Lost Identity
She didn’t appear. The bedroom door was still closed when he was ready to leave. He listened for any sounds inside, and then quietly opened the door and peeked in. She was still in bed. He was about to close it again when she raised her head and gave him a startled look.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you. I’m about to leave for the office.” He frowned. He didn’t feel right about leaving her after last night’s sobbing nightmare, but he didn’t have any choice. “Are you all right?”
“Yes,” she readily lied. “Just tired.”
“Well, sleep in as long as you like. I’ve left some breakfast for you.” He hesitated, wanting to ask what her plans were, but it didn’t seem to be the right time. After her ordeal yesterday and the kind of night she’d had, it was clear that she needed rest. He felt a little uneasy, leaving a stranger alone in his house, but he really had no choice. “I’ve left a note with my cell phone number if you want to call me.”
She nodded.
There didn’t seem to be anything more to be said so he closed the bedroom door and left the house. The whole business was unreal. Never in the world would he have imagined twenty-four hours ago that he would have a strange woman sleeping in his bed, sabotaging his well-ordered life and cluttering up his mind with irritating questions. As much as he hated to admit it, he couldn’t forget the way she’d clung to him last night. He’d been careful not to allow anyone to be dependent upon him for anything, but there was something of a lost soul about her that could easily get to him if he let it. Anyway, she’d probably be gone when he got back home, he told himself, and he could chalk the whole episode up to some kind of weird adventure.
His unsettled mood must have been communicated to his fellow workers because several of them asked, “What’s the matter with you today, Andrew? You don’t seem like yourself.”
He brushed off their comments with a shrug and vague answer. He couldn’t help but laugh to himself, wondering what their reaction would be if he told them the truth—that there was a strange lovely waif sleeping in his bed.
As usual, Andrew had lunch by himself in the coffee shop that he frequented. He exchanged pleasantries with the motherly waitress who was used to serving him in a back booth where he ate his usual corned beef sandwich with a book opened on the table beside his plate. He tried to resume his usual routine, but when he found himself staring at the pages without reading the words, he pulled out his cell phone and called home.
No one answered.
He let it ring six times before he hung up. She must have left or was still sleeping. He didn’t know whether he was relieved or irritated.
Later that afternoon, he called again. Still no answer.
TRISH HAD STAYED huddled in bed until midmorning. Finally, she took herself in hand, retrieved her clean clothes from the dryer and dressed. Thankful that she’d been given a slight reprieve from having to make any kind of decision, she went into the kitchen and poured herself a cup of coffee.
She saw that Andrew had left bread on the counter for toast and some cereal waiting to be heated on the stove, but her stomach was churning with too much anxiety to feel like eating anything.
What should she do? Where should she go?
Her mind played the questions over and over again. If she left the safety of this cottage, would she be walking straight into some unnamed danger? She knew with sickening certainty that something terrifying had happened to her, but that was all she knew. How could she protect herself when she didn’t even know who she was or where the threat lay?
Taking the cup of hot coffee with her into the living room, she sat down in his easy chair. A faint masculine scent was strangely comforting as she thought about the man who had rescued her. Who was this Andrew Davis? His personal imprint was all over the small house. Wooden shelves flanking the fireplace were crowded with books of all kinds, and in the corner of the room was a guitar. Framed pictures on the wall were obviously prints taken with a simple camera, probably his, she thought. The modest furnishings suggested a man comfortable with himself, and a man who invited trust. She remembered how he had held her last night, and the way his gentle reassurances had soothed her shattered state. Up until now, he hadn’t burdened her with a lot of questions, but she knew that that couldn’t go on. She had to make a decision. Either she was going to have to start lying or tell him the truth.
If she told him that she couldn’t remember anything before he found her on the beach, would he believe her? He might think she was just trying to con him with such a tale, and show her the door. Where would she go?
Maybe a lie would be better, she reasoned. Almost any story would seem more acceptable than the truth. What kind of a tale could she weave that would make it reasonable for her to stay here until she had some glimmer of her Lost Identity?
The sudden ring of the telephone sent her into instant panic. She was afraid to answer. What if they asked, “Who is this?” And what was more frightening, someone might be trying to find her.
She held her breath until it stopped ringing. Too late, she realized that it might have been Andrew calling to see if she was still there. Maybe he had wanted to tell her that he expected her to be gone by the time he got home?
If only she could remember anything, even a glimmer, maybe she would know what to do. She hated the thought of going back down to the beach where he had found her, but maybe something there would trigger her memory. Nothing could be more terrifying than not knowing anything about what had happened to her.
Cautiously she opened the front door and peered out at a redwood deck that stretched across the front of the cottage on the ocean side. A small mahogany picnic table, benches and two matching chairs presented an inviting scene, but as she stood in the doorway, her feet refused to move outside. Her fear was stronger than her will.
Slamming the door shut, she leaned back against it with tears in her eyes and her fists clenched. Maybe she didn’t know her name, but there was one question that was imbedded deep in every cell of her being.
Had she been fleeing for her life when Andrew found her on that beach?
Chapter Two
Andrew returned home that evening just after the sun had set. Twilight was slowly creeping across the ocean, and turning relentless rolling breakers into a dull gray. When he saw that there weren’t any lights on in the cottage, he felt a momentary pang of disappointment. Although he was used to coming home to an empty house and grateful to be out of the hustle and bustle of the city, his mysterious houseguest had made this homecoming out of the ordinary. Just in case she might still be there, he had stopped and picked up some fried chicken and salad.
Well, so much for taking the time to plan supper, he thought, impatient with the whole situation. Even though he knew she’d been shaken by her ordeal, she could have had the courtesy to explain herself before she took off. She could have phoned him, he argued with himself, and then shoved the thought away. It didn’t matter. Maybe it was better that she disappear as suddenly as she had come. At least she’d locked the door before she left, he thought as he let himself in.
As the door swung open, Trish jerked up from the couch where she’d been lying, and her cry of terror was like a sharp knife renting the air.
“It’s just me, Andrew,” he said quickly as he flipped a light switch just inside the door.
“I thought…I thought…” She took a deep breath to steady her voice.
“I’m sorry I frightened you. The house was dark. I thought you’d gone, but I guess I woke you up?”
She wanted to run into his arms, let him hold her the way he had last night, and end the torturing long hours of trying to retrieve something that lay at the edges of her memory. His reassuring figure and concerned expression invited the kind of security that she desperately needed. Somehow, she knew she was safe now that he was home.
“Have you been sleeping all day?” he said, wondering why the telephone hadn’t awakened her.
She nodded, not wanting to admit that for hours she’d been staring at the ceiling, trying to hold on to flickering impressions that faded too quickly for her to hold and examine them. Several times the darkness curtain in her mind seemed about ready to lift, causing her to hold her breathe as sweat beaded on her forehead. And then nothing.
“I brought supper,” he said, holding up the sack that was redolent with the odor of fried chicken. “Did you raid the fridge and fix yourself some lunch?”
“I made some tea and nibbled on some cheese and crackers. I wasn’t very hungry.”
“Well, I’ll fix us a couple of plates and we can go out on the deck to eat. The sun has burned off yesterday’s rain, and it’s going to be a lovely evening. Did you get out at all today?”
The question was casual, but it brought a tightness in her chest. “No, I stayed inside.”
“I called a couple of times, but no one answered.”
“I—I guess I must have been sleeping too hard to hear it.”
He didn’t believe her. The way she was avoiding his eyes spoke volumes. Why was she lying to him, and acting as if she was trying to come up with some believable story? He wanted to ask if she’d phoned anyone, or made arrangements to go back to wherever she belonged.
“Well, you probably needed the rest.” She had touched a sympathetic chord in him, but loud and clear it vibrated with a warning. Her continued presence could completely upset his life. She’d already played havoc with his normal routine and he’d spent more time thinking about her than was wise.
“Why don’t you freshen up, while I get things ready?” he suggested. After they had eaten, he’d insist that she level with him. He deserved to know what in the hell was going on.
She sensed his simmering impatience, and her stomach tightened as she went into the bathroom. Staring at herself, she was embarrassed at her disheveled appearance reflected in the mirror. Her hair was tangled, her eyes heavy, and deep lines of worry and fatigue etched her face. No wonder he had suggested that she freshen up. She was embarrassed that she’d let anyone see her in such a washed-out state. Somehow she knew that she’d always tried to look her best.
I have pride, she thought with a deep sense of satisfaction as she washed her face briskly with cold water. This little discovery was like a gem shining in a foggy darkness. It strengthened an inner confidence that seemed natural to her, and she glimpsed a tensile strength that had not been destroyed in the throes of amnesia.
I’ll remember everything soon, she told herself as she carefully brushed her hair around the tender spot on the back of her head. She had just put the brush back on the shelf, and automatically reached out her hand to pick up something when she froze. Nothing was there.
For a split second the curtains of darkness in her head split and she could see a dark blue cosmetic bag decorated with bright butterflies just beyond her empty hand. The flash of remembrance was clear and unmistakable.
Joy like a surge of adrenaline shot through her. I own a bright blue-and-yellow cosmetic bag. My memory is coming back! Her heartbeat quickened and the palms of her hands were suddenly moist with sweat. It wasn’t much, but it was a beginning.
With a stronger step, she hurried out to the living room to join Andrew, but he was already outside on the deck. She saw him through the large picture window. He had lit some patio lamps, which sent a soft glow over the deck.
“Come on out. Food’s ready.” Andrew gave her an inviting wave of his hand.
As Trish stood in the doorway, looking out, her burst of well-being faded. Her mouth went dry and her chest was suddenly weighted. She fixed her eyes on Andrew’s reassuring figure as she slowly pushed opened the screen, and forced herself to step out on the deck.
As her frantic gaze searched the beach below the house, she didn’t know what or whom she was expecting to see. In the twilight only a peaceful scene of water, sand and sky greeted her eyes. She saw that Andrew’s house was nestled in a small cove isolated from other structures whose roofs she could glimpse in both directions some distance away.
Andrew was puzzled by the visible signs of a struggle going on inside her as she stood there, her eyes searching in every direction. Had she expected to see something or someone? She was certainly attractive enough to have a man chasing after her. Had she been fleeing from a lovers’ quarrel when she got lost in the storm? By this time, the poor guy was probably frantic from her disappearance.
Andrew suddenly had a bad taste in his mouth. This kind of speculation didn’t sit well with him. Her reluctance to go back and face the situation gave him the feeling that she was just using him.
He said rather stiffly, “Have a seat. I’m sorry it isn’t more. I’m afraid my bachelor life is lacking in the finer things of life.”
She shot him a quick look as she sat down on the bench facing him. He’d never used that tone with her before, and she knew what was coming. She had over-stayed her welcome. Her stomach tightened. If only he would give her a little more time to remember why she had a deep fear of someone knowing where she was. Any story she’d been able to think of had too many holes in it to convince him to let her stay. If she lied about being on vacation alone, her belongings would have to be somewhere. No doubt, he would offer to drive her back to her lodgings, and then what?
Sitting across the table from her, Andrew watched her pick at her chicken and salad, really not eating but just going through the motions. Was she putting on an act? He’d been taken in by manipulating women when he first came to the city, but he’d learned his lesson. Hadn’t he? Looking at her appealing femininity, he wasn’t sure.
He set down the chicken leg he’d been eating, wiped his hands and then leaned toward her. “I think it’s time you leveled with me, Trish, don’t you?”
She deliberately took a drink of water, delaying the moment when she’d have to speak. She wished now that she’d told him the truth in the beginning, but she’d been too frightened to think clearly. Like a hunted animal, a deep protective instinct had warned to protect herself.
“All right. Let me guess,” he said when she was slow in answering. “You’re running away from some unpleasant situation that you don’t want to face.”
“Maybe.” I don’t know. I don’t know.
“Maybe?” he repeated, with a disbelieving edge to his voice. “Either you are or you aren’t, Trish. Frankly, I suspect that some man is beside himself wondering where you are.”
“Do you think so?” she asked almost in a whisper.
The anguish that flashed across her face made him soften his tone even though he was getting impatient with her evasiveness. “Trish, I’m thankful that I was around when you needed rescuing, but hiding out here isn’t going to work for you—or for me, either.”
“I know.” She sighed. “You’ve been more than patient, and I don’t know what I would have done if…if you hadn’t found me.”
“You’ve got to face up to whomever, or whatever you’re running away from, Trish.” He reached across the table and took her hand. “Why don’t you tell me about what was going on?”
She laced her fingers through his, drawing strength from the contact. Maybe he would accept the truth. Or would he just think she was making everything up in an effort to wring enough sympathy from him so he’d let her stay?
“What is it, Trish? I have to know.”
She drew in a deep breath to settle the quivering in her chest. “The truth is that I don’t know who I am. And I need a little time to figure it out.”
His mouth quirked as if he didn’t know whether to laugh or let his irritation show. “That’s the metaphysical question for this generation, isn’t it? Who am I? I can’t believe how many people get on this quest—”
“That isn’t what I mean.” She jerked her hand away from his. Her eyes flashed as she said each word with loud emphasis, “Don’t you understand? I don’t know who I am.”
Andrew simply stared at her.
“I’ve lost my memory. I remember your rescuing me from the beach. But that’s all. Nothing before that.”
“I see.” An inner voice warned him to be careful. “You have amnesia.” Skepticism laced the statement.
Trish could tell from his tone that he didn’t believe her. He obviously thought she was trying to put something over on him. Her hopes that he would understand took a sickening dive. Any lie she could have dreamed up would have had a better response from him than the truth.
“Yes, I have amnesia,” she repeated firmly.
“Well, that is a problem, isn’t it?” he said as if he were addressing a child who had just told a whopper of a lie.
“Don’t patronize me,” she flared. “I’m telling you the truth. I don’t remember anything from the moment I opened my eyes and saw your face bending over me.”
“But you said your name was Trish,” he protested. “Did you just make that up?”
She hesitated, and then answered thoughtfully, “I don’t think so. The name just kind of floated up and seemed familiar.”
“And you don’t remember anything else?”
“I know I have a blue-and-yellow cosmetic bag with butterflies on it. I remember that,” she said triumphantly.
He watched as her blue-green eyes lost their flatness. There was such joyful thankfulness in her face when she said she had remembered the bag that he had a hard time believing it was just an act. Still, it was a stretch to accept this bizarre story as the truth.
“You don’t believe me, do you?” She sighed, watching his brown eyes narrow as he looked at her, and deep lines furrow his forehead.
“Frankly, I don’t know whether I do or not,” he answered honestly. He’d heard of retrograde amnesia when a person would remember things after a trauma and nothing before. Clearly she’d been in a state of shock when he’d found her on the beach, but keeping such a frightening state to herself didn’t seem rational. Was this very appealing woman cleverly manipulating him to her own ends?
“I’m telling you the truth,” she insisted, reading the skepticism in his expression.
“You have to admit that you’ve been rather adept at keeping your loss of memory from me. I mean, I would have thought you would have told me right away.”
“I couldn’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because…because I had to protect myself any way I could.” Her gaze dragged his face with pleading intensity. “Deep down I knew that I was being threatened by something or someone. By keeping quiet, I was just trying to protect myself—and you—until I could remember and know what to do.”
Andrew’s thoughts whirled like dry leaves caught in a devil’s wind. He knew that her nightmare had been real enough. Some of her vague answers and behavior could be symptoms of complete disorientation. When he thought about her behavior in the context of her not remembering anything, there was a ring of authenticity about it. Still, her determination to keep such an appalling state a secret bothered him. “You should have told me.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“How long did you plan to keep me in the dark?”
“I thought—I hoped—that at any moment, my memory would come back. Plus I wasn’t sure you’d believe me if I told you the truth.”
He hesitated. “I’ve heard about people losing their memory when something horrendous happens to them.”
Her lips quivered as she looked across the table at him. “I don’t know why I’m in danger, but it’s a deep-gut feeling that I can’t deny. I feel safe here with you, Andrew, and that’s why I don’t want to leave. Please say that I can stay.”
All rational arguments against opening himself up to this disruptive intrusion in his life fled. He walked around the table and eased down beside her. Putting an arm around her slumped shoulders, he heard himself saying, “Of course, you can stay. We’ll sort this thing out.”
He felt a surge of protectiveness that was alien to anything he’d felt before. His cautious, rational approach to life deserted him as he was suddenly filled with desires that made him a stranger to a surge of bewildering hunger. He wanted to trace the sweet curve of her cheeks with his fingertips, and bury his lips in the smooth loveliness of her neck. He bent his head close to hers and as a soft breeze tugged at wayward strands framing her face, he knew that in another moment, he would forget himself completely.
Gently he withdrew his arm and took a steadying breath, hoping that she was unaware of his physical response to her nearness.
“There are things that we can do right away to find some of the answers,” he said, allowing his methodical intellectual nature to take over. Then he added as lightly as he could, “We’ll find out why you showed up like a drowned kitten on my doorstep, and it will all make sense. Until then try to relax, and let me see what I can find out. Okay?”
Gratitude made her voice unsteady as she thanked him. “I’ll try not to be an intrusion. Why don’t you let me sleep on the cot?”
“No, I like to work late, and sometimes get up in the middle of the night to try out an idea. It’s better if you take the bedroom.” He eyed her nearly untouched plate. “I guess you don’t like chicken.”
“Yes, I do.” She found herself relaxing for the first time since her rescue. “It’s strange, but I seem to know things like that—what I like and what I don’t like. I saw your guitar in the house and I know I like music but I’m not sure what kind. Some of the books on your shelves seemed familiar even though I can’t actually remember reading them.” She frowned. “That’s weird, isn’t it? I know a lot about myself, but none of the important things like what my name is and why I have a compelling instinct to hide.” She shivered. “None of it makes sense, does it?”
“It will make sense when we know the whole story.”
A sudden tightening in her chest made her plead, “But don’t let anyone know I’m here, not until we know for sure who I am. Promise?”
“Promise.”
Even though his mind had already been racing ahead to printing flyers with her picture on it, he knew she was right. If she had been a victim of foul play, it wouldn’t be wise to let other people know who and where she was until they found out the whole story.
“What do you think we should do first?” she asked, her spirits rising with hope for the first time.
“I’ll get a list of missing people in the area, and you can look over the names and see if any of them seem slightly familiar. We’ll go from there.”
His confidence was like a healing balm and when they went back inside the house, Trish felt stronger and less fearful than she had before, and she chided herself for not telling him sooner. She was able to look at her situation in a rational light for the first time. She belonged somewhere. She had connections to others. Every question in her dark memory had an answer.
“Getting impatient isn’t going to help,” Andrew had warned her earlier when she confided in him that not knowing the simplest things about herself was devastating.
She knew that he had been skeptical in the beginning, and who could blame him? This whole scenario was something out of a soap opera. But in the end, he had believed her. The warmth of his protective arm around her spoke volumes. She had an ally. She was no longer alone.
THAT NIGHT, ANDREW USED his computer to run off everything he could find on amnesia due to traumatic shock. When it came to facing any problem, he was always meticulous in his approach. That was just his nature, and one of things that made him successful in creating sophisticated software. By the time he turned off the computer, he had a fistful of research material.
He quietly went back into the living room and slumped down in his easy chair as he studied the printouts. The mantel clock was striking two o’clock when he finished reading.