “Sorry, I’m married,” she answered drily.

  “Viv.”

  “But, you know, Nash might not mind a sisterwife. He’s got some kink.”

  “I haven’t even met the man,” I reminded her with mock disgust. “Why would you poison the well like that?”

  “I like to make him look like a complete deviant. It amuses me,” she said, flipping through a magazine. “Especially since he’s an attorney.”

  “I’m not sure that’s a stretch.”

  “See? Now you’re getting it. Besides, there’s nothing wrong with kink.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Noted, doctor.”

  “As a matter of fact, when he blindfolds me and—”

  I threw my pillow at her to keep her from elaborating.

  She laughed and kept talking, obliterating any chance I had of keeping a straight face when I finally met Nash Bonnar in person.

  Our conversations usually volleyed from the serious to inane topics such as pop culture—admittedly the bulk of which was news to me unless it referred to Elvis, Johnny Cash, or The Wizard of Oz. Go figure. Knowing details on a few celebs or a movie but not whe
re I went to high school sometimes got to me, and I would get frustrated. So Vivi would distract me with a ridiculous comment or get really crazy and toss off something completely logical.

  “Neurologists don’t fully understand how amnesia works, so there’s no reason you should,” she told me. “Unless, of course, you were a neurologist, in which case, that’s just a cruel irony.”

  I snorted, amused, but something was on my mind. It was almost a month since I awoke, but I could recall little to nothing about my life before the attack. I still marveled that I didn’t suffer more anxiety as I had initially. I felt like I should be worried, but I wasn’t. I couldn’t remember my birthday, first kiss, or anything like that. The first time I caught my reflection in a darkened window, I’d only seen a stranger with uneven, chin-length red hair and wide dark gray eyes.

  As I turned to look into the mirror in the bathroom, I saw the same girl and wondered what her secrets were. I stared for a few moments longer and my reflection winked. I gasped and blinked hard, the self-assuredness quaking as I struggled to confirm that I hadn’t simply winked at myself. But then deep down, I felt comfort—a certainty—that told me it had come from wherever my premonitions spring. The stranger I saw was me. It was a vision without closing my eyes. I couldn’t explain it even if I were the most eloquent speaker on earth, but I knew it. I took a deep breath and a quick sip of the water on my side table and shook it off. My lips curled as I shifted my focus back to Vivi, who was evaluating me with a strange look on her face.

  “How long do I have to stay here?” I asked softly.

  The question must have surprised her. She went still, twisting the medallion on her necklace. “Oh, uh, I don’t know. How is physical therapy going? Are your burns healing all right?”

  My shoulders sagged. “Yeah. There are a few small spots that are deeper and more severe than just second degree, but Dr. Ford said—”

  “I told you Holden’s my brother, right? Call him Denny. It really irritates him.”

  I nodded, waving my hand in a small motion indicating that we’d covered that. “Right, so as long as the burns don’t get infected, they should heal over without needing skin grafts. Bonus.”