Diagnosis: Attraction. Rebecca York
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someone else’s money so freely, but she couldn’t think of an alternative.
On the groceries side of the store, Polly asked, “What do you want to eat?”
Another memory test. “Will you let me do the cooking?”
“If you’re not too tired.”
She selected a package of ground beef, canned kidney beans and salsa, pleased that she could come up with a set of ingredients that made sense. “Do you have onions, chili powder and cumin?”
“I believe I do.”
“Then I’ll make us chili.”
“Do you need a recipe?”
She thought about what would be involved in making the dish. “No, I can do it.”
“You like to cook?”
“I think so.”
“One more thing you know,” Mrs. Kramer said.
Elizabeth nodded. It was like playing a game where she didn’t quite know the rules. But some of them came back to her—basically what she considered ordinary things. Or general things. The part that dealt specifically with her own life remained a mystery.
As they drove to Polly Kramer’s house, Elizabeth kept looking behind her.
“Is something wrong, dear?” the older woman asked.
“I can’t shake the idea that somebody is following me.”
“Do you see anyone you recognize?”
She sighed. “No. I’m just nervous about it.” She didn’t want to say why. That, when she’d touched Matthew Delano, she had had a memory of someone following her and that trying to get away had caused her automobile accident.
They pulled into Polly Kramer’s driveway.
She lived in a redbrick rancher in a close-in suburb, probably built in the 1950s, Elizabeth thought, wondering how she’d placed it in time. There was a low chain-link fence around a half-acre yard and a carport instead of a garage.
“My husband and I bought this house forty years ago,” Polly said as they pulled into the driveway.
“Is he home?” Elizabeth asked, looking around for another car.
“He died a few years ago.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s one of the reasons I’d love to have some company. The house isn’t all that big, but sometimes I feel like I’m rattling around inside.”
“I understand,” Elizabeth said automatically. Because of personal knowledge of loss? she wondered. Or because she was good at getting in touch with people’s emotions? Which would be strange if she basically felt disconnected from everybody.
“Dan was an engineer. He made a good living and had a nice pension, and I still collect most of it. Plus we paid off the mortgage years ago. I don’t really have to work at the hospital, but I like the contact with people. So don’t worry about my paying for a few things you need. We’ll get it sorted out later.”
“Thank you,” Elizabeth answered, overwhelmed by the kindness of this woman she barely knew. Was Elizabeth the type of person who would do the same thing for a stranger? And was that how she’d gotten in trouble? The question stopped her, and she thought she caught the edge of a memory, but she wasn’t able to pull it into her mind.
“You come in and get settled,” Polly was saying. “You probably want to rest awhile, and there’s no need to start dinner for a couple hours.”
Elizabeth nodded. In fact, the brief shopping trip had taken a lot out of her.
Polly showed her through a living room, furnished in a comfortable contemporary style, to a pleasant bedroom in the back of the house. “I keep the sheets fresh,” she said. “Go on and lie down for a bit.”
“You’re sure you don’t need help putting the groceries away?”
“We only got a few things. You just relax.”
“Thank you.” Elizabeth took off her slacks, jacket and shoes, and laid down, thinking she’d get up in a few minutes.
* * *
MATTHEW DELANO COULDN’T shake the feeling of guilt that hung over him as he finished making his rounds, then went down to his office on the first floor, where he entered some information into the computerized patients’ charts. On Tuesdays and Thursdays he saw patients in the hospital clinic, but he had the afternoon free today. And he couldn’t stop thinking about Elizabeth Doe.
She was in trouble, and he’d walked away from her because he was uncomfortable with the sexual heat that had flared between them when he had touched her. But he felt like a bastard for abandoning her when she wasn’t in any kind of shape to fend for herself.
He told himself ethics cut both ways. What if something terrible happened to her that he could have prevented by helping her bring back the memories she needed?
He was silently debating what to do when a knock on his office door interrupted him.
“Come in,” he called.
A man wearing dark slacks and a navy blazer over a white dress shirt stepped into Matt’s office. The stranger looked to be in his late twenties, and he had broad shoulders, a muscular build and large dangerous-looking hands. His face wasn’t particularly remarkable, although perhaps he had broken his nose sometime in the past.
The overall impression he gave was negative, although Matt couldn’t exactly explain why. Just as he’d gotten the feeling that Elizabeth Doe was a good person, he sensed that this guy was “bad.” There was something behind his eyes that told Matt his mood could turn deadly in an instant.
“Dr. Delano?”
“Yes,” he said, still sizing up the man.
“I’m Bob Wilson. I understand you saw a patient with amnesia?”
“I’m not at liberty to discuss my patients.”
“Yes, of course. I understand completely. But I think she might be my sister.”
“Why?”
“She told me that she was coming over yesterday, but she never showed up.”
“And you haven’t heard from her?”
“No.”
“The woman I treated was listed as Jane Doe. What’s your sister’s name?”
“Elizabeth Simmons.”
He hoped he didn’t show any reaction. The Elizabeth part was right, but was that really her last name? And why did he doubt this guy? “Do you have her picture?”
“Of course.” The man opened his wallet and took out a photograph that looked like it might have been taken for a college yearbook.
“Yes, that’s her,” he reluctantly said. There was no way out of the admission because, if he lied about it, it was easily exposed since his having treated her was a matter of record.
Wilson’s face lit up, but not in a way Matt liked.
“Thank God. Do you know where she’s gone?”
This lie was easy. “Sorry.”
“You’re sure you have no idea?”
“Sorry,” he said again. “I can’t help you. I’d left the floor before she was discharged.”
The man’s expression turned hard. “If you do hear about her, I’d like you to call me.” He took out a business card that read Bob Wilson and handed it over. There was a phone number on the card but nothing else besides the name.
“What do you do, Mr. Wilson?”