The Memory of All That

THE MEMORY OF ALL THAT

NANCY SMITH GIBSON

SOUL MATE PUBLISHING

New York

THE MEMORY OF ALL THAT

Copyright©2015

NANCY SMITH GIBSON

Cover Design by Leah Kaye-Suttle

This book is a work of fiction.  The names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.  Any resemblance to actual events, business establishments, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved.  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher.  The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law.  Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials.

Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

Published in the United States of America by

Soul Mate Publishing

P.O. Box 24

Macedon, New York, 14502

ISBN: 978-1-61935-
818-8

www.SoulMatePublishing.com

The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

The Memory Of All That
is dedicated to my family,

who have always encouraged me to follow my dreams.

Thank you Lisa Gibson Sanderock,

Robin Gibson Beard, Holly Gibson Thorwarth,

and James Joel Gibson for your love and support.

Acknowledgements

My deepest thanks to all those who helped me get this book written and published. My special thanks to the Hot Springs Critique and Feedback Group, who listened and made suggestions to improve the story. Special thanks are due to my diligent editor, Tamus Bairen, without whom this novel would be full of mistakes. 

Chapter 1

The first thing she saw when she opened her eyes was the man sitting in a chair beside the bed. His expression was solemn, and his dark blue eyes were fixed on her. When he saw she was awake, he frowned but said nothing. She began to open her mouth to ask where she was, but the blackness closed in again.

She didn’t know how long she had slept, but the next time she opened her eyes, the chair by the bed was empty. Smelling the faint scent of aftershave, she scanned the room and saw the man standing in the doorway with his hand on the doorknob, looking back at her.

Handsome,
she thought,
but he looks so sad.

Before she could gather her thoughts and strength enough to speak, he left, closing the door behind him.

Now that she was able to stay awake long enough to survey her surroundings, she observed deep red, flocked wallpaper and rosewood crown molding against the high ceiling. Maroon tapestry draperies covered the windows, shutting out any potential sunlight. The lamp on the bedside table offered scant illumination for the large room. The white sheets and duvet covering the four-poster bed were the only relief from the dreariness the dark colors instilled.
This room is straight out of a Gothic novel
, she thought.

She sighed and closed her eyes, unable to keep them open any longer. Before the black claimed her again, she tried to make sense of what had happened and how she had ended up in this room.

The icy-cold mist on her cheeks—that was the first thing she remembered. It stung as if someone had slapped her. Looking around, she saw she was standing in a small grove of trees. The pine needles under her feet released a pungent odor. About twenty feet away, there was a picnic table, a grill, and playground equipment. She took a few steps, slipping slightly on the pine needles mixed with sodden leaves. She grabbed hold of a low hanging, bare branch to steady herself. That's when she noticed the street running beside the park. She turned toward it when a thought hit her. The power of it caused her legs to grow weak, and she almost fell to the ground.

She had no idea where she was or what she was doing there.
What’s going on? How could I not know where I am?
Her mind tried to make sense of the situation.
Maybe I’ve had an accident and I’m in shock
. She tried to recall anything that happened before she felt the moisture on her face, but nothing came to her. The past before that moment was a blank.

Then another thought struck her so violently that she wrapped her arms around a small tree in order to remain standing.
Not only do I not know where
I am
,
I don’t know who I am
.
I don’t even know my name.
She tightened her hold on the support.
What can I do? I can’t just stand here in the cold rain. Where can I go?

Panic washed over her like an ocean wave, threatening to pull her under. She had nothing to hold to, no memories, no facts, nothing beyond what was in the here and now, but she had no idea where “here and now” was.

Across the street, a woman with her arms full of packages met a policeman walking the opposite direction. They stopped and chatted, and she thought,
Maybe I should go say something to that policeman. Tell him I’m lost. Tell him I don’t know who I am. Ask for his help. But what could he do? Take me to a hospital? Take me to jail? Put my picture in the newspaper and ask if anyone knows me? Any of that would be so embarrassing. And my memory will come back any second now . . . any second.

Before she could act, the pair separated and went different ways.

Just as well,
she thought
as she started toward where they had stood.
I would probably end up in a psychiatric ward somewhere. And I’m not crazy. I know I’m not. I just can’t remember who I am.

When she reached the sidewalk, an idea occurred to her, and she stopped to study the clothing she was wearing. Brown leather boots extended to just below her knees, and she was enfolded in a brown wool coat with a muted orange plaid pattern. It was fastened with large brown buttons and held closed with a belt of the same fabric.

Why am I wearing this awful coat?
As quickly as that notion had come to her came another.
How do I know I don’t like a brown and orange coat? It is ridiculous to know what clothes I don’t like and not know anything else.

There was a purse strap on her arm.
Now I’ll find some answers. There’s sure to be a driver’s license or credit card or something else with my name and address on it in this handbag.
All she found in the bag was some loose change, a tissue, and a small mirror.

At least I can see what I look like
, she thought. Raising the mirror to her face, she saw a young woman—perhaps in her late twenties. She was attractive, with coffee-colored eyes. Dark brown hair curled out from beneath the ugliest scarf she had ever seen.

What is it with these clothes?
she thought.
How come I’m wearing stuff I don’t like?

She put the mirror back in the purse and snapped the old-fashioned clasp. Continuing along the sidewalk, she passed several shops and then paused in front of a café.

If I had enough money I could go inside and get a cup of coffee.

She only found forty-one cents in the purse, not enough for coffee, and she couldn’t imagine going in the café and asking if anyone in there knew who she was. She stuck her hands in the coat pockets and felt the rustle of paper. Eagerly, she pulled it from her pocket and smoothed it between her fingers. “Nicole’s Fashions” was written across the top. It was a receipt for a dress shop. It also read, “Two dresses. $178. Deliver to 1532 Springhill Drive.”

Finally! This must be where I live. 1532 Springhill Drive. How do I find it?

Another puzzle. She walked aimlessly past another couple of stores and glanced at the sign marking an intersection.
Springhill Drive
.

OK. So I’ll walk home. When I get to that address, it will be home, and I’ll remember it.

She crossed the thoroughfare and started walking up Springhill Drive.

Maybe I’ve had the flu. Yes, I think that’s it. I’ve had the flu and I’ve been really, really sick. I remember that! That’s what’s happened. That’s why I don’t remember anything else. When I see my house, it’ll all come back.

She walked for blocks. It was late afternoon, and though it was cloudy and overcast, she could tell it was growing later. Lights were on in the modest houses she walked by. As she passed, a car pulled into the driveway of a neat, white frame home. A man got out, and children rushed from the house, calling “Daddy! Daddy!”

Tears welled in her eyes.
Do I have a husband somewhere worrying about me? Wondering what has become of me? Do I have children needing their mother? Have I been
gone long
?
Has anyone called the police to report me missing?
The questions filled her mind and smothered her in despair.
Surely someone is looking for me.

By the time she walked a few blocks, the mist had turned to snow, and she began to feel feverish and weak. By the ten hundred block, she was beginning to doubt she could make it another five, but the alternative was embarrassing—unthinkable. Either she could go until she fell down or she could walk up to a strange door and ask for help. Neither option was acceptable to her. She would just have to push on until she found 1532. The farther she went, the larger and more affluent the houses became, and she began to have doubts about the possibility of living in such an obviously wealthy neighborhood. It didn’t feel right, and nothing looked the least bit familiar. She believed it more likely she lived in one of the modest homes than the current mansions she was seeing.
Maybe I work at one of these big houses
.
Maybe I’m a maid or a personal assistant or something.

By the time she determined she could walk no more, snow was rapidly covering the ground. She was alternating between hot and freezing, with a black cloud moving in on the sides of her vision. She stopped and leaned up against a tall column marking the opening in a red brick wall where a driveway led to an imposing house built of the same material.

I can’t go any more. As embarrassed as I might be, I have to ask for help. Maybe someone is at home here. If I can make it to the front door, I’ll have to make them understand.

Her hand touched a brass plate on the pillar, and she turned her head to read it. 1532 Springhill Road. She had found what she was looking for.

I can make it that far.
If it’s not my house, whoever lives here will just have to help me. I can’t do anything else.
She was about ten feet from the wide stone steps leading up to the massive front door when it opened and a tiny woman dressed in a black uniform and white apron rushed out.

“Miss Marnie! Miss Marnie! I knew you’d come back! She said you wouldn’t, but I knew you would.”

Marnie. My name is Marnie
. She was glad she knew her name, but it didn’t bring back any recollection of her past.
I must be home. This woman knows me.

As the diminutive woman put her arm around Marnie and helped her up the steps and through the door, the blackness crept in, but she held on to consciousness for all she was worth.

“That’s it. One more step, Miss Marnie. And another. You can make it. We’ll get you to bed. You just lean on me, and I’ll get you to your room. One more step. That’s it.”

When they were about halfway up the flight of steps leading to the second floor, a voice came from the downstairs hall. They paused, and Marnie looked over the rail at the gray-haired woman below.

“So you’re back, are you? Well, let me tell you something. This time you’ve gone too far. This time you’ll end up in prison. I’ll see to it.”