I couldn’t sleep so I pulled out my laptop from the coffee table drawer and opened it up. I did a Google search to find out what I could do to help Joyce get her memory back. There were 9,680,000 results for amnesia and how to help. Most of it was clinical. I’d have to ask Veronica for a recommendation. But what I needed to know now was how I could help her, myself. I felt like I was fumbling around in the dark and about to stub my toe on a chair leg. I refined my search and found a couple of things that might help.
Joyce was apparently suffering from retrograde amnesia, meaning her memories were still there, they’d just been disconnected from her brain. One website suggested that using music might trigger a memory. I loved music of all kinds so tomorrow I will play different types of music and see if anything resonated with her. That could be fun. Another website told me what I shouldn’t do, which was to ask her if she remembered something or someone. I needed to keep it conversational, not interrogational.
Suddenly, I heard a scream. One that I had heard before, and it sent chills up my spine. I grabbed my gun from the drawer and ran to the bedroom. “Joyce! Joyce, are you all right?” I blew through the door, holding my gun up and ran to the bed. “Joyce?”
Her eyes were closed and she was thrashing her arms in the air. She was having a nightmare, a violent one from the look of it. “Joyce, wake up.” I shook her shoulder with my free hand and she shot up in bed, screaming. Her eyes were wild, unfocused, and her face was stark white. She looked at me but wasn’t seeing me. Is she seeing her attacker? “Joyce, it’s me—”
She shrieked and jumped off the bed on the opposite side and wedged herself into the corner, pulling her knees up and burying her head in her arms.
I put my gun on the dresser and walked around the bed and knelt in front of her. I was afraid to touch her, though my heart told me to grab her up and hold her until the terror passed. My recent research suggested that I let her talk through it, but my police training demanded that I get her to answer questions as soon as possible. “It’s okay. You’re safe now.”
She lifted her head, and her eyes began to focus on me. “Trina?”
“Yeah, it’s me. That must have been some nightmare. Want to tell me about it?”
She pushed her hair from her face. “It was horrible. Someone had grabbed me from behind, and I couldn’t move. I couldn’t breathe. His hand was over my mouth.
I tried to keep my expression supportive, but inside I was screaming, “What did he look like!”
She rubbed her arm where the bruising was. Her eyes fluttered and then filled with tears. “He held me, I couldn’t move, and… I don’t remember the rest.”
I knew her memory loss was a protective mechanism that victims used to keep from reliving the assault. And I also knew that until they did relive it, they could not begin to heal. But I wasn’t going to push her to do that. She needed a good therapist to help her through it. Still, if she could describe the guy, it would help me find her rapist.
“Did you get a look at the guy?”
“No.”
“Was he tall, bulky, any distinguishing marks on him or his clothes?”
“No! Please don’t make me remember that!” She jumped up and crawl across the bed, then ran out of the bedroom and into the bathroom.
Damn it! I walked into the hallway and heard the water running in the tub. She was taking another bath. She may not remember the incident, but her body did. Taking another bath was her subconscious way of cleansing the nightmare, washing away the rape.
I tapped softly on the bathroom door. “Joyce, are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” she replied through the door.
“Okay. I’ll be right out here if you need me.”
She mumbled something, but I couldn’t make it out. I heard a splash and knew she was getting in the tub. I checked to see if she’d locked the door, and she had. I knew I would have to break it down somehow if she got into trouble… if she tried to commit suicide. I had seen it happen before and panic swell up in the pit of my stomach. I stood in front of the door, listening. There was no sound for the longest time, then I heard sniffling that became louder as she released the tears. I wanted so desperately to break down the door and console her, but I didn’t. Common sense told me that would only make things worse for her. But I had to do something.
I went into the kitchen and pulled the wine from the refrigerator. Popping the cork, I collected two wine glasses from the cabinet and carried them into the living room. Placing them on the coffee table, I remembered that I had left my gun in the bedroom. I retrieved it, listened at the bathroom door for a minute, then put the gun back in the drawer where she wouldn’t see it. Finally, I turned on the television, selected a movie to watch, and waited.
Chapter Six
Was it Just a Nightmare? – Jane Doe aka Joyce
Tears ran down my cheeks, splashing into the water that surrounded and comforted me. It was real. It did happen. The nightmare tormented me with the shadow of the man who held me, but there was another. I couldn’t see his face, either. He wore a mask. They pushed me down and began tearing my clothes off... They were laughing. I was begging them to stop and they laughed at me. The man on top of me said that he was going to show a snitch what happened when…what? I can’t remember. I don’t want to remember!
Sliding down in the tub until the water covered my head, I opened my eyes, and looked up. Tiny air bubbles danced to the surface, causing ripples to expand across the water. Beautiful. Everything looked different under the water, brighter, cleaner. The warm water embraced me, soothed me, and I found myself wishing I was in the ocean and could just swim to the bottom. It had to be so much prettier at the bottom of the ocean. So much safer.
I opened my mouth and let the water run in. I thought I would be at peace, that I could end the nightmare, but I was wrong. I slapped the water as I sat up, splashing water everywhere. No! I would not give my attackers the satisfaction of knowing that they had that much control over me. I had to find a way to survive this and take back the control they thought they had. I have to find a way to not be so frightened. First, I had to find a way to get out of this tub and leave the sanctuary of its safety… no, Trina, Trina was my sanctuary. She would keep me safe until I could fight for myself. When will that be?
Learning Who You Are – Trina Wiles
The bathroom door opened and she stepped out wearing my robe. She looked around cautiously and when our eyes met, she relaxed and walked over.
“Feel better?” I asked, noticing her red, swollen eyes.
“I guess,” she replied, looking down at the bottle of wine. “Is one of those glasses for me?”
“Absolutely,” I answered, picking up a glass and the bottle of wine. I filled her glass and handed it to her. Then I poured a glass for myself. Personally, I don’t like wine, I just keep a bottle in the fridge for when I bring a date home. That bottle of wine had been in the fridge for almost a year. “So, I thought maybe we’d watch a movie and just relax for a while. Do you like musicals?” I grimaced when I realized she wouldn’t know the answer.
She shook her head, but she didn’t appear upset by the question. “I’m not sure. Let’s watch one and find out.”
“I like your attitude,” I said with a smile. “This movie is called The Greatest Showman and stars Hugh Jackman.” I watched her eyes for any recognition, but there wasn’t any.
She sat down on the couch next to me, and I hit the play button on the remote. Then I reached over and dimmed the lamp. I felt almost guilty because if I had been on a date, this would have been the perfect romantic interlude to something more physical. But I wasn’t trying to bed her. I was trying to help her chase the monsters away.
“Oh, he’s so handsome,” she exclaimed when Jackman came on the screen.
I admit, I had a moment of disappointment. She was right, he was handsome, but Michelle Williams was just as beautiful. Maybe, when she saw Zendaya, an exquisite actress who took my breath away, she would
produce an equal response. Why does it matter? She had come on to me earlier, but she was, is traumatized, so it did not mean she was gay. That was my wishful thinking. And besides, even if she were gay, she was still off limit because she was a victim.
Joyce sipped on her wine, relaxing enough to enjoy the movie. She leaned toward me and brought her feet up under her, then covered them with the afghan.
“Comfy?” I asked, stretching my legs across the coffee table.
She leaned against my shoulder and shared the afghan with me. “I love this movie— oh, my.” She froze, staring at the TV.
Anne Wheeler, the trapeze artist, played by Zendaya, flew through the air with her bronze skin and pink hair, and Joyce shuddered. She shuddered!
“She is beautiful, isn’t she?” I asked.
“Striking,” she said under her breath. “Um, yes, she’s pretty, I guess.”
That’s not what your body said. Somewhere deep inside of her was the truth of who she really was. I just hoped I had the time to learn the truth.
“Wow, I wish I could dance like that,” Joyce said.
“No reason why you can’t if you want to,” I concluded. “I mean, once you’re feeling better.”
“No, I already feel like a freak. Like the bearded lady.”
I turned my head and looked at her. She looked away, and I couldn’t see her eyes. “Why on earth would you think that?”
She shrugged and leaned forward, retrieving her wine glass. “It’s just a feeling.”
“Would you tell me what it feels like?” I asked more gently.
She leaned back, took a sip of wine, and then held the glass with the palms of her hands. “I can’t look back. There’s nothing there. I can’t remember my mother or father, and I don’t even know if I have siblings. What did I like to do as a child? Was I good in school? Did I have a pet?” She sighed and held her hand out. “It’s a black swirling void, and I can’t see anything and it’s scary as hell. That’s how it feels”
“Hey, when you feel safe again, you will remember everything, I promise.” A promise that I had no way in hell of keeping because it wasn’t up to me. It would be all up to her.
My cell phone that I had left on the coffee table rang, and I set my glass down and picked it up. I recognized my partner’s phone number. “Do you mind, I need to take this?” I asked, hitting the pause button on the movie before Joyce could answer. “Hey, Paul, what’s up?”
“I know it’s late, but I got a hit on your girl’s face,” he replied. “I found her driver’s license.”
“Hell, yeah!” I cheered. “Who is she?”
“Emily Ann Sutherland.”
Smiling, I looked at Joyce and said, “Your name is Emily Ann Sutherland.”
She raised her eyebrows and darted her eyes as she tried the name on. After a moment, she shrugged, shaking her head.
“It didn’t ring a bell,” I said to Paul.
“Try her married name,” he said. “Sister Emily Ann Sutherland of the Sisters of Charity of the Blessed Mother Mary.”
“Oh, shit,” I blurted. I’m going straight to hell.
Chapter Seven
What’s in a Name? – Trina Wiles
“Uh, okay. Thanks, Paul. Text me a photo of her license, will you?” I ended the call before he could answer and tossed the phone on the coffee table. “Holy Mary, Mother of God,” I muttered, raking my fingers through my hair.
“Pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death,” Joyce said, placing her hand on my thigh. “What’s wrong?”
“I found out why you keep remembering Catholic things such as that prayer just now. You’re a nun. Sister Emily Ann Sutherland of the Sisters of Charity of the Blessed Mother Mary.”
She looked at me, her face a complete blank. Then she pulled her hand back. “Oh.”
I felt like I had been hit by a speeding truck. Like I should apologize, but I wasn’t quite sure for what. She was already off limits because she was married but being married to God suddenly made everything seem so sinful. Like wishing she wasn’t a nun, so she wouldn’t remove her hand from my leg. I was sure that had to be a cardinal sin.
“How do you feel about that?” I asked, enlarging the driver’s licensed photo Paul had just texted me. Sister Emily Ann Sutherland. I scanned the details and noticed that she was twenty-eight, two years younger than me. Height was 5’3, eyes blue, which I was mesmerized by each time I gazed into them. Knock it off. The license was issued six months ago.
She shook her head. “I’m not sure. I don’t feel like a nun, but then, I’m not sure what a nun is supposed to feel like. I don’t remember taking my vows. I don’t even remember knowing any nuns, period.”
“Well, why don’t we go to your church tomorrow and speak with the Sisters? Maybe they can fill in the gaps for you.” Paul was already working on locating her family, so this puzzle should come together quicker, now.
“Okay, that sounds good,” she replied, but then creased her forehead. “You won’t leave me there, will you?”
“No. Of course not. Not unless you want to stay,” I replied, a part of me hoping she wouldn’t. Oh, yeah. Straight to hell.
“God, no!” she blurted and then put her fingers to her mouth. “Oh, shit. Should I have said that?”
I couldn’t help but smile at how adorably cute she looked. “Now, don’t decide anything yet. Let’s go and talk with them. You might remember something or someone.”
She nodded, clasping her hands together and laying them in her lap. She was understandably nervous, and this was only the beginning. We continued watching the movie in silence, each lost in our own thoughts. Tomorrow, she may be gone. Her memory may come back when she saw the nuns and she may choose to stay with them. I felt like I was losing a friend. Not that a Sister couldn’t be a friend, it just wasn’t the kind of friendship I wanted with her. I chuckled at the absurdity. What is wrong with me? I counted all the ways she was off limits to me — a victim, a married woman, a nun… How could I be feeling such a deep bond with Joyce so quickly?
I was pulled from my thoughts by something heavy hitting my lap. Joyce had curled up and fallen asleep on me. I looked down at her sleeping form, so sweet, yet vulnerable. My finger brushed her soft cheek as I gently pulled her blond hair from her face. I sat mesmerized, gazing at her. Is this punishment, Lord? Because it damn sure feels like it.
***
I awoke with a start and reached for my gun before I recognized my surroundings. I was on my couch, my gun locked up in the drawer, and someone was banging dishes in the kitchen. Joyce. No, Sister Emily. I stood up, stretched the kinks out of my back and shoulders, and walked into the kitchen.
“Good morning, Sister Emily,” I proclaimed. “Did you sleep well?”
“I did, thank you. You have a very comfortable… um, couch.”
“I’m glad,” I replied and opened the refrigerator door as a distraction. Learning that she was a nun had changed my perspective overnight. There’s a certain formality you use when speaking to a Sister. One of respect but separation. “You don’t have to do the dishes, Sister. I’ll get to them later.”
“Oh, but I wanted to fix you breakfast as a way of saying thank you for being so kind to me.”
“You don’t have to thank me, Sister. I’m just doing my job.”
“Oh…” Her eyes fell, and she turned to the stove.
The second the words came out of my mouth, I regretted them. She had become so much more than a job to me. She was someone I wanted to know, to protect, and to help. Her being a nun had not changed that. It did, however, change the dynamics between us to such a degree that I needed to lock my feelings behind a brick wall and throw away the key.
“I’m sorry, Sister, I didn’t mean it like that.”
She turned and pointed the spatula in her hand at me. “I don’t like this.”
“What? Cooking?”
“No. I don’t know about cooking yet. I’m talking about being called Sister,” she said,
waving the spatula as she spoke. “I don’t know who Sister Emily is, but I was getting to know Joyce, and she suits me better.”
“But…”
Her eyes softened, and her shoulders slouched as she turned back to the stove. It wasn’t a hard thing to do, call a nun by someone else’s name. Not if it meant that much to her. I just wasn’t sure how using the wrong name would help her get her memory back.
“All right, Sister. I’ll call you Joyce.”
She turned back with a smile on her face, and I winked at her.
Holy Mary, Mother of God – Sister Emily aka Joyce
“You know, it’s strange,” I said, stopping at the entrance to the Sisters of Charity of the Blessed Mother Mary.
The building that housed the offices of the Sisters resembled a Southern mansion I had seen in one of Trina’s magazines, with tall pillars and large wooden door. The courtyard was serene, with a waterfall cascading into a pool of shell rock and different shades of yellow mums encircling the pool.
“What’s strange?” Trina asked, turning to me.
“I don’t feel like I should be so terrified of talking to a nun.”
“How do you think you should feel?”
Shrugging, I said, “I don’t know. I feel like this is all my fault, and the Sisters will know it as soon as they see me.”
“Then they would be sinning for passing judgment. That’s God’s job.”
Smiling at her, I put my hand on her arm and squeezed appreciatively before removing it.
“And don’t you dare blame yourself,” she said sternly. “None of what happened to you was your fault. The bastard who did that to you is to blame and rest assured that I’m going to catch him and make him pay.”
Again, I smiled. I could see the trust in her eyes. But then I looked down at the ground, trying to find the right words. “It’s just that I feel like I’m standing outside myself. Afraid to go forward and unable to see the past.”
No Rhyme or Reason Page 4
