Chapter Four
FOUR
There were things he could remember.
He remembered how to stand. How to walk. He knew, for instance, that the rumbling in his stomach was the sensation of hunger. Just like the pain spreading through the middle of his forehead was a headache. But he couldn’t recall the things that had made him a person.
He couldn’t remember his name. Or where he was born. Or what he was doing in this town called Woodstock...though he remembered there had been an accident. Or rather, he remembered with perfect alacrity the woman who had greeted him after the collision.
She was beautiful.
When she had first appeared in his room, he had wanted to tell her that. The thoughts were clear inside his head. He was certain he knew her. She felt familiar. But when he went to open his mouth, express these things aloud, he found a disconnect between his brain and his tongue. The words wouldn’t come. And when he attempted to use them—to argue with the doctors or defend himself against the way they were treating him—his words came out stilted. Wrong.
From there, it seemed that everything had gone downhill.
No one seemed to recognize that there was still a person inside of him. It was fine in the beginning—when the doctors entered the room, shone their lights in his face, asked him to touch his nose. But when they realized he couldn’t respond correctly, their whole demeanor changed.
They talked over him. Around him. Like he wasn’t a person, at all...but another piece of furniture in the room.
He didn’t recall what a shelter was, but he knew enough not to trust these people. These doctors with their pens—scribbling out life sentences before casually talking about where they were going for dinner. And yet when he wanted to call out, to shout his frustration, make them understand, he couldn’t. Because he was trapped. Abandoned by his memory. A prisoner in his own body. Losing hope. And then, that woman—the beautiful one from the accident—returned. Finally, he felt a glimmer of hope.
She looked him in the eye when she spoke. She asked what he wanted. She talked to him, not around him, even though he couldn’t respond. Even though it was impossible to get his ideas across—the frustration he felt from being imprisoned within his own body—he fought like hell to make his position known.
Next thing he knew, he was being wheeled towards an exit by a nurse. And Faye, the woman who had understood him, was waiting by a vehicle when they got outside.
“Are you ready to go home, my darling?” Faye said, taking his arm, steadying him.
“Wife,” he said.
“That’s right, darling.” Faye glanced between him and the nurse, playing the role spectacularly. “I’m your wife. Excellent work.”
He had not meant to keep repeating the word. But he figured it was his brain working overtime to protect him.
Faye helped him into the car, shutting the door behind him. The nurse departed. Faye slumped in her seat, breathing out all her anxiety in one long and heavy breath.
“Baruch Hashem and Blessed Be,” she said before directing her gaze back to him. “We did it. You did a great job in there.” He was pleased that she was pleased. “Safety first,” she said, reaching over his lap and putting a seat belt on him. “I already almost killed you once today. Oh, but...not to worry. I’m a very good driver. I’ll get you home in no time.”
His eyes wandered around the car, around the world outside the hospital. And then he caught sight of a man, a large bandage wrapped around his head, sprigs of fire-colored hair jutting out from the top.
“Arhjreh!” He jumped in his seat.
“Haman’s hat.” Faye clutched her heart. “What’s wrong?”
It was only upon inching back in his seat that he realized the strange man in the reflection of the mirror...was him.
And he was a redhead.
It was more than a little disconcerting. He recalled enough to know that the image of the man sitting across from him should have felt familiar, and yet, he was a stranger to himself. “I’m sorry,” Faye said softly. “I should have warned you. That’s you. And you’re fine, okay? It’s just a bandage on your head. The ice beneath it is to keep the swelling down.”
He tried to get out the word see , but all he could manage was a mangled s . He wanted to take the bandage off. He was eager to see the full image of himself. Also, the ice had all but melted. He was just about to begin unwrapping it when Faye, once again, seemed to intuit his thoughts.
“Oh, dear,” she said, leaning in to inspect the bandage. “Did they really leave you like that? With the ice all melted?” She shook her head. “You poor thing. You must have the worst headache imaginable.”
She began taking it off. Slowly, she unwrapped the bandage, her fingertips gliding across his skin.
“I swear,” she kept talking. Her voice was soothing, gentle. She made him feel better. “Health care in America nowadays. It’s unbelievable. But don’t you worry, as soon as we get home, I’m gonna find lots of ice for your head. And Advil, too. Definitely loads of Advil. I promise. I’m gonna take very good care of you.”
He believed her.
It was a twenty-minute ride from the hospital to home. Faye filled the silence of the ride by pointing out places as she drove through Woodstock, New York. She started with a private university, just a stone’s throw from the hospital they were departing.
“That’s where my best friend Miranda works,” she explained. “I’ve known her since I was eight.” From there, she pointed out a tourist site, marked by a sign and a small museum of music that lay on a road with three antique shops. “Woodstock is known as the city of peace, love, and rock and roll,” she continued. “Do you remember anything about Woodstock? Or does anything ring a bell about what I’m saying?”
He stared out the window, trying to recall. But there was nothing but the present. What he remembered was what he saw. Trees. Forests that stretched beyond the length of his vision. Faye pointed out the window, towards an exit on the road they were driving.
“Down that road is one of my favorite places locally to go caving,” she said. “It’s called Devil’s Cave, and it’s a hobby of mine. Can you remember any hobbies you might have had before your accident?”
“Faye.”
“No,” she corrected him. “I’m not a hobby.”
His frustration grew again. That wasn’t what he wanted to say.
He was trying to explain that the only thing he remembered about his past was her. He recalled seeing her, thick hair cascading in voluminous curls around her breasts, and the cleavage she had— holy hell, her cleavage was amazing —as she bent over.
The thought appeared in his mind without permission.
In truth, sitting so close to her in the car, his eyes wandering back to her skin, her cheeks, her chest , he couldn’t believe that she was not someone, something more to him. It seemed impossible that they were not actually married. That they were, in fact, strangers. She felt so damn familiar.
He was also beginning to wonder if he was some sort of pervert.
The car approached a series of buildings—small houses with knickknacks on shelves lining their porches and signs in pretty lettering etched above the doors.
“That’s Pinky’s Creamery,” Faye said, passing by a small white building with a giant cow out front. “They churn out the best homemade ice cream in all of New York. This is also the start of our little downtown. We have a day care. A bookstore. Several restaurants. We used to be more hopping, honestly...especially with the university nearby...but a lot of businesses didn’t make it through COVID.”
He didn’t know what COVID was.
Faye turned a corner, stopping at a red light. “My store, Magic Mud Pottery, is right over there,” she said, and pointed through the front windshield down the street. “I’m a potter. I make pottery. Technically, a ceramicist. And I teach classes... I live above my business. I don’t know if I mentioned this already, but it’s not very big. My apartment. It’s kind of small, and awkwardly shaped, and it’s only one bedroom. You’ll sleep on the pullout couch in the living room. You do not, ever , come into my bedroom to sleep. Understand?”
He searched for the words. “Understand. Faye...not wife.”
Faye sighed. “At least we’ve got that part down.”
He noted her reticence.
Reticence.
It was a big word. It must have come from somewhere.
“I suppose,” she said, waiting for the light to turn green, “since we’re actually going to be doing this, we should give you a name. I can’t very well call you ‘that guy I hit with my bike’ all week. It’s lengthy. Plus, I already feel guilty enough about the whole amnesia thing without the constant linguistic reminder.” She turned to face him. “So, any idea what you’d like me to call you?”
He considered her question seriously. Choosing a name seemed like a big deal. An important one, too. He didn’t want to get it wrong. Or worse, what if he remembered his name, only to mumble out something like “incredible breasts” by accident? He didn’t want to totally freak her out. She had just agreed to bring him home, after all.
A bus rolled up beside them. His eyes wandered to the ad laminated on the side. It was an ad for something called MadLibidoMax , featuring the words,
GET YOUR ZEAL FOR LIFE BACK
Beneath the ad came an endorsement from a man named Gregory Pelham. He was holding a tennis racket with his collar turned up and had a swath of gray hair. He looked all types of distinguished. More important...he looked like someone who had a memory.
A fluttery, churning feeling appeared in his belly.
“Greg.”
Her head nearly shot off her neck. “You remember your name?”
“No.”
He pointed over her shoulder towards the advert. Faye glanced behind her and frowned. The light turned green. “Well,” she sighed, stepping on the gas, “I guess Greg will work just as well as anything.”
The grand tour of Magic Mud Pottery didn’t take very long. Faye led him around the first floor, pointing out the counter, the small kitchen, the back studio, and the garden, before taking him up a set of creaky old stairs to the second floor.
“And this is where you’ll be staying,” Faye said.
She moved towards a couch pressed up against two windows. A tiny bookcase rested to the side. A coffee table was covered with a vast array of pottery and ring dishes. A hook on the wall, behind a chair in a colorful paisley print, held a collection of hats, scarves, and beaded jewelry.
Faye lifted one of the pillows from the couch to display the bed hidden inside the frame. “It’s a pullout,” she explained.
“Pull...out?”
The words felt familiar.
“I know it’s not ideal,” she said apologetically. “Especially for a man your size...” Her eyes trailed the length of his body. “But hopefully, you won’t be here too long.”
She kept saying that.
Faye inched back out past him. When she stopped again, she was standing behind a counter, in front of a stove and cabinets.
“This is the half kitchen,” she explained. “The refrigerator is downstairs, along with some utensils if you want a quick snack. I know it’s quirky, or whatever. But I used to live in Manhattan. New York City. The Big Apple. You remember?”
Greg scanned his memory banks. “Smell.”
“What?” Faye quipped, her eyes darting around the room. “You smell something funny?” She sniffed the air, followed by a quick once-over of her own armpits. “I don’t smell anything weird.”
“No,” Greg said, and tried again. “Small.”
“Oh!” Faye laughed, and got his meaning. “Yeah. My place is small.”
Just then, the sound of something click-click-clacking down the wood floors of the hall drew his attention away. Greg looked down to see what appeared to be some type of hairless rat prancing his way.
“Oh,” Faye said, running over to pick the animal up. “This is Hillel.”
She brought the creature closer. It was not a rat, but some sort of dog. An instinct overtook him. He moved to take the puppy from her hands.
“You don’t want to—” Faye stopped herself. “Well, look at that.”
The rat-dog nuzzled into his arms.
Greg gave his assessment. “Good.”
“Not quite,” Faye said. “Hillel can be kind of persnickety with, well, everyone. If you want to know the truth, he’s kind of mean. He poops on my floor all the time. But that’s just because he’s old and grumpy. Thankfully, he’s all gums. I mean that literally, too. He has no teeth left. He sucks his food down instead of chewing it. It’s actually...kind of sad to watch.”
Hillel didn’t seem to hate Greg.
When he looked up from petting the dog, his eyes caught on hers. Quickly, she pressed hers towards the wall.
She had pretty eyes.
“On that note...” she said, twisting away from him, waving him down a small hallway. “This is the bathroom. We’ll be sharing this for the time being.” She flipped on a light. A shower curtain decorated in flowers and a green bath mat greeted his arrival. “There are towels beneath the sink.”
She bent down, opening a cabinet to demonstrate.
He liked the way she wiggled. He liked the spread of her hips, and the vastness of her form. He liked how she took up space. That everything—in the room, in the apartment, in the building—smelled and felt like her. Earthy. He liked her voice, especially. The way her words took shape and became alive inside of him.
“Home.”
“Yes,” she said, nodding. “This is your temporary home. Temporary , meaning for the time being. Kind of like a sukkah. How appropriate, right?”
He didn’t understand.
She returned to giving him a tour of the house. Heading down a hallway, she pushed open a door with one hand. “And this is my bedroom,” she said, before adding for clarity, “Where I’ll be sleeping... alone .”
Greg took stock of the space. A queen-size bed filled most of the room. To his left, a closet. To his right, at the front of the bed, was a bureau. Resting on top, between crystals, and photographs of Faye with various friends, was a bundle of dried herbs wrapped up in white yarn. Otherwise, the room was a mess. Clothing—something lacy and silky—lay in a clump on the floor.
“I’m not usually this sloppy,” she said, nervously picking up pieces, sweeping away random bits of soil from the floor. “I just...kind of had a rough night.”
He wanted to ask her what she meant, but a phone began ringing. Faye raced back downstairs. Greg followed and found her digging through her purse.
“Miranda,” she said, pulling out a phone. Twisting away from him, she kept one hand over her mouth and whispered, “Yeah. I know. I’m really sorry. You got my text about the accident?” She glanced back at Greg before continuing. “It’s complicated. I don’t want to talk in front of him. Yes, him . Don’t start. There wasn’t any other good option.”
She hit a button on the phone, turning back to Greg. “I need to take this.”
Greg moved to follow her.
“No,” she said, putting one hand out to stop him. “Alone.”
Greg understood, but she clarified anyway.
“Why don’t you just—” she waved around her store, her apartment, nervously “—make yourself at home. Try to relax. Take your shoes off. I’m sure you’re exhausted after spending all day at the hospital. I’ll be back in just a minute.” She headed through a room of tables, arts and crafts supplies, and towards a back exit, into a garden. “One minute,” she called back. “And don’t go anywhere.”
Before Greg could respond, she was gone. Funny...for all the things he had apparently lost today, he felt her disappearance the most.