Secret Sister (7 page)

Me, too
. It would have sounded insane to say out loud. That I missed someone I didn’t remember.

I glanced through the album. One photo showed Nick staring at Cathy at their wedding reception, his face full of awe, as if he was astonished at his good fortune.

Has any one ever looked at me like that?

I slammed the album closed and handed it back to Betty. “Thanks for bringing this. But you can take it home with you. I’ve had enough for today.”

“Of course.” Betty tucked it into her bag. “You’ve been through so much. We’ve all been so worried. Are you sure you don’t want me to stay a couple of days?”

“Dr. Badu said I was okay to live on my own.”

She held up one hand. “Fine. I left my numbers on the bulletin board in the kitchen. In case you need anything.  So, I’ll be going. There’s plenty to eat. The chicken and the quiche we just bought. I also brought over that rice and cheese casserole you like with broccoli. It’s in the freezer.”

I hate broccoli
. “Thank you. That was nice of you.”

“For God’s sake, stop thanking me! I’m your mother!”

I’d hurt her feelings.
Shit.
“You can stay if you want, Betty, but I’m okay.”

She flinched when I called her ‘Betty.’ She hadn’t made an issue of me doing this, but I saw it rankled her the first time I referred to her that way in the hospital.

“Take a nap, Roxanne. And remember, Dr. Patel said absolutely no booze. That pain medication interacts badly with alcohol of any kind.”

“Right.” I pulled the afghan hanging on a quilt rack beside the bed over me. The afghan smelled nice, like it had dried in the sunshine. It was soft and well worn. I wondered who had made it. Betty?

No, Ruth. ‘Granny
.
’
I was sure of this, though such info didn’t come from memory, but logic. Betty wasn’t the type to knit. I pressed on the bed pillow, which was nice, down-filled, without the crackly plastic liners like those damn things in the hospital.

“Thanks again for everything. I’ll call you tomorrow,” I said to Betty, who was holding her bag against her chest like a life preserver.

“Okay.” Her eyes glistened. “Don’t forget.”

“Me? Forget? Now that’s not a very tactful thing to say.”

“Sorry. That was idiotic.” She smiled. “You’re sure you’re okay?”

“I am. And I mean that. You’ve been great. Really helpful.”

She walked away. A moment later I heard her fiddling with the locks, and the front door closed.

I sighed. My ribs ached and my stomach growled. But I wanted to sleep. I stared at the Van Gogh above the bed and shuddered.

That thing had to go. I got up and lifted it off the hook and put it in the closet. Then I went back to bed and buried my head in the pillows. My knees were stiff, the scabs itched. I needed to recharge. Tomorrow was a better day to get started on resuming life.

I glanced at the bedside table that held an antique clock with little roses painted on it and two framed pictures. These were the only two photographs in the whole place. One was of Michael Cimino, no shirt, lounging on his back on a beach chair. He was tan and seemed to be daring whoever took the picture to come closer.

A shiver of appreciation walked down my back. I picked up the second frame. It was a photo of three people at the beach. Roxanne, Cathy, and Nick. We were all smiling and appeared slightly drunk.

I looked at his face. He was handsome. Blonde streaks and hair that was too long. A kind smile. His tanned arms draped over Cathy’s, a trio of comrades, not a care in the world.

On the back was the inscription,
“Our little triangle, June 19, 2006,
”
in perfect penmanship
.

I shut my eyes.
Nick,
I’m so, so sorry. Please forgive me
.

Before I fell asleep, I remembered someone . . . a blind man . . . explaining that forgiveness couldn’t be asked for. It had to be freely given, when the wronged party was ready, or it meant nothing.

When will you be ready, Nick? When will I?

Chapter 7

Monday, July 25, 9:30 a.m.

Roxanne’s Apartment

I stood in front of the full-length mirror hanging on the back of the bathroom door and stared at the naked body that was still so new to me. My legs were nice, if maybe a little skinny. My ass didn’t sag but could be a bit more generous. Men like generous rear-ends, right? My breasts were great. Big and firm and bouncy, with small pink nipples.

Flat stomach. Tiny waist. Curvy hips. I had a bikini wax.

You’re kidding. Hot wax, there?
My face suddenly burned with embarrassment. My body was so unfamiliar, I felt like I was at a peep show.

I sighed and pulled on a robe.
This is all too weird.

The cell phone lying on the counter rang. The display announced it was ‘BJ Chandler.’ With an unfamiliar number.  Not that any phone numbers were familiar.

“Hello?” The voice speaking was husky and male. “Roxanne! Hi! This is Bradley. Bradley Chandler. Your friend?”

I knew the name ‘Bradley.’ Betty showed me some pictures in the hospital. Gay, Betty had added, and a dear friend. Computer geek.

“Hi, Bradley.” Facts about him fell like dominos inside my brain. I’d been avoiding phone conversations since I was released from the hospital. Not that I felt unfriendly; in fact, I was lonely. But I still struggled with figuring out what I could say to someone I didn’t remember.

“How are you feeling?” His voice was hopeful. “How are the ribs doing, and everything physical?”

“Good. I’m good.” In his photo he was handsome; strong jaw, wide eyes, thick, dark spiky hair. Very well groomed. “How are you, Bradley? I know who you are because I’ve been told a little about you, and I saw your photo, but I’m sorry, I still don’t remember anything from before the accident. About my friends, I mean.”

“No? That’s rough, girl. What do the doctors say?”

I sat on the sofa, heartened by his voice. He had an easy, interested manner; I heard no pretense there. “They say, ‘Be patient. Rest. Get on with your life.’ I say, ‘What life’ or ‘Whose life?’ But they don’t seem to get my drift.”

Silence in my ear.
Am I saying too much, revealing too much? Maybe Bradley isn’t actually a close friend.

“Morons,” Bradley finally replied. “Most doctors can only deal with hard, cold facts. I remember the surgeon who operated on my mom for breast cancer saying, ‘You’re lucky you’re healing so well. That’s a nice, neat scar.’ I thought Mom would slug him.”

“She should have.” I bit my lip. “How is your mom, Bradley?”

Silence.

“She died six years ago, Rox. Poor kid, you really don’t remember anything?”

“I’m so sorry. I’m a freak show.”

He chuckled. “Don’t worry, little freak. It’ll all come back to you. Although, since I turned thirty, I hardly remember anything myself.”

We laughed together, and it felt so good it hurt.

“You sound normal to me, Roxanne. Tell me what’s going on with you. Do you have a nurse? Are you feeding yourself?”

“Yeah, I can do the basics. But no nurse. Just me here at the apartment. I remember things other than my life, like all the basics of cooking, cleaning, driving. I know who is president, and who isn’t, but I can’t recall my personal history. With anyone.”

“Hard to know who to trust then, eh?”

My heart leapt. At last, someone understood how crazy things were. “Yes. I have to take everyone at face value.  Then try to read their reaction and fill in what state my relationship with them might have been. Before, before everything went black.”

“You be careful, girl. The men you know will all try to pass themselves off as your current lover. Look out for that tennis coach. I remember you saying he’s a pussy hound.”

I didn’t know who Bradley was referring to, but I thought of Michael Cimino and our encounter in the hospital. I apparently knew a lot of pussy hounds. “Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.”

“I’ll help you,” Bradley said. “I can tell you what I know about your sex life, and you can take it from there.”

“Great. Thanks.” My face reddened, my brain wondering what exactly I had told Bradley.

“I can be your seeing eye diary. You told me everything, girlfriend. All the gory details.” His voice was sweet, not leering, and he seemed to care about me. My neck and shoulders relaxed for the first time since I’d left the hospital.

“Thanks. I’m going to need some help from my friends sorting things out. But don’t feel too sorry for me. Life is okay.”

“I don’t feel sorry for you, Rox. You’re a fighter.  Always have been. And a bit of a party girl, so fun will come back, too, don’t worry your gorgeous head there.” Bradley cleared his throat. “Look, I hate talking to you on the phone. Can I buy you dinner? If you’re up to going out. Can you drink?”

“Ah, sure.” Betty’s admonition not to drink floated in and out of my head. “I’m dying for a glass of wine.”

“Great. Red wine is one of my basic food groups. Let’s go to Simone’s.”

“Sure. But what is that?”

“Oh. Christ, jeez. It’s a great little joint you and I and Cathy,” Bradley’s voice caught, “you and I and friends have gone to a million times. It’s right around the corner from your apartment. Are you up for it?”

“Tonight?”

“I’d love to tonight, but I have to teach a class. How about tomorrow night? I’ll fill you in on anything you want to know about
everyone.
I know when you lost your virginity, and to who. I can tell you volumes about what’s been going on for the past few years. Maybe it will jar something in your brain and help you remember stuff. Like I owe you fifty dollars.”

“What do you owe me fifty dollars for?”

“A wedding present. For this bitch named Quillan neither of us like at all but we had to go to the wedding because Nick works for her, so we did and ate too many canapés and guzzled her champagne.”

“So we’re not very nice people, then?” I grinned.

“Oh, we’re very nice. Cathy was a Girl Scout, and you’re not much different. I, on the other hand, am a bit of a slut, but that’s why I get invited everywhere.” There was a short beat of silence. “You don’t mind me mentioning Cathy, do you?”

“No. Of course not. But just so you know, I don’t remember her either, Bradley. Or Nick. I know I’ve lost something, though. My best friend.”

Bradley’s tone grew more serious. “The heart remembers, Rox. You’ll get your past back, and when you do, you will mourn. And it’ll be hard. You and Cathy were closer than most sisters I know. But look, let’s not talk about sad things. You rest, then make yourself beautiful, which for you means breathe, and I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Thanks, Bradley. I’ll see you then. But, where exactly is the restaurant?”

“Like I said, it’s close, but why don’t I pick you up?”

“Great. What time?”

“Seven sharp. Wear anything. Be comfy. It’s not a fussy place. And plan for a long night. We’ve got some catching up to do, girlfriend!”

I laughed out loud. Bradley was upbeat and comforting and it was a joy to feel uncomplicated affection directed toward me.
The heart remembers,
he had said. I laid my hand on my chest and prayed this would prove true.

“I’ll see you then, Bradley. At seven. Thanks a lot.”

Glancing around the living room, things seemed brighter, as if the sunshine pouring in the windows had increased. This was a good idea, going out with a friend.

But suddenly I wondered how much I could trust Bradley. Who was to say if what he had heard from others, including me, was the
truth
? Was I a naturally cynical person? Maybe fear was making me doubt everyone.

I ran through the texts and missed calls display on the phone. Michael Cimino had called about a dozen times during the four days I’d been home. He’d left texts and messages offering to get together, although his tone was much more suggestive.

He called me ‘baby’ on one message. “I miss you, baby.  I need to see you.”

He’d also called the landline. I hadn’t answered when I’d heard his voice on the answering machine, which I was using to screen calls. I didn’t know why I was avoiding Michael. If we were ex-lovers, he might be able to help me retrieve some of my lost ‘narrative memories’ that Dr. Patel referred to. I could call and have him come over, ask him about the history of our relationship. He’d said he would help when he visited me in the hospital.

Maybe he could illustrate the high points. My face flushed at the explicit picture flashing through my mind.
Him, naked.

I shook my head. Maybe the medication they gave me in the hospital was still affecting me and I was hallucinating again. Although the image of Michael Cimino’s washboard abs and well-endowed manhood seemed shockingly real. But was it a fantasy or
memory? I didn’t know.

It would be interesting to hear what Bradley had to say about Michael tomorrow.

I went into the bedroom and got dressed. As I pulled a shirt over my head, the sight of my hands stopped me short. Nothing about this body was familiar, these hands most of all. They weren’t bad hands; smooth, except for a couple of scabs from the car accident, with short, rounded nails that looked nice and healthy.

Carin, the nurse in the hospital, had offered to paint them for me. I declined because I didn’t like painted nails. She nodded and helped me remove the chipped red polish I was wearing at the time, and I wondered if she thought I had stubby fingers.

She didn’t say so, but I bet we were both thinking it.

God, I’m vain.

I threw myself onto the hard mattress. I wondered if I liked myself before the accident, because I was finding myself to be short-tempered and hard to get along with, proved by my constant avoidance of Betty Haverty, whose phone calls I was also not returning.

Having an ‘ex’ boyfriend who was sure I was willing to sleep with him didn’t reflect very well on me, either. At least I had what sounded like a great friend named Bradley.
Too bad he’s gay.

I wondered about Cathy Chance and Bradley. They were good friends, too. His affection for her had been plain in his voice.

What would he say if the cops asked him if he thought it likely I’d deliberately caused a fatal car accident? They hadn’t contacted me yet. I was hoping they wouldn’t, ever.

“Stop!” I got up and brushed my hair hard, wishing it was longer, and without another glance in the mirror, went back and made the bed.

The blank space above, where the Van Gogh print had hung, reminded me I needed to buy a new picture. I thought again of my favorite Monet, and suddenly remembered it was called
The Bridge at Bougival
.

Where was it? At the L.A. County Art Museum? The Met in New York? No. But I knew I’d seen a print of it lately, on a wall in a cool room.

I finished the bed and stepped into white sandals. Things were starting to look a little disorganized in the closet. The apartment as a whole felt more lived in.

There was a stack of newspapers by the couch, and fresh flowers in every room. A box of school supplies and teaching materials overflowed on the kitchen table. I had spent the last couple of days thumbing through lesson plans on “Our Community,” and fractions, and teacher’s manuals on vocabulary lists. Even a date book from the last school year with entries like “Frog & Toad Party,” or “Dinosaurs Alive Presentations.”

These were the only things in the apartment I’d felt an emotional connection with. They seemed familiar, something I had touched and cared about. When I was reviewing a ‘year-end summary’ and report card list, I heard echoes of children’s voices, school bells ringing in corridors that throbbed with sneaker-shod footsteps and chattering wonder.

Althea Cordell, the principal where I taught, had called early and asked me to come in today to go over plans for the next school year. When I suggested my amnesia would keep me from teaching, she disagreed.

“But how can I teach if I don’t remember my past interactions with these kids?”

“You remember how to teach,” Althea Cornell had replied. “You need to jump back in. Anyone who has been through college can follow a lesson plan. Besides, good teachers are a blessing. I can’t afford to lose two.”

Tears had filled my eyes at her oblique reference to Cathy Chance. “I appreciate your support. But do you think the kids will accept me if I can’t remember them?”

“They will. I find children accept life a lot easier than adults. And I’ve always felt it best to accentuate the positive.”

“Aren’t you worried there may be parents who don’t want me at school?”

“Not worried one whit. Anybody got any worries, I’ll tell them the truth. You might not remember someone’s name, or even your own, but you remember how to teach. They’ve read those two articles in the local paper about the accident and that you have some medical issues. But no one has suggested to me you not return until you’re completely recovered.”

“Are you sure, Miss Cordell?”

“Get your pretty self in here, Roxanne. It’s time to get back on the horse. Besides, I need to give you some information about the new school year.”

So, I picked up my purse and headed out. To work. And tomorrow night I had a date with Bradley. A friend! Things were definitely progressing.

I glanced at the photo of Roxanne, Cathy and Nick and smiled, then marched to the front door.
Ready or not, here I come
.

Minutes later, my bravado and my spirits ebbed. I was okay driving, but frankly, it made me nervous. I stared at the rental car for a few moments before I got in, buckled up, and managed to nose it out of the parking lot.

I couldn’t remember the accident, but I felt shaky every time I got into a car. I kept thinking how awful it must have been. I rubbed my ribcage and stared straight ahead. My hands were sweating.

Althea had given me directions from the apartment to the school, and once on the street, I didn’t feel completely lost. It was familiar in that logical ‘but-I-have-no-personal-memory-of-it’ way that life had become since I’d awakened in the hospital.