Читать книгу Remembering That Night - Stephanie Doyle - Страница 11

CHAPTER TWO

“TELL ME AGAIN WHY WE did this.”

Greg and Chuck sat outside the treatment room in the only hospital in Brigantine. A small facility, it mostly responded to severe sunburns, stomach irritations from too much cotton candy and the unexpected illness or accident that happened while families were on vacation. Brain trauma was no doubt outside their specialty but Greg thought their mystery woman should at least be looked at by a physician. Just because she was speaking with ease and moving without restriction didn’t mean there couldn’t be the possibility of some type of brain event. He’d volunteered to take her and the sheriff gratefully allowed it.

The truth was the small-town sheriff had no idea what to do with the woman. Especially given no crime had been reported that he knew of. Even though they couldn’t charge her with anything, she did volunteer to have her fingerprints taken, if only for the hope of identification. If she was a teacher she would be in the system.

Or if she was a criminal.

She also agreed to let them cut a small piece of her bloodstained dress. That way she could leave wearing it, and if the police needed to they could get a blood type and DNA from the cloth. Greg thought a lawyer might object, but she had willingly agreed to whatever the sheriff wanted.

As if it didn’t occur to her that she might be guilty of anything.

“It’s a Sunday. We’ve got nothing else to do,” Greg said in response to Chuck’s question.

“Dude, speak for yourself. I could be working. Programming my next app. Making my next million.”

“The world does not need another ‘Shoot the Squirrel’ update.”

“That’s the point of apps. You don’t need them. In my next version I was thinking of making the squirrels rabid. So if you don’t shoot them in time, they attack with foam coming out of their mouths.”

“Awesome. Please let me pay ninety-nine cents for foam-mouthed squirrels.”

“Don’t hate the programmer, hate the game.”

“It’s the nice thing to do,” Greg said trying to convince himself there was nothing more going on between him and this woman than a chivalrous act. It wasn’t as if he was trying to save her or anything. Just maybe...help her. A little. Which he didn’t really do anymore, but he was making an exception for her.

Why her?

Annoyed with himself, Greg stood. “She’s lost, helpless. You’re never going to get anywhere with women if you don’t recognize that when the needy, helpless ones come along, you have to step up your game.”

“Hey, I get everywhere with women. I have no problem with you stepping up and playing knight to this damsel in distress. If you think she’s really in distress.”

“She might be,” Greg said ambiguously.

“See, that’s my point. You are never on the fence. Why are you now?”

“Because hysterical amnesia is really hard to accept, but her body wasn’t conveying the tells normally associated with someone lying.”

“Do you hear yourself? You sound like a politician.”

Exactly. He wasn’t willing to commit to an answer. He didn’t want to say she was telling the truth only to look ridiculous for having bought into such an incredulous story. However, he couldn’t say she was lying when he didn’t see any evidence of it.

He suddenly had a new appreciation for politicians. Saying something without saying anything wasn’t easy.

Chuck was staring at him. Greg could feel it, but he didn’t want to acknowledge it. His roommate’s hazel eyes were like beacons of suspicion.

“You’ve got the hots for her.”

Greg closed his eyes. “Why does it always come down to sex with you?”

“Because I’m a man. Hey, I get it. She’s smokin’. Or would be if she wasn’t rocking the Carrie look, but seriously, man, do you really want to go there with a babe who has issues like she does?”

“You are ridiculous,” Greg stated unequivocally. “I refuse to comment further.”

It was at that point that she—because they had no other name for her—emerged from a hallway and walked over to them. She gave a little wave as if she appreciated that they’d waited for her. As if they were her friends. Which, considering that the number of people she knew in the world had been reduced to the officer who found her, the sheriff who questioned her and them, wasn’t all that wrong.

Greg met her halfway. “Well?”

“They took a CAT scan but didn’t find any evidence of a bleed. No bumps, either,” she said pointing to her temple. “And they gave me a concussion test, you know, look up, look down, that kind of thing. The doctor seemed to think I was fine physically. I didn’t know which day of the week it was, but I know who is president. Which is weird.”

Greg nodded. So it was back to hysterical amnesia, most likely brought on by an event. Given that she was rocking the “Carrie look,” as Chuck had previously pointed out, the odds were it had been a fairly traumatic event.

“Did he have any suggestions?”

“There is a specialist at Thomas Jefferson he wants me to see. He said he would call and see if he could get me an appointment tomorrow. It’s a hospital in Philadelphia....”

Her voice trailed off and Greg could see the panic start to take over as the ramifications of what she was saying sunk in. She had no car, no money, no identification. She had no way of getting herself to Philadelphia without hitchhiking.

She didn’t even have a change of clothes. Or a way to clean the ones she had.

“We’ll take you.” The words were out of his mouth even as her breaths grew faster and shorter.

She looked at him. “Why would you do that? You don’t know me.”

“I can’t wait to hear this,” Chuck said coming up behind him.

“Being a good citizen isn’t enough?”

Her suspicion was evident. What was less obvious was the bone-deep fear she was trying to keep at bay, but Greg could see it. “I think I should go back to the police. If they find something out about me...”

“Listen, the sheriff doesn’t have any place to hold you unless it’s in a cell. They already took your prints to run them through the database. If anything hits they will let me know. You trusted us enough to get in a car with us to take you to the hospital. If we were going to hurt you we could have done it then. You need a free place to stay, a shower, a change of clothes and a meal.”

“And you’re going to give me all that? For no reason?”

“Not for no reason. I can’t fully establish if you’re lying or not. If you are, then you’re doing so because you committed a crime and you should be watched by someone. If you’re not, then you’re a fascinating case I would like to explore some more.”

“I’ll bet.” Chuck snorted.

Greg slapped him upside the head.

She looked between the two men. “You’re asking me to trust you when you don’t trust I’m telling the truth. That doesn’t make sense. To go back to your place with you...”

“Both of us,” Chuck interrupted. “We live together.”

Her lips firmed and she shook her head. “I forgot my name. It doesn’t make me an idiot. Going to your home is different than getting in a car when the sheriff knew I was with you.”

“I’ll call the sheriff again. Do you have any choice?”

“Maybe you could drive me around. Back along the highway to Atlantic City. Maybe I’ll see something or remember something.”

“I’m not going to Atlantic City,” Greg told her. He’d pushed it enough as it was. Not that he was fighting any serious urge to gamble. She had become enough of a distraction to take his mind off that. But he was definitely feeling on edge. With her, with the situation. Even with what he was offering.

He could tell himself she was just a lost person he was trying to help out. A nice gesture. Something anyone might do for a fellow human being in need.

It was a lie. He wanted to know if she was telling the truth. He wanted to know where the blood came from. He wanted to know what type of horrible event might have overcome her to the point of erasing her mind. Her memories.

If that was the case, he wanted to cure her and he hadn’t cured anyone in a really long time. Intellectually, he told himself he should resist the temptation. He didn’t cure people anymore. Instinctively, he couldn’t help himself.

“Do either of you know a woman you could call?”

Chuck snorted. “Babe, there are plenty of women I could call. Like on a dime. Drop of a hat. I hit some digits and bam, next thing you know my doorbell is ringing.”

She looked at him skeptically, and then turned to Greg. “Someone you know well. Someone I could ask about what kind of people you are. I have nothing to go on but my gut here. So if I could talk to another woman, have her tell me what kind of men you are, then it would ease my mind.”

Chuck was shaking his head but Greg nodded. He took out his cell and went to his favorites page. Mark’s wife, JoJo, was his first choice. While Mark might be a thorn in his side, his wife had become one of Greg’s favorite people. He hit her number and waited.

“Yo, what’s up?” she answered.

“You in the middle of something?”

“No, Mark and Sophie and I were about to put on a movie and gorge ourselves on popcorn. Why?”

“Who is that?”

Greg could hear Mark asking in the background.

“Tell him it’s your lover,” Greg said wanting to do anything that might push Mark’s buttons.

“You want to get shot? You do remember he’s former CIA.”

Greg knew. It was a risk he was willing to take. “Tell him anyway.”

“I will not. I like you too much,” she teased.

“Listen, I have someone here. A woman. She’s in trouble and I’ve offered to help her out. But she obviously doesn’t know me or trust me. She would like to talk to someone I know.”

“Oh, this sounds promising. Put her on.”

Greg handed over his cell phone. “Her name is JoJo. She and her husband are people I’ve worked with.”

She took the phone and said hello. “Mostly I want to know if I can trust him and his friend Chuck.”

It sounded to him as if JoJo was doing a lot of explaining. He could hear her talking on the other end of the phone but couldn’t distinguish exactly what she was saying. Greg figured it would be a yes-or-no answer, but apparently JoJo felt she had to say more.

“And his friend Chuck?”

Greg watched her frown and could only imagine JoJo’s take on Chuck. They had a met a few times through different events at Ben’s house. No doubt Chuck would have introduced himself by hitting on JoJo before realizing she was married. Hopefully, JoJo would have seen through it and concluded that Chuck was all talk and a decent guy at heart.

Which was mostly true.

Finally, she said thank-you and handed the phone back to him.

“Did you tell her what a knight in shining armor I am?” Greg asked JoJo.

He was teasing but there was a pause for a second and then he heard a small hiccup. JoJo had turned into such a sap since she and Mark had married. “Yeah. I did. Because you are. You try not to be, I know. But I’ll never forget what you did for me. So yeah, I told her she could trust you.”

What he did for her? A few conversations. A few walks in the park. It wasn’t as if he’d given her therapy to help her overcome the tragic death of her sister and her subsequent split with her family. He didn’t do therapy anymore. All he’d really done was listen.

Not long after that though, she was ready to move on in her life with Mark. Who, beyond all reason, made her ridiculously happy. Go figure. Sometimes there was no accounting for taste.

“Thanks.”

“You’re going to call me or Mark tomorrow and tell us what’s going on, right?”

Mark and JoJo worked as private investigators. Mostly they specialized in criminal cold cases but he imagined they would be tempted to take on something a little more current if it meant giving him a hand.

First he had to know if a crime had occurred. Second, he needed to find out who she was.

“I’ll let you know when I know something. I promise.”

Greg shoved the phone in his pocket. “Satisfied?”

She nodded. “She said I could trust you.”

“And me, too,” Chuck chimed in, “right?”

The woman smiled shyly. “She said you were a bullshit artist and I shouldn’t believe half of what comes out of your mouth.”

Chuck’s jaw dropped. “I thought JoJo liked me.”

“She also said beyond the bullshit was a sweet guy.”

“Sweet?” Chuck groaned. “I hate being sweet!”

Greg laughed. “But you are sweet. Okay, let’s ditch the hospital. I’ll call the sheriff and let him know you’re staying with me.”

Greg started to turn but she reached out and grabbed his arm. “Why are you doing this? Really?”

“Really? I have no flipping idea. But it’s not like I had anything better to do on a Sunday.”

* * *

SHE LOOKED IN THE STEAMED-UP mirror. “Amanda. Amy. Alice. Alison.”

The names triggered nothing. She tried again. “Beth. Betty. Barbara. Bonnie.”

Maybe if she had one of those baby books. She could go through it alphabetically and wait until something jumped out at her. Then, once she remembered that one critical piece of information, everything else would fall into place.

She took a step back from the mirror and looked at her body. Despite her lack of memory it didn’t feel foreign to her. The three oddly placed moles on her chest actually looked familiar. She touched them and drew a line between the one in the center, the one that hovered over her right breast and the one that hovered over her left. As she made the triangle, it was something she felt she’d done before.

Her very own body art.

She’d already checked for any scrapes or wounds. There was nothing she could see. Twisting around in the mirror she didn’t detect any obvious marks on her back. That gave her relief. At least she wasn’t the product of some type of abuse. Not a victim.

Then why did whatever happen to you take your memory? Your life?

“Excellent question,” she muttered. But at least she was starting to understand the way she thought about things. She was cautious in nature. Which again felt right. Cautious women were smart women. They didn’t jump feetfirst into unknown territory. They were thoughtful and patient and wise.

Even standing naked in some strange man’s bathroom, she felt she’d handled the situation as best she could. She was at the mercy of human kindness with no memory, no identification and no money.

Greg Chalmers had offered to help her, but she hadn’t just accepted it. She’d questioned it. She’d gotten a reference from a woman.

This made her careful. She liked the idea of being a careful person. It soothed her and gave her back a little of her control.

Glancing at the toilet, she looked at the jeans and T-shirt she had placed on the lid. Greg’s clothes that he suspected would fit. The jeans had her a little worried. Yes, he was taller than she was, but he had no hips.

Staring back in the mirror, hers weren’t anything to write home about, but even a woman with no hips sometimes found herself stuck in boy jeans. However, the option of putting her own clothes back on wasn’t available. They were being washed, including her panties and bra. She’d never been so happy to strip out of clothes as she was when she arrived at Greg’s apartment.

A knock on the door startled her. She jumped then, checked to see that she’d locked it, which she knew she had because after she’d locked it, she’d tested it twice.

“How are you doing in there?”

Greg. He sounded worried. Maybe she had spent an overly long time in the shower, but the need to feel clean, really clean, had pushed her to stay under the hot stream of water until it had run lukewarm.

“Okay.”

“You must be hungry. I’m making spaghetti.”

At the mention of food her stomach rumbled. “I’ll be out in a minute.”

“Good.”

She scrambled into his jeans and gave a sigh of relief when they buttoned and zipped. Her butt was snug but that was to be expected when the owner of the jeans didn’t have one of those either. The T-shirt was a thick cotton and navy blue. She tucked it in and bloused it a little to create a loose effect. Satisfied she didn’t scream “here are my boobs, please look at them” she was ready to leave the safety of the bathroom. She’d already used a comb to untangle her hair and tie it up into a knot that would hold as long as it was still wet.

The two men were already in the kitchen. Greg was using prongs to dish out pasta and then handing Chuck a big bowl of what appeared to be sauce and meatballs. A green plastic container of cheese and a basket of white square bread she was pretty sure came out of a plastic bag sat on the table amongst the dishes.

This was wrong. Dinner was not being served properly. Instinctively, she knew that.

“You know if you pour the pasta back into the pot where the gravy is cooking, it will take on some of the flavor. Then you can serve it already mixed together.”

They looked at her for a moment as if she was an alien, but then Greg nodded. “That’s a good idea. We’ll try that next time.”

She approached the table and sat down. She wanted to be grateful. She was grateful. The shower, the clothes, the feeling that there was a place in the world for her to be. She owed these two men everything.

But, seriously, how could they call that tasteless white stuff that Chuck was spreading an inordinate amount of butter on bread?

Greg piled some pasta on her plate and handed her the gravy. She took two big meatballs, what she imagined was a hunk of sausage, and mixed it in with her pasta. She sprinkled the cheese from the container on top of her plate, disappointed that the powdery substance didn’t melt properly.

Without expressing her dismay, she ate. It didn’t matter that it was fake cheese and sauce from a jar. It was food. They were kind to be giving it to her. She would never forget this meal for as long as she lived.

Silence reigned over the table as the two men dug in. They both ate as if they were starving and, given how thin they were, maybe they were.

She looked to Greg and the thought popped out of her mouth before she could think better of it.

“You’re one of those tall, lean men who can eat whatever you want, aren’t you?”

He nodded around a mouthful of pasta.

“And Chuck, I bet you eat junk food all day long but never gain any weight.”

He smiled as he bit into his butter-covered bread.

She smiled and stood up, leaving the napkin she’d placed on her lap on the table. “Do you have a spoon?”

Chuck’s eyebrows rose. As he cut his pasta with a fork and knife, he shook his head. “What do you need a spoon for?”

“Third drawer over from the sink,” Greg offered.

Taking his direction, she found the utensil she was looking for and sat down again. With precision born of practice she lifted the pasta onto the fork, braced it against the spoon and twirled it until it was a perfectly neat bite.

After a few mouthfuls, Chuck got up from his seat and also found a spoon. Greg, she noticed did not, preferring to brace the fork against the plate and spin it. She might have protested if it was china, but the everyday dishware was made of sturdy material.

You used to eat pasta off of china.

The thought was the barest whisper along her brain.

Think! When? Where? With whom?

“We need a name for you.”

The question startled her out of her thoughts.

“We can’t keep calling you ‘hey, you.’”

She tried a faint smile. “I’m fairly certain ‘you’ is not my name.”

“What about Jane?” Chuck proposed. “You know, like Jane Doe.”

She frowned. “Jane. A little unoriginal, don’t you think?”

“Would you rather be Bunny or Cherry or something?” Chuck asked.

“No. I choose not to sound like someone who made her living dancing with a pole.” She stopped herself then. “That sounded really snobbish, even to my ears. I don’t know why I said that.”

“Maybe you know girls named Bunny and Cherry and they are strippers,” Greg allowed.

“I hardly think I spend my time around strippers.” She was offended. Then she realized how snobbish that had sounded, as well. For all she knew she was a stripper. Maybe it was the only way she could afford to make rent, pay for food and take care of her child.

Oh my God! Do I have a child?

“Stop with the what-ifs,” Greg told her. He reached over and grabbed her hand. “Your breathing is accelerated, your pupils are dilating. You’re in a mild stage of panic. Stop wondering about what you can’t answer. Take five deep calming breaths and then concentrate on eating.”

It was the way he said it. As though he was a doctor ordering two aspirin and a follow-up call in the morning. She did as he directed without thought and then went back to her bland pasta meal.

“For now we’ll call you Jane.”

Jane sighed and felt tears well up. It wasn’t her name. She knew it. Instead, she worked on her breathing and forced down her tears. “It doesn’t feel right.”

Greg nodded, and it wasn’t until then that she realized his hand was still resting warmly on top of hers. He made her feel safe, just with his touch. That was quite a gift.

“Okay. Then we know two things about you. Your name is not Jane....”

“What’s the other?”

“You’re the daughter of a wealthy Italian-American family.”