Anamnesis: A Novel (6 page)

Olivia Holloway
hadn’t left a number or an email address, but I found her office after a quick
search on the shitty computers at the library. The library workers hated me.
Too many overdue books. I made a mental note to get my own computer someday.

Located on the second story above a hair
salon that offered services costing as much as my rent, her office boasted huge
windows and had a calculated rustic appearance. Thick wood floors, brass light
fixtures. The words
Holloway and Associates
was etched into glass on the
door. Behind it, a pretty receptionist with aquamarine-rimmed glasses greeted
me.

Greeted is the wrong word. She worked hard
to keep her smile up and ask what she could do for me.

Fuck, I didn’t look that bad. I had jeans
and a winter jacket on. I’d showered at least two days ago. A few days of beard
was an attractive look, right? According to the fashion ads I saw in Westlake
mall, my almost-too-thin physique was highly desirable.

No, that wasn’t it. Affluent people
recognized low class from a mile away. They could smell our addictions, our
ignorance. I smiled anyway. “I’m here to see Olivia Holloway.”

“Do you have an appointment?”

“No, but she is expecting me.”

The receptionist frowned. “She’s very busy
today and I don’t see you on her calendar. What are you here to see her about?”

“We have a mutual interest I’d like to
discuss.” That sounded official, right? Was the lingo good? I threw another
smile on again. “Please just tell her Ethan Knight is here to see her.”

She was skeptical, but obliged. With one
perfectly manicured nail, she pushed a button on her phone. “Miss Holloway? A
man named Ethan Knight is here to see you.”

There was a pause. No response.

“I’m sorry, sir, but she must be in a
meeting.”

“I’ll wait.”

Sometimes it was fun to be difficult.

Only two minutes later Olivia burst
through the doors near the desk wearing a pea coat, hat, and scarf. “I’m
leaving, Lexi. I’m going to discuss a youth outreach charity program with Mr. Knight
here. I’ll be back in an hour.”

“But you have a conference call with the
mayor in a half hour?”

Olivia frowned. “I do. Tell him Brad will
talk to him about where we’re at with his gala and I’ll jump in after. Thank
you, Lexi.”

I gave Lexi a wink as we left. It felt
good to be the winner.

Outside it was brisk. Eleven in the
morning was blindingly early for me, but the two pots of coffee and bennie I
took helped take the edge off. Olivia kept a perfect two feet between us as we
walked down 5th avenue. The street looked drab with all the Christmas lights
off.

“You can never,
ever
come to my
office again.”

I stopped. Olivia kept moving for a second
before realizing it and coming back to me. Her pale cheeks were flushed scarlet
to match her hair.

“Oh yeah? Why’s that?”

“What would people think if they saw a—a
gentlemen of your nature in
my
office? They might think I was getting
drugs or having some kind of illicit affair. In my line of work, image is very,
very important. A lot of people would love to claim I was using drugs or had
some promiscuous streak.”

Her remarks shouldn’t have surprised me,
but that didn’t make them hurt any less. Considering how we parted last, I was
the bad guy. I gestured for her to lead the way which she did with no
objection.

“We can chat at Starbucks. I don’t know
anyone who ever goes there.”

Of course she didn’t. The most popular
coffee shop was obviously too low end for her. I hadn’t been around Olivia
Holloway more than twenty minutes in total and I disliked her. It was one thing
to think you were better than someone else. It was another to say it out loud
and rub it in their faces.

It took exactly one minute to find a
Starbucks. This was a big one with tons of wooden tables and chairs that screeched
against the tile floor when they moved. Olivia took a spot in the corner. Since
I was there, I went ahead and ordered the biggest size coffee they had.

I decided to get fancy with the coffee—and
force Olivia to sit by herself in a dreadful Starbucks—by adding cream, six
sugars, and a dash of cinnamon. I watched her across the room as I stirred the
drink. She didn’t pay attention to anyone around her. At one point she checked
her phone, saw me looking at her, and glared.

My passive aggressive fun over, I returned
and sat down.

“What made you change your mind?” Olivia
asked as she watched me gulp down the scalding liquid. “About seeing me?”

“Nothing a lady of your nature would
understand.”

Her face remained neutral. She pushed
stray grounds of sugar on the table. “Fair enough.”

“Tell me what you know, Olivia.”

“Right. Did you read the notes I gave
you?”

“Yeah.” I dredged through the coherent
times I read through them. It was hard to separate it from the drunken times. “It’s
good you wrote up all the dates and times. Does that help you narrow down who
might be doing this to you?”

She clenched her jaw. “I suppose it does.
I couldn’t be certain. Many of the same people attend the kinds of events I put
on. However, there are lots of people attending who I’ve never met or will ever
see again. That wouldn’t be a conclusive thing to say.”

Her hesitance was understandable. It was
hard for anyone to admit someone they knew had tricked them. Or in her case,
something much worse. “But it seems more likely it’s someone you see
frequently.”

Olivia nodded. I moved on.

“And you have no memory at all of anything
that happened while you were out?”

“Nothing. Not a flash of an image, no
smells, no voices. It’s like my brain stopped recording until whatever it was
they slipped me passed out of my system. But I get that metallic taste. I think
it’s the same one you mentioned in your blog.”

“It does sound the same. From what you
wrote, you’re back in your apartment every time you wake up?”

“Yes. I always wake up in my bed, like I’ve
been sleeping. I feel groggy. All but one time in the same outfit I had on the
night before. At first I thought I was drugged. I woke up and was confused, but
I was in my apartment in the same clothes as before, so I blamed it on too much
to drink.” Olivia formed a circle with the sugar granules. “Then when I started
waking up with marks on my body, I began suspecting something else.”

The other time she was naked. I remembered
it from her notes. The franticness in her tone as she described how her body
felt and other details. Scratches on her inner thighs. A bruised feeling all
over.

“The other night I ran into a woman at
Westlake,” I said. “She was beat up and scared, asking for somewhere to hide,
then she freaked out. Didn’t know where she was or how she got there. Then a
few days ago the same thing happened with someone under the overpass. I think
where you are when you come to might make a difference. If you’re somewhere
familiar, or maybe if the drug wears off while you’re sleeping, you don’t lose
it quite the same. Obviously it’s just a theory. We wouldn’t know for sure
without talking to other people.”

Now Olivia’s face brightened. “That’s what
I wanted to talk to you about when I came to your apartment. Other people. I
think we need to figure out who’s making the drug to track down who could be
using it on me. I’m sure you want answers to your own past and that could help
us find them.”

I gulped down more coffee, wishing for
something stronger. I was terrified I was going down this path of discovery,
but it already felt good. There were other people; I wasn’t alone. What I was
doing would make Skid proud. Others had suffered, maybe not as much as me or in
the same way, but they had. Olivia wanted answers and she’d already found more
than I had since I woke up from my lost time. But her train of thought was
flawed.

“You think every guy cooking meth knows whose
body it’s going into?”

“No, I suppose not. But something like
this seems more deliberate than meth. If people in my social circles are using
it, it must be high profile.”

That still didn’t work for me. Some of
Olivia’s views of others were skewed, but short of throwing her into the drug
world for a few months, I couldn’t explain.

“Okay, fine. How do we find out who is
making it?” she asked. Before I could offer a solution, she added, “On your
blog, there were a few people who always left comments. Do you remember?”

“Sure. Some of them thought I was a nut
case. Others totally agreed it was some government conspiracy drug that caused
amnesia. Most said it was corrupt pharmaceutical testing, which has happened
before.”

“But there were a few who
always
left comments. Frequently. They believed you and said they also experienced
it.”

I leaned back in my chair and thought about
it. There had been people who tried to reach out. Back then I didn’t believe
they were serious. Like with Olivia, I thought their experiences couldn’t have
been the same as mine. I discredited them. I was too focused on my own problem
to try and make connections.

That reminded me of something. I grinned. “You
know how I figured out it was four years I lost?”

Olivia’s eyebrows rose up. “I think so.
The Martha Stewart thing?”

“Yeah. I don’t remember a lot, you know. Just
random bits and pieces that didn’t get messed up. For some reason, the last
thing I remember was Martha Stewart being convicted of those felonies. I
remember watching something about it on TV and my mom making a joke about it.
The memory is so clear, like it happened yesterday.”

Mom had made lavender lemonade. She saw
the recipe in a cooking magazine and wanted to use the lavender she grew for
it. I thought it tasted like soap. I told her so. I remembered her laugh, lofty
and throaty, as she agreed. We drank it anyway while we watched the TV show on
Martha.

I paused as I thought back on the blog.
“All I said on my blog was that’s how I knew about how long I’d been gone,
because of the conviction. It was my reference point. Some person went on there
and tried to get in a fight with me defending Martha Stewart even though I
hadn’t really said anything about her. It was ridiculous.”

I laughed, but it petered out when I noted
her expression. Olivia was confused. The detour wasn’t amusing. I regretted
bringing it up. Our relationship was business. She didn’t want to hear me
reminisce. Embarrassed, I shrugged and motioned for her to continue.

Olivia brushed her hair back and shifted
in her seat. “I sent emails to all those people who left
legitimate
comments. Most of them came back as failures, others never responded. But then
I figured, maybe these people use the same usernames all the time? There’s one
guy, techna1, who has been using the same username forever. I searched for him
and found him on a videogame forum, then after more digging, found his real
name. Then I found him on Facebook
and
where he works.”

She beamed like a good dog waiting for a
treat. “I don’t remember this guy. What is his deal?” I asked.

“His name is Brian Stromberg. One year
before you say you woke up from your blackouts, he claims he responded to a request
for participants for an antidepressant drug. He did the test for three weeks.
He claims he doesn’t remember what happened. His posts were kind of mysterious.
Like, ‘Can’t say too much’ paranoia kind of thing.” Olivia tapped her
fingernails against the table. “It just seems like a solid story and I know
where to find him. I think we should talk to him in person and see if he has
anything else. Maybe he knows the name of the company who did the tests. He’s
an insurance rep. I made an appointment under a fake name to talk to him
tomorrow right before their office closes. Are you in?”

Good dog. Maybe she did deserve a treat.
But I wasn’t convinced yet.

“It sounds like you’ve got a handle on
this. Why do you need my help?” I sipped at my coffee. “You don’t want to be
seen with me and you already have all the information you need to move
forward.”

Her perpetual smile faltered at the
corners. “I’m afraid. I have no one I can ask for help. There’s no one I can
tell my theories to or confide in without worry they’ll tell someone. I can’t
do this alone, but I have no one to turn to.”

“So I’m a last resort?” I asked.

“No, you’re my only option. Why do you
have to spin it so negatively? Anyway, do you want to talk to this guy or
what?”

“Yeah. Let me know where it is and I’ll
meet you there.”

“Do you have a car?”

Fuck, it never ended. “I can walk. Or take
the bus.”

“Unfortunately it’s not within walking
distance. It’s a thirty minute drive over 520. Listen, I can pick you up
somewhere discreet and we’ll go together. Meet me here.”

Somewhere discreet. This little secretive
thing was getting on my nerves fast. Olivia wrote down an address on my coffee
sleeve. Somewhere near the science center. She went quiet and stared at the
baristas, lost in thought. I shifted. I needed a smoke.