Remembering That Night. Stephanie Doyle
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this? Really?”
“Really? I have no flipping idea. But it’s not like I had anything better to do on a Sunday.”
* * *
SHE LOOKED IN THE STEAMED-UP mirror. “Amanda. Amy. Alice. Alison.”
The names triggered nothing. She tried again. “Beth. Betty. Barbara. Bonnie.”
Maybe if she had one of those baby books. She could go through it alphabetically and wait until something jumped out at her. Then, once she remembered that one critical piece of information, everything else would fall into place.
She took a step back from the mirror and looked at her body. Despite her lack of memory it didn’t feel foreign to her. The three oddly placed moles on her chest actually looked familiar. She touched them and drew a line between the one in the center, the one that hovered over her right breast and the one that hovered over her left. As she made the triangle, it was something she felt she’d done before.
Her very own body art.
She’d already checked for any scrapes or wounds. There was nothing she could see. Twisting around in the mirror she didn’t detect any obvious marks on her back. That gave her relief. At least she wasn’t the product of some type of abuse. Not a victim.
Then why did whatever happen to you take your memory? Your life?
“Excellent question,” she muttered. But at least she was starting to understand the way she thought about things. She was cautious in nature. Which again felt right. Cautious women were smart women. They didn’t jump feetfirst into unknown territory. They were thoughtful and patient and wise.
Even standing naked in some strange man’s bathroom, she felt she’d handled the situation as best she could. She was at the mercy of human kindness with no memory, no identification and no money.
Greg Chalmers had offered to help her, but she hadn’t just accepted it. She’d questioned it. She’d gotten a reference from a woman.
This made her careful. She liked the idea of being a careful person. It soothed her and gave her back a little of her control.
Glancing at the toilet, she looked at the jeans and T-shirt she had placed on the lid. Greg’s clothes that he suspected would fit. The jeans had her a little worried. Yes, he was taller than she was, but he had no hips.
Staring back in the mirror, hers weren’t anything to write home about, but even a woman with no hips sometimes found herself stuck in boy jeans. However, the option of putting her own clothes back on wasn’t available. They were being washed, including her panties and bra. She’d never been so happy to strip out of clothes as she was when she arrived at Greg’s apartment.
A knock on the door startled her. She jumped then, checked to see that she’d locked it, which she knew she had because after she’d locked it, she’d tested it twice.
“How are you doing in there?”
Greg. He sounded worried. Maybe she had spent an overly long time in the shower, but the need to feel clean, really clean, had pushed her to stay under the hot stream of water until it had run lukewarm.
“Okay.”
“You must be hungry. I’m making spaghetti.”
At the mention of food her stomach rumbled. “I’ll be out in a minute.”
“Good.”
She scrambled into his jeans and gave a sigh of relief when they buttoned and zipped. Her butt was snug but that was to be expected when the owner of the jeans didn’t have one of those either. The T-shirt was a thick cotton and navy blue. She tucked it in and bloused it a little to create a loose effect. Satisfied she didn’t scream “here are my boobs, please look at them” she was ready to leave the safety of the bathroom. She’d already used a comb to untangle her hair and tie it up into a knot that would hold as long as it was still wet.
The two men were already in the kitchen. Greg was using prongs to dish out pasta and then handing Chuck a big bowl of what appeared to be sauce and meatballs. A green plastic container of cheese and a basket of white square bread she was pretty sure came out of a plastic bag sat on the table amongst the dishes.
This was wrong. Dinner was not being served properly. Instinctively, she knew that.
“You know if you pour the pasta back into the pot where the gravy is cooking, it will take on some of the flavor. Then you can serve it already mixed together.”
They looked at her for a moment as if she was an alien, but then Greg nodded. “That’s a good idea. We’ll try that next time.”
She approached the table and sat down. She wanted to be grateful. She was grateful. The shower, the clothes, the feeling that there was a place in the world for her to be. She owed these two men everything.
But, seriously, how could they call that tasteless white stuff that Chuck was spreading an inordinate amount of butter on bread?
Greg piled some pasta on her plate and handed her the gravy. She took two big meatballs, what she imagined was a hunk of sausage, and mixed it in with her pasta. She sprinkled the cheese from the container on top of her plate, disappointed that the powdery substance didn’t melt properly.
Without expressing her dismay, she ate. It didn’t matter that it was fake cheese and sauce from a jar. It was food. They were kind to be giving it to her. She would never forget this meal for as long as she lived.
Silence reigned over the table as the two men dug in. They both ate as if they were starving and, given how thin they were, maybe they were.
She looked to Greg and the thought popped out of her mouth before she could think better of it.
“You’re one of those tall, lean men who can eat whatever you want, aren’t you?”
He nodded around a mouthful of pasta.
“And Chuck, I bet you eat junk food all day long but never gain any weight.”
He smiled as he bit into his butter-covered bread.
She smiled and stood up, leaving the napkin she’d placed on her lap on the table. “Do you have a spoon?”
Chuck’s eyebrows rose. As he cut his pasta with a fork and knife, he shook his head. “What do you need a spoon for?”
“Third drawer over from the sink,” Greg offered.
Taking his direction, she found the utensil she was looking for and sat down again. With precision born of practice she lifted the pasta onto the fork, braced it against the spoon and twirled it until it was a perfectly neat bite.
After a few mouthfuls, Chuck got up from his seat and also found a spoon. Greg, she noticed did not, preferring to brace the fork against the plate and spin it. She might have protested if it was china, but the everyday dishware was made of sturdy material.
You used to eat pasta off of china.
The thought was the barest whisper along her brain.
Think! When? Where? With whom?
“We need a name for you.”
The question startled her out of her thoughts.
“We can’t keep calling you ‘hey, you.’”
She tried a faint smile. “I’m fairly certain ‘you’ is not my name.”
“What about Jane?” Chuck proposed. “You know, like Jane Doe.”
She frowned. “Jane. A little unoriginal, don’t you think?”
“Would you rather be Bunny or Cherry or something?” Chuck asked.
“No. I choose not to sound like someone who made her living dancing with a pole.” She stopped herself then. “That sounded really snobbish, even to my ears. I don’t know why I said that.”
“Maybe