Chapter 2 #3
Aside from being vast, every piece of furniture, every light fixture, every detail is perfection.
In the lower area, to the right, two white couches with gray and teal pillows look like they’d be heaven to ease my aching body onto.
There’s a pair of dove-gray armchairs in front of a marble-surround fireplace on the right wall.
To the left is a long dining table with at least a dozen chairs for the glamorous dinner parties Rob must host. And above each area, a matching chainmail chandelier ripples in the cool light.
It is everything I would choose, if, of course, I had that kind of money. Which I don’t. But clearly Rob does.
“Shoes, sweetheart, and your coat,” Mum prompts gently. I tug my trench over my strapped wrist and wince with pain as I bend to remove my boots. My mother pushes open a hidden closet door in the wall. “Go sit down, darling. Rest. Turn the fire on, Laura.”
As I sink into the soft couch, Laura makes a fuss of supporting my wrist, then grabs a small remote from the coffee table.
She presses a button, sparking on the fireplace, which is glass-backed and shared with a room beyond.
Above the fire hangs another ocean painting, this one in shades of teal.
But it’s the ornaments on the mantel that intrigue me most. Is that my stone hand sculpture?
And the vase from David for my thirtieth?
I want to examine them, but I’m too sore to get up.
I lean back, trying to absorb the place, reeling from its opulence.
“How are you doing, my darling?” Mum places a mug of tea carefully in my good hand, making sure I’ve got it before settling into one of the gray armchairs.
“Not great,” I tell her, struggling with the heavy mug.
“I’m pretty confused. As far as I’m concerned, I’ve never been here, and you’re saying it’s my home.
But I’m glad you and Laura are here.” I look about me.
“And this apartment is amazing, so I’m going to .
. . process it for a while. Let it just wash over .
. .” My voice is cracking, so I stop. I glance up at the kitchen, where my sister is stirring sugar into her tea and talking quietly to Rob, who’s staring at me.
Mum follows my gaze. “He’s a wonderful man. He loves you very much. He’s made you happy. You thought you might never marry, but then he came along and it all made sense. I’m sure it’ll make sense again. Soon.”
“I hope so, Mum.” I’m trying hard to sound cheerful. “So . . . how did we meet?”
“At a hotel bar — the W, on this square — after a real estate conference. He was playing piano in the lobby, and you assumed he was a jobbing musician. You asked him if he knew a particular song, and the two of you hit it off. He didn’t tell you he was a hotel and condo developer who happened to be playing the piano.
He liked you not knowing he had money.” She smiles. “You were shocked when you found out.”
“I bet. But . . . I’ve never been to a conference at the W. Well, I nearly did. I was registered for one when I was working at Crain’s, three years ago, before the radio station. But I crashed my bike on the way — no big deal, just a sprained ankle — so I didn’t make it.”
“Radio station?” My mother wrinkles her brow. “What radio station? Did you do some freelance work before Halstein & Faust?”
“The brokerage? Luxury real estate?” I’m as confused as my mother looks. “What’s that got to do with anything?”
“Well, that’s where you work, darling. After they let you go at Crain’s, you got the communications manager job there. Rob got you the interview with Mike and Hans.”
Now I’m even more perplexed. “I’m familiar with the brokerage, but I don’t work there, Mum. I work at Talk New York. I have a real estate talk radio show. Two-and-a-half years now. You know that.”
“Well, I don’t.” Mum’s worry line between her eyes deepens. “Clearly this is another memory your accident has affected. You don’t work at a radio station, darling. You need to take things slowly, step by step, and it’ll fall into place.” But she doesn’t sound convinced.
Feeling nauseated, I focus on not dropping my tea on the spotless white couch. I take a tentative sip. At least it’s warm, comforting. “Good tea,” I mutter — and then, “Oh. This is good tea because it’s my favorite brand, right?”
My mother’s lips curve thinly in answer.
“Everyone okay?” Rob asks as he and Laura join us, not sounding okay himself.
“We’re fine,” Mum replies. “Some confusion about Josie’s job. I suppose it’s to be expected that if she has memory loss about one thing, it might extend to other areas. We’ll work it out.” But she sounds as if she’s reassuring herself.
A spark of irritation flares in me. “And how are we accounting for the fact that I have a totally different set of memories, and a different job, and a different home? How will we ‘work’ that out?”
“Josie.” Laura’s voice is quiet.
“I can’t handle this.” I put down my tea, fight my way up off the couch and turn to Rob, whose eyebrows are raised. “Where’s my room? I need some alone time.”
He glances at Laura questioningly.
“Right.” I catch the reason for his hesitation. “I don’t mean the primary bedroom — I mean the room I’ll be sleeping in. Because until this mess is sorted out, I’m not sharing a bedroom with you, no matter how pleasant you are.”
“Iris and Laura are staying in the two spare bedrooms.” Rob’s voice is quiet. “But you could have our bedroom and I can go in the den.”
“No, Rob.” Laura gets up. “This is your home. I’ll go in the den. You stay in your room. Josie can go in the art room — she’ll be comfortable there. Mum can go in the green room. I’ll move our stuff. That suit you, Mum?”
“Yes, thank you, darling.” Mum nods. “Excellent idea. Josie will have all her paintings . . .” She trails off, clearly unsure whether I’ll remember the paintings.
“Thank you,” I reply, glad of one tiny victory. “Which one is the ‘art room’? It sounds very fancy.”
“Here.” Laura strides past the dining table and opens a tall door to the left of the wall of windows.
I follow her into a corner bedroom, from which a glass door leads out to the end of the terrace.
I catch my breath at the sweeping views of the park and across the city.
A million windows glint in the midday sunlight and, at street level, late-autumn trees flutter scarlet and amber leaves.
Overwhelmed by the relentless beauty of this home, I sit on the edge of the large bed, which has four metal posts and a white gauzy canopy hanging from the lofty ceiling.
Then I gasp as I face a collection of artwork, hung gallery-style on the deep blue interior wall.
My beloved artwork — all the paintings and prints I’ve collected over the years.
I shake my head. “My art—”
“She recognizes the pictures, Mum! Rob!” Laura yells back into the living room. “All is not lost!”
“Thank goodness.” My mother sounds relieved.
“So,” my sister continues, “what do you need? Stuff from the master closet? I’ll move your toiletries to the main bathroom.”
“Thanks.” Suddenly I’m exhausted. My wrist is throbbing. My body aches. “And those painkillers, please.”
“Sure, big sis.”
Laura leaves me sitting on the side of the bed, staring at my favorite English landscape, by my grandfather. It makes sense I would hang it right there.
Even though the door is open, my mother knocks as she enters. “Thought you might like to finish your tea.” She sets the mug on the mirrored nightstand.
“Thanks, Mum. It’s good to see these paintings. I was thinking how perfectly hung they are.”
“We did it together.” She sits beside me on the bed.
“After you and Rob moved in, I came to stay and we hung all your smaller pieces together. That lovely forest painting is in the green room, but most of them are in here. You and Rob started to buy bigger statement works together after that . . . It’s lovely, isn’t it? The flat, I mean.”
“Really, Mum, I can’t fault this place. It’s a dream. Makes me wonder if I’m dreaming this whole thing.”
“Well, you’re not. I’m not sure if that’s good news or bad. But there it is.” Mum pats my hand, then stands to leave as Laura returns with an armful of clothing that she hangs inside a closet.
Laura hands me a set of gorgeous gray silk pajamas. “Your makeup and toiletries are in the main bathroom. Need me to show you where it is?”
“Please. While I’m still dressed.” I don’t want to wander around searching for the bathroom in those slinky PJs.
I avoid eye contact with Rob as we pass him talking to Mum in the living room.
At the top of the steps, I slow at the open door of a bedroom — the ‘green room,’ from the pale painted colour of the walls — stopping as I glimpse the forest painting I bought after arriving in New York.
“That picture,” I say to Laura, peering in.
“Yes, you had it in that tiny Murray Hill studio, before you met Rob.”
“That’s right,” I reply.
And then it came with me to the home I bought for myself in Williamsburg.
Laura beams. “At least some stuff is consistent, huh?” She pushes the next door open. “Bathroom.”
“Thanks.” I smile at her. “The painkillers?”
“On the counter. See you in a bit.” She kisses me on the cheek.
In the bathroom, I stare at this more glamorous version of myself, wearing clothes that are my style, but clearly pricier. It’s beyond weird to see this slimmer me. I realize I haven’t eaten in a long time, not since I slipped into this crazy parallel universe.
The last thing was an indulgent birthday meatball sub with Abby yesterday lunchtime at the diner near the station, followed by that cupcake.
That was less than twenty-four hours ago, according to the bathroom clock, but it seems worlds away.
It is worlds away. Still, my stomach is in knots, and I doubt I’ll eat for a while.
It doesn’t look like this body has seen a meatball sub in years.