Amnesia Read online

  “Did we have a long engagement?” he asked.

  “Aaron, shut up, will you. Just shut up and get into bed,” she said, lifting the blanket.

  He obeyed and she practically seized him around the neck and plunged her lips against his. The kiss was long, drawing, her breasts pressing against his chest, her hips turning as her leg rubbed up and over his. Then she reached down to touch his penis. He moaned.

  “Remember? Remember this, Aaron?” she said, stroking him. She lowered herself under the blanket, and moments later he felt her mouth slide over his erection. It made him gasp. He let his head fall to the pillow. She moved gently but firmly, and then she rose and straddled him, taking him into her quickly. He looked up. Her eyes were closed and she had a wonderful smile of satisfaction on her lips.

  How perfectly shaped her breasts were. How smooth ran the lines of her neck into those tender shoulders. And her skin, nearly alabaster, not a blemish, not the slightest imperfection. He was making love to a goddess. Passion flowed from her body and washed over him. Her vigorous movements made him reach around to hold on to her waist. She was bouncing so hard, he thought she might crack his spine. For a moment he was actually overwhelmed by her demand for pleasure. Then she cried out and turned over, pulling him along so he would remain in her and start again without a second’s pause.

  It seemed to him she had at least a half dozen orgasms before he exploded with his own cry of erotic delight. Both of them were gasping like fish out of water. He held on to her until he caught his breath, and then he turned to roll on his back.

  “That’s my old Aaron,” she whispered. “No gaps in memory there.”

  He nodded.

  “Like riding a bike you said. It’s coming back.”

  “Remembering?” she asked.

  He squinted.

  “I . . .”

  “What?”

  He did have some new images, but they were flashes with different faces, different smiles, and the women he saw were not as perfect, although attractive. Confusing.

  “A little,” he offered.

  “Good. You’ll be fine in the morning.”

  “Are we, I mean, are you on the pill? I noticed we took no precautions.”

  She laughed.

  “You’re such an idiot, Aaron. It’s funny to see you this way, to see Mr. Clifford, the perfectionist, the meticulous perfectionist, the careful man, an Eagle scout, oh so good and so healthy in your body and your mind, confused, dependent, insecure.”

  She sounded as if she was really mocking him. He actually felt a bit indignant, even though he also felt as if he was defending someone else.

  “I’m sorry, I just don’t remember, and I thought . . .”

  “We decided months ago,” she said, bracing herself on her right elbow and looking down at him. With her right forefinger she traced a line down his chest. “We’re having another child now. I’ve already discussed it with Mrs. Masters. I can work at home during my maternity leave, remember?”

  “No,” he said. “Who’s this Mrs. Masters?”

  “My boss, the owner of the advertising firm in Driftwood. I’ve spoken so much about her, I can’t imagine your forgetting who she is.”

  “Well, I have,” he said. “I’ve forgotten more important things, Megan.”

  Why didn’t she realize that? What was so important about forgetting Mrs. Masters compared to forgetting her and his own child?

  “Anyway, that’s the answer to your questions and concern about our unprotected sex,” she said a little irritably. “I don’t mind you having a lapse of memory for a day or so, but I don’t want to have to fight oldbattles. You’ll just have to take my word for some things.”

  “Some things?” he said, laughing. “Megan, I have to take your word for everything at the moment.”

  “Well, so what? You’ll just have to trust me,” she said and kissed the tip of his nose. “You can trust me, can’t you, Aaron?”

  “I don’t remember why I shouldn’t,” he said diplomatically.

  She smiled.

  “A perfect Aaron Clifford answer: tactful, logical. Temporary problems with your memory or not, you’re the same man I married,” she told him, nodding and widening her smile.

  “Am I?”

  “I told you to trust me, didn’t I?”

  “Okay,” he said.

  She turned and rose from the bed. He watched her walk to the bathroom. She was beautiful with that narrow waist, that smooth, graceful turn in her back, that firm rear. Forgetting so much is disconcerting, but at least there is no pain now, he thought, and there is all this pleasure.

  She returned with a glass of water and held out her left hand. There was a pill in her palm.

  “What’s that?”

  “I told you I’d give you something to help you sleep.”

  “What is it?”

  “Cyanide,” she said with a smirk.

  He laughed and plucked the pill from her palm. He hesitated a moment.

  “If you kill me, Mrs. Domfort will tell everyone in the neighborhood,” he warned.

  She laughed. “That’s my Aaron,” she said. “Always with the witty retorts.”

  “I guess I am your Aaron then,” he replied and put the pill in his mouth. He swallowed it down with some water and lay back on the pillow. She got into bed beside him again and reached for his hand.

  “This change, everything. It’s all really a new beginning for us, Aaron. You’ll see. It’s like being reborn, given a second chance in every way,” she said, the excitement brightening her eyes.

  “I guess so,” he said. “At least it is definitely that for me.”

  “For all of us,” she said. She kissed him. “Good night, Aaron. Tomorrow, you’ll be all right again.”

  She cuddled up beside him and closed her eyes. He held her in the nook of his arm and stared up at the ceiling. Darkness crawled in from the corners and gradually stopped the questions. In moments there was silence.

  And he slept, strangely contented for a man who might have lost his very soul.

  Morning was abrupt, as sudden as a slap in the face. His eyes snapped open and he had to close them because the brightness was too intense. All of the curtains had been stripped from the windows. Unblocked, the sunlight bounced off the white walls, making him feel as if he were inside a light bulb. He lay there, waiting for his first thoughts like someone watching a computer monitor, anticipating e-mail.Megan already had risen, dressed, and gone downstairs. He could hear some muffled conversation below and then some laughter. He sat up, scrubbed his face with his dry palms, and took a deep breath before holding his breath to think and search his mind. The bed he was in was the only piece of furniture left in the room. How had they taken all the rest of it out without his waking?

  More important, he thought, what about my memory?

  He waited.

  There was a trickle of images. He saw himself in an office, working on an architectural project, penciling in fountains, walkways. He remembered every little detail of yesterday’s tumultuous journey home, even the horrendous hallucinations, but he needed to go back much further in time. He squeezed his eyelids shut and pressed his hands against his temples as if he were trying to squeeze juice out of an orange. There wasn’t any sharp pain in making the attempt now, but that’s where the recovery apparently stopped. There were no additional recollections. Where was he born? Where had he lived? What about his family, his parents? How did he actually meet Megan? Why wasn’t it all back? Damn it!

  The laughter below grew louder. Doors were opened. He heard some heavy footsteps. After another frustrating moment, he decided to get up. He went to the bathroom and then thought that maybe if he had a cold shower, it would help. He was still in the stall when Megan came to the bathroom. He turned, opened his eyes, and realized she was standing there,observing him through the glass door. Funny how he felt like someone who had been exposed, the victim of a voyeur. He shut the water and opened the door. She handed him his to
wel.

  “How are you this morning, Aaron?”

  He shook his head.

  “I remember things about my work, scattered details, but other than that, other than remembering everything about my trip home yesterday . . . nothing,” he said.

  “Well, maybe it’s coming back slowly but surely if you remembered something new at least.”

  “I wish I could be as confident and as cool about this as you are,” he said.

  “I’m not taking it lightly, Aaron, but if we go into a panic at this moment with all we have to do, we’ll only make things worse.”

  She helped wipe his back.

  “Let’s get ourselves moving, and when we get to Driftwood, I’ll call Mrs. Masters and she’ll put us in touch with the right doctor, okay? The movers are nearly finished. The car is full.”

  “How long have you been up?”

  “Hours, Aaron.”

  “I can’t believe they took out the dresser and the armoire without my hearing them. They must have thought it odd, too. They could have carried the bed downstairs with me in it!”

  “They were laughing about it, but I explained that you had to take a sedative. I don’t think we have to worry about the opinion moving men have of you, Aaron.”

  “No, I was just . . . amazed at myself.” He stood there, dazed.

  “Aaron, it’s nearly eleven-thirty!”

  “It is! What the hell did you give me?”

  “At least you’re rested,” she said. “You were great last night for a man without a mind,” she added with a wink. “Come on downstairs as soon as you’re dressed. Sophie is getting nervous and needs you,” she added. “I want to send them up for the cartons.”

  She left quickly. He started to dress and paused to look at a partially opened carton. He could see a framed photograph in very thin paper on top of everything else in the carton. After he slipped on his sweat pants, he knelt beside the carton and opened the lid to lift out the picture. He cleared away the tissue paper and gazed at a picture of himself and Megan. They were standing on the steps of some hotel. From the vegetation and landscape, he thought it looked like somewhere in Hawaii. On closer inspection, he could read the words Kona Paradise on the front door of the hotel. They both looked somewhat younger in the picture and so he wondered if it was their honeymoon.

  Oddly, they weren’t embracing or even holding hands. They were just standing beside each other as if they had been caught unaware by the photographer. Studying the picture, he even thought they were looking in two different directions. Not a terribly romantic picture, he thought. Was that really the way he was, so formal? Stuffy? Megan had implied that last night. Maybe it was good he lost his memory then. He didn’t want to be that sort of a person. He felt as if some casting director had assigned him a role to play that he wouldn’tenjoy. He was more comfortable relying on his instincts.

  He sifted through the rest of the carton, hoping to find other pictures, but all he found in this carton were cases holding costume jewelry, tie clips, cuff links, a gold pocket watch, and neatly packed handkerchiefs. For a moment he considered going through the other cartons here. Perhaps seeing these things would help stimulate his crippled memory.

  “Aaron!” he heard Megan call. “Are you coming down today? We are on a tight schedule.”

  “Coming!” he cried and hurriedly slipped on his socks and sneakers, grabbed his sweat shirt, and descended the stairs.

  The moving men, two husky guys built like potbellied stoves, were carrying out the large sofa. He waited for them to get past and out the front door before going to the kitchen, where Megan had a glass of orange juice and a cup for his coffee set out on the table. There was only one chair left.

  “They’re going upstairs to get our bed in a few minutes. I have to go up and pull off the sheets, pillows, and comforter,” she explained, “so let’s get your breakfast finished.”

  “Where’s Sophie?” he asked.

  “She’s out front with Mrs. Domfort watching them load the truck, looking like it’s the end of the world or something. I swear, the way that child behaves sometimes, you’d think she was a grown woman. She has such mature reactions, thinks so deeply about everything. Remember when you had to explain why dead people don’t come back?”

  “No,” he said, drinking the juice.

  “My mother had died. Dad had died before Sophie was born and your parents . . .”

  “What about my parents?”

  She stared at him.

  “Maybe it’s not good to do this like this, Aaron. Maybe we should wait for your doctor’s visit.”

  “No,” he said, putting the glass down. “What about my parents?”

  “Your parents and your younger sister were killed in a car accident, Aaron. You were barely four at the time and survived only because you were the only one belted in the car. Your mother was holding your sister on her lap instead of keeping her in an infant’s car seat.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t remember any of that.”

  “And when you do, it will be terrible. It will be like reliving all the sadness. Actually, I’m very worried about you now, Aaron. I’ve tried not to show it because I didn’t want to get you any more upset than you were, but this is really beginning to frighten me. I was expecting to see a nearly complete recovery this morning. We’ll have to make the call and get you a doctor’s appointment first opportunity, Aaron.”

  “It’s terribly frustrating, Megan,” he said. “I am trying so hard to remember. It makes me feel like I’m standing outside my own body, watching it go through all these motions.”

  “You weren’t outside your body last night,” she reminded him.

  He laughed. “You know what I mean,” he said.

  She nodded. “Okay, honey.”

  “If my parents were killed when I was four, who brought me up?” he asked.

  “Do we have to go through this now?”

  “I can’t stand not knowing anything important about my past! It makes me feel so temporary, limp. I can’t appreciate anything we’re doing, and I know how much you want me to get into it all.”

  “All right. All right,” she said calmly. She took a breath and said, “It wasn’t your grandparents who brought you up. Your mother’s parents were gone and your father’s were self-centered, living in Florida in one of those golden days retirement communities. They wanted nothing to do with raising a four-yearold. So you ended up living with your mother’s younger sister, your aunt Geraldine. I don’t blame you for not remembering her from what you told me about living with her and her on-and-off-again husband, your uncle Charlie, who eventually died of lung cancer. You said his lower lip had an indentation from his constant cigarette dangling there.”

  A tiny spiral of smoke rose in the air between them. He even smelled it.

  “Yes,” he said. “I can remember that.”

  “Once you were able to care for yourself, you were on your own. You won a scholarship to Iowa State, the writing program, remember that? You became editor of the literary magazine in your senior year, and for a while you considered a career in writing before you settled into architecture. You’re a very talented man, Aaron. You could have done many things with your life. Does that help?”

  “No, I don’t remember anything about college, butthat doesn’t matter at the moment. I just want to know about family now. Where’s my aunt Geraldine?”

  “Last we heard she was in a clinic outside of Philadelphia, suffering from Alzheimer’s disease. Jesus,” Megan suddenly said. She brought her right hand to the base of her throat.

  “You think that’s what’s happening to me?”

  A cold wave swept over his face and sent a shaft of ice down his spine.

  “I don’t know if these things have anything to do with genetics. No,” she added after a moment’s thought. “It can’t be that, Aaron.”

  He stared at her. “How can we be sure?”

  “Let’s not jump to any conclusions. Let’s wait until you see
the doctor Mrs. Masters recommends.”

  “What doctor? Who exactly is this Mrs. Masters? How will she know what to do, who I should see? She’s not some medical expert, right?”

  Megan smiled. “When you meet her, I’m sure you’ll understand why I have such confidence in her and her advice. She’s a very bright, dynamic woman who runs the company and who is probably the most influential person in Driftwood. There’s even talk of running her for mayor when the present mayor retires, not that she would seriously consider politics. She’s too busy building a multimillion dollar firm. You’ll even get some work through her connections,” she offered quickly.

  He raised his eyebrows. “What? What work?”

  “I was just seeing if you would explode again. When I suggested last week that you open your own offices in Driftwood, you nearly heaved me out thewindow. You and your New York City life,” she added with disdain. “Every place else is the boon docks to you and your cronies.”

  His legs weakened, so he sat and shook his head.

  “I can’t stand this. Everything you tell me is so new I feel like I’m forming a whole new person.”

  “Have something substantial to eat. I still have a bowl unpacked and a frying pan. I could fix you some eggs. How about your favorite scrambled eggs, the ones with a little Jack cheese? I’ve still got the ingredients and I’ve got those bagels you like.”

  He nodded slowly, recalling the tastes. “Do we have time?”

  “Yes.”

  She started to prepare the eggs.

  “I suppose we’ve sold this house,” he said, looking around. “Right?”

  She glanced at him and smiled. “Some things are fun to repeat,” she began. “We sold this house for 100,000 more than we paid for it, Aaron, and Mrs. Masters helped us do that, too. She put us together with the right real estate agent.”

  “This Mrs. Masters sounds bigger than life.”

  “Sometimes I think she is. When she wants someone to come work for her, she makes sure it’s attractive and easy. Until I find someone as good as Mrs. Domfort, my hours generally will correspond with Sophie’s school hours.”

  “You keep mentioning Mrs. Masters. What about a MR. Masters?” he asked.