Chapter 30
Abigail turned up the volume of Lydia’s new album, combing out her wet hair and singing along to her sister-in-law’s soulful tune about trusting God even in the storm. After spending her day off hiking with Ireland, she’d desperately needed a shower before tonight’s date with Simeon.
He hadn’t told her where he was taking her, but it didn’t matter. As long as she got to be with him, she’d be content. Snugging her robe tight around herself, she made the short trip from the bathroom to the bedroom.
Of course, not knowing where they were going did make it harder to get dressed.
She pulled out her phone and sent him a quick text: Can I at least have a wardrobe hint?
She moved to the closet, skimming through her clothes as she waited for a response. On the other side of the space, Simeon’s shirts hung all neat and tidy, and on an impulse, she grabbed one and buried her face in it, pulling in the faint trace of his warm, masculine scent.
For the past week, she hadn’t been able to get enough of that scent. Hadn’t been able to get enough of his arms around her. Hadn’t been able to get enough of his kisses.
She wondered if this was what their relationship had always been like—kisses at breakfast, kisses when they said goodbye, kisses when they returned home, kisses as they snuggled on the couch to watch a movie.
Something Ireland had said when Abigail had mentioned that Simeon was taking her out tonight had made her think maybe not.
“It’s so good to see you two happy again,” Ireland had said.
When Abigail had asked what she meant, Ireland had stammered a couple of times before saying, “I mean, after the accident and everything. It’s been hard on all of us.” But her flustered look, combined with the way she’d quickly changed the subject, had made Abigail question whether she’d been referring to something else.
Her phone dinged with a text, and Abigail pushed aside the thought. Whatever things may have been like in the past, it didn’t matter. What mattered was the state of their relationship right now. And that was pretty great.
She turned on her phone, the smile that tugged at her lips when she spotted Simeon’s text further confirmation that she had nothing from the past to worry about.
You’ll look beautiful whatever you wear, the text read. But jeans would probably be good. Can’t wait to see you.
Can’t wait to see you either, she texted in response. She added a little heart emoji after the words but then deleted it before she hit send. As much as she loved being with him and kissing him, she wasn’t sure if she was quite ready to say she loved him yet, even in an emoji.
But if things kept going the way they were, she could see how it might not be too long . . .
She shook her head and pulled a soft blue sleeveless shirt off a hanger. She’d asked Simeon not to pressure her into saying she loved him—and she wasn’t going to pressure herself either.
She slipped into the shirt, then moved to the dresser to find a pair of jeans. But the first pair she pulled out of the drawer refused to budge when it hit her hips, and though the second pair made it farther, she had to decide between zipping it and breathing. She pulled it back off with a dismayed grunt. Apparently, Past Abigail hadn’t wanted to admit her clothes didn’t fit anymore. She glanced at the time. She still had an hour before Simeon would be home. She might as well go through all these jeans and get rid of the ones that didn’t fit.
The next pair she tried on was snug but tolerable. She left them on and bent to pull out the remaining pairs. Something smooth and shiny caught her eye as she lifted the jeans out. It looked like— Was that a laptop?
She set the jeans aside and reached for it.
Sure enough. It was a computer.
But what was it doing in her dresser drawer?
She carried it to the bed and sat, ignoring the way the jeans dug into her waist. She opened the laptop and pressed the power button, but nothing happened. It must be dead.
She set the computer on the bed and moved back to the dresser, but there was no cord in the drawer.
Oh well, she should finish getting ready anyway. She tried on the last couple pairs of jeans, grateful when the final one hugged her hips without squeezing too tight.
She still needed to put on some makeup and do something with her hair, which was probably air drying into a fuzzy mop.
Her eyes went to the computer again.
Maybe there was a cord in the drawer of her nightstand. She moved to check, but all she found there was some lip balm and hand lotion. She scanned the room, but there were no other obvious places to store a computer cord.
Wait. Obvious places.
Simeon’s office? He kept a laptop in there. Maybe it was the same kind.
She strode down the hall and into his office. His laptop sat on the desk, an unplugged cord gathered next to it. She hurried across the room and scooped it up, glancing at the recliner Simeon had slept in every night since she’d come home. He hadn’t complained once, but she couldn’t imagine the old thing was nearly as comfortable as the bed.
She pushed the guilt aside—it had been Simeon’s idea—and rushed back to the bedroom.
She plugged the laptop in, then plopped onto the bed and waited impatiently for it to load, though she couldn’t explain why she felt so compelled to see what it held.
When it had finished loading, she glanced at the icons on the screen. It looked much like the computer they used at work—web browser, email, word processing software. Her eyes went to the bottom of the screen. It looked like she’d left her email and some kind of document open. She clicked on the email program first and scrolled through a list of hundreds of unopened emails—but they all appeared to be ads.
She clicked over to the document instead.
The cursor blinked at the top of a blank page, and for a second Abigail thought that was all there was to the document. But then her eyes fell to the page numbers. Apparently, this was page 176 of 176. She scrolled up, past pages and pages full of words, until she reached the beginning.
It read, “Title to Come by Abigail Calvano.”
Abigail stared at the words.
Title? As in . . .
Had she been writing a book?
She scrolled to the next page, which started, “Chapter One.”
Apparently she had.
Her eyes went to the text.
There are things, it began, that a person can never forget, no matter how hard they try. No matter how much they want to.
She snorted. If she had written this, that was some twisted irony.
She kept reading.
But maybe, maybe if I get the words out—if I put the memories on the page—maybe I’ll finally be able to let them go.
Abigail stared at the screen, her pulse throbbing against her skull so hard that she couldn’t think.
Was this— Had she written down her memories? Was her entire past in the pages of this book?
Her hand trembled as she tried to scroll again, sending the mouse on a wild chase across the page.
She had to calm down. Simeon had shown her hundreds—probably thousands—of pictures of her past, and none of those had brought her memories back. This book—or whatever it was—might not either.
But she kept reading, trying to take in what it said about her childhood in an affluent political family.
That made no sense.
Simeon had told her that her parents died when she was ten, and she’d grown up in the foster system.
Could he have lied to her about that? And if so, why?
As the pages went by, the book made less and less sense. And yet, it gave her that same sort of déjà vu feeling she’d gotten when Simeon had asked if he could kiss her. It was a vague feeling, and it didn’t help her conjure up anything beyond the words on the page, but it was strong enough to make her wonder if it could be real.
“There you are.”
The sound of Simeon’s voice made her jump and look up.
“What are you—” Simeon stopped halfway across the room, then rushed to her side. “What’s wrong?”
“What is this?” She passed the computer to him as he sat next to her.
He scanned the open document. “I’d forgotten all about this. It’s your book. It’s good, isn’t it?” He looked proud.
“I . . . It’s . . . Is it true?”
“True?” Simeon stared at her blankly. “That you wrote it? Of course.”
“I mean, is the book true? About me?”
“About you?” Simeon’s brow wrinkled, and he looked back at the screen. “Oh, you mean like is this a memoir?” He chuckled. “No. It’s a novel.”
A novel.
She tried to understand. “But it says I.”
Simeon shrugged. “Lots of novels are written in first person.”
Abigail nodded. “I guess so, but . . .” She shook her head, but she couldn’t push away the feeling.
“But?” Simeon asked gently, setting the computer aside and moving closer to grasp her hands in his.
“But it feels . . . familiar.”
“That’s good.” Simeon’s brow smoothed. “You wrote it, so the fact that it feels familiar is really good.”
“No, I mean—” She pulled her hands out of his to run her fingers through her hair. “It feels . . . Real.”
Simeon still seemed unperturbed. “That’s because you’re a talented writer. You made it feel real to me too.”
Abigail shook her head and stood, pacing to the window. She stared out at the still leaves of the magnolia. “Not real like a good story. Real like . . . memories.” She could only whisper the last word.
“Abigail, listen to me.” The bed creaked as Simeon stood, and his footsteps moved toward her. His hands fell gently on her arms, and he turned her to face him.
“I can only imagine how disconcerting it is not to have those empty spaces in your past filled in. But the book is fiction, not memories.”
She bit her lip, trying to convince herself that he was right. He had to be, didn’t he?
“How can you be so sure?” she asked.
He rubbed his hands up and down her arms. “Have you read all of it?”
She shook her head. “Just the beginning.”
“Trust me, if you read the rest of it, you’ll see that it can’t possibly be anything but made up.”
“Why?” She felt her own brow crunch. “Are there aliens or something?”
Simeon’s laugh was rich and deep, and it made her laugh too. She was being ridiculous about this whole thing.
“No,” he finally said. “No aliens. But the things your main character does—they’re not things you could ever have done.”
“Well, now I’m curious.” Abigail glanced toward the laptop.
Simeon stepped to the side to block her view. “You can read more of it later. For now, are you ready to go?”
“Go? Oh. Our date.” She clapped her hands to her half-dry hair. “I’m so sorry. I was in the middle of getting ready when I found the computer. Why was it in the dresser anyway?” She launched herself out of Simeon’s grasp and grabbed a brush off the dresser. She was going to have to settle for a ponytail tonight.
“I’m not sure.” Simeon came up behind her and dropped a kiss onto her neck that made her stop brushing.
She spun and let her lips dust across his. “I just need five minutes to finish getting ready.”
“You look perfect just the way you are.” Simeon brought his mouth back to hers. “I can think of another way to spend those five minutes.”
She laughed but pushed him away gently. “Don’t you want to change too?”
He glanced down at his dress shirt and slacks. “Yeah. I guess I should.” He wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her close for another kiss, then released her and moved to the closet to grab a change of clothes.
“See you in three minutes,” he said as he left the room. A second later, the bathroom door clicked shut, and Abigail found herself making her way back to the computer.
She picked it up but then set it right back down. She was supposed to be preparing for a date in the present—not figuring out if she lived in a fictional past.
Simeon dropped into the recliner. His date with Abigail tonight hadn’t gone exactly as planned, and he blamed himself. He’d bought them tickets to see Shakespeare’s The Comedy of Errors at an outdoor theater near Brampton. He’d been prepared for the mosquitoes, with plenty of bug spray. But what he hadn’t been prepared for was the way all of the mistaken identities in the play would capture Abigail’s imagination.
“How do you know I don’t have a secret identity I never told you about?” she’d asked on the way home. “And that’s what my book is about.”
He hadn’t meant to outright laugh at that, but the idea was so preposterous. Still, his reaction had hurt her, and he knew the only reason for such a ridiculous question was that she needed something to fill in the gaping hole that was her memory of everything before the accident.
He’d apologized, and she’d accepted it, but that didn’t change the fact that she’d gone straight to bed when they got home. She was probably in there, reading more of the book, right now.
Well, good. That was good.
She’d read it and see that it couldn’t be true. She’d never been the daughter of a state senator like her protagonist. Never gone to nursing school like her protagonist. And certainly never gotten involved in a car theft ring like her protagonist.
Simeon shook his head against the back of his chair. He had no doubt that Abigail had always kept some secrets—she’d never been willing to talk about her time in foster care. But to think that she had an entirely different identity as a car thief—that would strain the credulity of even the most gullible person.
He closed his eyes. He might as well take advantage of some extra sleep.
But an hour later, he was still wide awake. With a resigned sigh, he got up and moved to his desk. If he couldn’t sleep, he might as well get some work done. But his laptop battery was almost dead—he thought of the cord he’d seen snaking from Abigail’s computer—so he gave up on that too. After he closed the computer, he just sat there for a few minutes, before opening his drawer and pulling out a notebook and a pen.
He opened to the first page and let his pen hover there for a moment. Was this a good idea?
He shook his head. He’d run it past Everlee before deciding whether to show it to Abigail. But if she wanted a book about her past, he could give her a book about her past—about their past.
He’d just finished writing about the first day they’d met in Ecuador—when he’d told her not to touch a glass dolphin figurine in the market, as if she were a child, and she’d thrown him a defiant look, picked it up, and moved it two feet down the shelf, then turned and flounced away—when a strange sound caught his ears. He stopped writing and listened. There it was again—a muted shout. He shoved his chair back and took off for Abigail’s room. The door was closed, and no light shone through the crack at the bottom.
Maybe he’d been imagining things. Or maybe it had been from outside. Sometimes the neighbor’s dog barked at night.
He started to shuffle away, but the sound broke through again, more like a whimper than a shout this time. He turned and pushed the bedroom door open. Abigail had kicked all the blankets off but lay curled up in the center of the bed, her arms wrapped around herself, as if she were scared. She made that whimpering sound again.
Simeon crossed quickly to the bed and touched a gentle hand to her shoulder. “Abigail, wake up.”
He had to repeat it twice before she opened her eyes, blinking up at him. “Simeon, what—”
“Shh. You were having a bad dream.” He reached for the covers and pulled them over her.
She clutched at them. “There was a man.” Her words came in short, gasping bursts. “He was holding my arm so tight, and I was telling him to let me go. But he said there was nowhere for me to go.”
Simeon dropped onto the bed next to her, gathering her closer so that her head was in his lap. “Shh,” he soothed, running a palm over her damp hair. “It was just a dream.”
Her head shook back and forth against his leg. “I called the man Garrick. Just like in the book.” She shuddered. “I think— I think it was a memory.”
“Sweetheart, listen to me,” Simeon said firmly. “It wasn’t a memory.” He said the words slowly and clearly. “It was a dream. You read the book earlier, and your mind took all those ideas and threw them together into a dream. It’s like that time you had a dream that I turned into Spider-Man after we watched the movie.”
“I don’t remember that,” she whispered.
“I know you don’t.” Simeon brushed her hair back from her cheek. “But I do. Okay?”
She didn’t say anything, and he sighed. “This is normal. It’s called confabulation. Your brain is inventing false memories to fill in the gaps. And it’s using whatever it can to do it.”
“It doesn’t feel like false memories,” Abigail insisted. “It feels like . . . Like that déjà vu feeling I got when we kissed. Was that con- con- whatever?”
“Confabulation,” Simeon said quietly. “And I don’t know.” The words tore at his ribs on their way out. When she’d mentioned the déjà vu the other day, he’d allowed himself to hope that maybe somewhere, on some level, she did remember.
But if she thought she also remembered being a car thief . . .
“You should go back to sleep.” Gently, he slid her head back to her pillow. “Do you want me to stay with you?”
“No. I think I’m okay.” Abigail curled her arm around the blankets.
Simeon brushed a kiss over her forehead, trying to swallow his disappointment.
He was halfway to the door when Abigail called his name.
He stopped.
“Did I really dream you were Spider-Man?” she asked.
“Yeah. You did.”
“That’s silly.” She yawned. “You’d make a much better Batman.”
Simeon chuckled. “Goodnight, Abigail. I lo— Sleep well.”
“You too,” she murmured.
Simeon watched her for a moment, then made himself close the door.