Brewed Awakening

by Cleo Coyle

  “Madame!”

  TWELVE

  PRACTICALLY leaping from the bed, I couldn’t wrap my arms around her fast enough. She returned the hug with a tight squeeze. Then she tore herself away.

  “We don’t have much time,” she said in a low, conspiratorial voice. “You’re going to be moved upstate, isolated from your friends and family.”

  “I know!”

  “Listen carefully, Clare. You don’t have to be . . .” Madame described her discussion with another psychiatrist, a Stanford professor who did not agree with Lorca’s approach to treatment.

  “I’m glad you told me, because I’ve been having plenty of second thoughts. I don’t want to go upstate. I want to stay with you and learn about my life. I want answers—and coffee! Can you help me get out of here?”

  Madame’s pensive expression turned to one of relief. “If you want out—and coffee—I’m here to help.”

  “You’ll talk to Dr. Lorca for me?”

  “No, dear. We tried that and got nowhere. Since the people who love you don’t trust that man, we’re taking our chances with a slightly unconventional approach to your problem.”

  “What kind of approach?”

  “We’re breaking you out.”

  “Out of this hospital?”

  Madame nodded.

  “When?”

  “Right now, if you’re game.”

  “Are you kidding? The sooner, the better, especially if there’s an adult dose of caffeine in it!”

  “Good! Then we can’t waste any more time—” Madame tugged a bundle from her tote bag. “Change out of your hospital clothes and put on these scrubs. You’ll need a disguise to get off this floor.”

  Happily, I took off my robe and hospital nightgown and unrolled the bundle. “Wait a second. These aren’t real hospital scrubs. They’re covered in sequins!”

  “Yes, dear, I know. Just turn everything inside out!”

  A minute later, Madame was putting on a large rain poncho and pulling the hood over her head. “Camouflage for the elevator and lobby cameras,” she explained.

  Then she tucked the last locks of my unruly hair under the inside-out surgical cap. Finally, she cut off my hospital ID bracelet with the tiny scissors on a Swiss Army knife.

  As I straightened my “scrubs,” she offered one last-minute instruction. “If anyone asks, you’re a member of Dr. Glitter’s staff.”

  “Dr. Glitter?”

  Without further explanation, Madame was already out the door.

  “Lead the way,” she told a handsome young doctor.

  I was about to ask if this was “Dr. Glitter” when I realized this was no doctor—it was Mr. Dante, the young barista who’d hugged me at the Village Blend. He was wearing scrubs, too, and from the way he was twitching, they were inside out and glitter-ized, as well.

  The corridor was free of nurses, but our activity didn’t go unnoticed.

  A bald man with a mustache in a tweedy brown sport coat was sitting in the room across from mine. The room’s door was wide open and the man appeared to be reading aloud to the patient in bed. I’d glimpsed this man several times before, in the hallway outside my room, and assumed he was a hospital volunteer, but the moment he caught sight of me, he dropped the newspaper and rose to his feet. He had a tough-looking face and his dark eyes were staring right at me.

  Madame and Mr. Dante didn’t appear to notice this man, but it didn’t matter. Before I knew it, we were around the corner, and the bald man with the mustache was out of sight.

  The three of us hurried down the hallway to join a small crowd getting into an elevator. I turned in time to see the bald man racing toward us, calling loudly for someone to hold the door. Madame reached out to stop it from closing, but I slapped her hand aside. As the car descended, I could hear him cursing.

  “Why did you do that?” she whispered, careful to keep her head down, her face away from the elevator camera.

  “Something tells me he’s not just a hospital volunteer.”

  A few tense minutes later, we were moving across the crowded lobby and onto the sidewalk.

  “What now?” I asked.

  “We watch for our getaway car.”

  As we stood at the curb, a figure hurried toward us. Like Madame, this person (man? woman? I couldn’t tell) was wearing an oversized rain poncho with the hood pulled up and his or her face directed down.

  When this person reached us, I blinked in surprise, recognizing Esther, the zaftig barista with black glasses who’d screamed and cried when she saw me standing in the middle of the Village Blend.

  Madame faced her with a frown. “Where’s Tucker?”

  “He’s charm-schooling the nurses to cover our tracks. He told me to go, that he would be fine.”

  Seconds later, a black SUV rolled up and we climbed in. Behind the wheel, a broad-shouldered figure in a dark hoodie told us to hurry up and close the doors.

  Oh, no, I thought. It can’t be . . .

  But it was. The driver’s voice belonged to my lying, cheating ex-husband, Matteo Allegro.

  “Strap in,” he ordered, pulling away from the curb. “This is going to be a bumpy ride.”

  THIRTEEN

  “STOP the car!”

  I fumbled with my seat belt and the door handle at the same time.

  “Clare, the car is moving!” Madame cried. “Do you want to get killed?”

  “I’d rather be dead—or committed to a mental hospital—than ride in this vehicle with that man. In fact, if I stay, I probably should be committed because I could not possibly be sane!”

  Madame’s violet eyes were pleading. “Be reasonable. You can’t just get out of the car. Where would you go? You have no money, no clothes.”

  “Clare! Please listen—” Matt’s gaze found mine in the rearview mirror. “The bad stuff that happened between us was many years ago. I haven’t done drugs in a decade, and since the divorce you and I have become good friends and business partners.”

  “Global amnesia or not, I find that very hard to believe!”

  “It’s true. Try to remember—”

  “Focus on the road, son,” Madame commanded. “We must stay ahead of rush hour at the Lincoln Tunnel.”

  “Lincoln Tunnel? Are we going to New Jersey? Are you taking me home—”

  As soon as I said it, I checked myself. Dr. Lorca had made it clear that my life in New Jersey was in the past, completely over. Frustrated, I felt tears forming.

  “Be strong, child.” Madame patted my hand. “We have a plan to keep you safe and help with your memory. This is just a short diversion, so no one can find—”

  Matt’s curse silenced her. “Everyone, stay calm,” he ordered, his gloved hands tightening on the steering wheel. “And for God’s sake don’t turn around.”

  Esther and Mr. Dante stopped short of doing just that.

  “There’s a cop car right behind us,” Matt informed us. “I think these guys may have spotted my counterfeit license plates. If they call us in, we’re sunk. I don’t see us winning a high-speed car chase through Manhattan or—”

  Matt went quiet when the NYPD patrol car activated its roof light and blasted the siren. No one in the vehicle took a breath until the police sped around us and up First Avenue, its siren fading as it went.

  We all stayed quiet after that. Matt made a few turns and reached the Lincoln Tunnel well before rush hour. We made it through in less than thirty minutes, but we didn’t stay on the highway. We took the first exit in New Jersey. Then we traveled through Weehawken and along the riverfront.

  By now, the rain clouds had cleared, so we could see for miles when we passed Hamilton Park, site of that fateful Hamilton-Burr duel. With its view from the top of the Palisades, the park’s landscape was striking. All around us autumn’s colorful leaves swayed with the breezes whil
e, across the river, Manhattan’s fixed skyscrapers sparkled in the afternoon sun.

  Soon we reached a residential area of large houses and expansive lawns. Two more turns, and we hit a narrow backstreet, ending on what appeared to be an unpaved driveway flanked by bushes and tall trees.

  “What is this?” I asked.

  “A local lovers’ lane,” Matt replied, “but it’s too early for any action. The place should be deserted.”

  I sighed in disgust. “So, you were cheating on me in the States, too?”

  Matt’s eyes left the road for a second to meet mine. “What are you talking about?”

  “This place. How many women have you brought to this so-called lovers’ lane?”

  “None. I’ve never been here before.” Matt took one hand off the steering wheel to wave a crinkled piece of paper. “I followed this map.”

  “Oh, really? And who gave you this map? Anyone I know?”

  “Our daughter.”

  “What?”

  “Joy told me she came here in high school.”

  Dumbstruck and horrified at the same time, I suddenly lost my ability to speak.

  “Don’t worry,” Matt went on. “She didn’t lose her virginity here. That didn’t happen until after she graduated.”

  “Too much information!” I cried, covering my ears.

  “Sorry,” Matt said. “But I didn’t want you to think that I ever came here. Oh, bad choice of words. I mean—I never came here with a woman. I mean—”

  “We know what you meant, son!” Madame declared. “Just drive!”

  The SUV bounced along the narrow path until we reached a large clearing of dirt and grass, bounded by a battered chain-link fence. Only one vehicle was parked here, a dingy white panel van. Nothing else was in sight, except the trees around us and (beyond the fence) a view of the city skyline, rising up across the Hudson River far below.

  Matt stopped and cut the engine.

  “Everybody out! Stretch your legs.”

  “Then what?” I asked.

  “Then we’re all getting into that van.”

  FOURTEEN

  ESTHER frantically waved her hand, but Matt already knew her question—

  “If you need a bathroom break, the bushes are over there.”

  “Excuse me? Do I look like Jane Goodall?”

  “Rough it or hold it,” Matt said, “your choice.”

  “Spoken like a guy who’s spent the better part of his life in the wilderness.”

  “Hey, I brought towelettes.”

  He held out a few packets. Esther groaned, snatched them, and ran toward the brush. Then Matt unlocked the van and handed Madame a gym bag. She passed it to me.

  “What’s this?” I asked.

  “I brought some of your things,” she said. “Change out of those glitter scrubs and put on these clothes.”

  I found a cluster of bushes away from Esther. The area really was private. No people, no buildings, just the Manhattan skyline peeking through the swishing autumn leaves. I found it oddly comforting. Out of that suffocating hospital room, I could breathe again—and almost hear the sounds of the city over the whooshing Palisades wind.

  When I rejoined the group, I was wearing jeans that seemed overly tight around my legs (the fashion now, apparently). Half boots with low heels were comfortable on my feet, but I was shivering slightly under the thin hooded sweatshirt.

  “Goodness, Clare, you’re turning blue!”

  Madame, who’d exchanged her crinkly rain poncho for a belted cashmere coat, now wrapped me in a baseball-style jacket displaying the same Poetry in Motion logo emblazoned on Esther’s T-shirt and matching jacket.

  “What is Poetry in Motion?” I asked, pointing to the words. “A running club?”

  “More like a running-your-mouth club,” Esther replied, folding up her rain poncho.

  “Tell me,” I said. “I’d like to know.”

  She shrugged. “It’s part of my urban outreach work. I’m not just a barista. I’m also a grad student at NYU.”

  “And a poet,” Madame said.

  “And a local rap artist,” Mr. Dante added.

  “I don’t rap as much these days,” Esther admitted, “though my fiancé does. That’s how I met him. Anyway, I’ve been coaching inner-city kids who have an interest in the language arts. The Village Blend has been a big part of that.”

  I stared in amazement. “Am I a rapper, too?”

  Esther laughed. “No, boss. But you’ve been a big booster for my kids.”

  “I have?”

  “Sure! You’ve allowed us to host free poetry slams on the Village Blend’s second floor. And you’ve helped us raise the money for trips to regional and national slams.”

  “That’s . . . really nice.”

  “Yes, it is,” Madame cut in, handing me a brown paper bag. Inside I found a blond wig and thick-framed black eyeglasses like the ones perched on Esther’s face.

  “Is it Halloween?”

  “No. But you need a costume, and our Tucker came through with props. He’s a firm believer in disguise. Given our situation, I can’t say I disagree.”

  Tucker—whoever he was—certainly had the right idea. With my chestnut ponytail pinned under the Goldie Hawn wig and with the glasses on my nose, I hardly recognized my own reflection in the van’s side-view mirror.

  While Mr. Dante changed clothes in the bushes, Matt wiped down the interior of the SUV we had abandoned.

  “Just to be sure,” he said. “No fingerprints.”

  Then my ex checked the small black device in the cigarette lighter, though he didn’t pull it out.

  “What is that?” I asked. “Did you take up smoking?”

  “This is an Auto-Block. I’ve got one in the van, as well.”

  “What does it do?”

  “Disables GPS tracking.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “GPS,” Matt repeated. “That’s Global Positioning System technology.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  He studied me. “How far back is your memory actually blocked?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Here’s a test. Do you still remember Star Trek?”

  I folded my arms. “Captain Kirk, Mr. Spock.”

  “Okay then, the Auto-Block is like a cloaking device for modern satellite-tracking technology.” As he spoke, he circled the SUV and began replacing the fake license plates with the originals. “A friend in Brooklyn lent me both vehicles. He’ll pick up this SUV tonight. With these phony plates visible on all the traffic cameras that followed us through Manhattan, there’s no way this will be traced to him, or to us. And the Auto-Block will leave no record of our travels.”

  “Still a schemer, I see. And you still have . . . interesting friends.”

  Matt shot me one of his trademark grins. Through his dark beard, it flashed even brighter. “Doing business stateside is the same as anywhere else on the globe, Clare. With the right connections—and cold, hard currency—you can acquire whatever you need.”

  A cynical view, but I didn’t disagree.

  Mr. Dante, sans scrubs, rejoined us, and Madame bagged all the old attire, the phony license plates, and the wiping cloth. Then we all boarded the dingy white van.

  Matt resumed his role as driver with Mr. Dante riding shotgun, while I followed Esther and Madame through the sliding side door. There were no windows in back—making me wonder just why I needed a disguise—but there were plenty of seats, and the heater was running full blast (a definite plus).

  As we all strapped in, Matt started the engine and adjusted the rearview until he caught his mother’s eye.

  “Where to?”

  “Back to Manhattan,” she said. “We have an important stop to make.”

  As we drove away, I thought over what Esth
er had told me—about her outreach with inner-city kids and the poetry slams on the Village Blend’s second floor. Closing my eyes, I tried to remember anything that could have been part of what she’d described. But there was nothing.

  I shook my head, frustrated at the blank.

  “Were you trying to remember something?” Esther asked.

  “It’s like walking along a hotel hallway, but all the rooms are locked.” I faced her. “You’re really a poet?”

  She nodded and, for a minute, glanced down in thought.

  “Dark coffee’s deep, so is your memory,” she whispered. “Pour out the fear that leaves you blind. Try not to worry. No need to hurry.” She squeezed my shoulder. “You’ll find your New York state of mind.”

  FIFTEEN

  A short time later, my state of mind was the same, though the actual state had changed.

  After inching through the Lincoln Tunnel, we were back in New York, and (immediately) stuck in standstill traffic. That was when the argument began. From the sound of it, this discussion had started before I’d entered the picture.

  “Okay, Mother,” Matt said, “let’s get this over with. Have you finally decided where we’re going to stash Clare? And please don’t dismiss my idea.”

  Madame let out an exasperated sigh. “I don’t want Clare staying in a strange place. Remember what our Stanford professor said about finding keys to unlocking her memories? Don’t you think we’re better off finding them if she stays in a familiar place?”

  “With familiar people,” Matt added.

  “Precisely.”

  “And that is precisely where the police will look for her,” Matt said. “I didn’t drive all the way to New Jersey to switch vehicles just to get caught now. My plan is better.”

  Madame pursed her lips. “I don’t know—”

  “Well, I do. The Hamptons house is perfect. Far from the city, but not too far. The summer people are long gone, so things will be quiet out there. And the address is untraceable to Clare. Even though Breanne left me the place as part of our divorce settlement, her name is still on the books as the owner.”