Chapter 9
By seven o’clock that night, I have a hot cup of chamomile tea and a handwritten list of every unfamiliar object in my apartment that could potentially have sentimental value:
A receipt for Jane Eyre from the Brattle Book Shop from the corkboard
A piece of red-and-white string
A program for the autumn events at the Boston Public Library taped to the fridge
Two movie ticket stubs for Rear Window at the Brattle Theatre
A map of the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum from my desk
A metal dog from Monopoly that was sitting on the windowsill
I cradle the warm Paradise Cove Beach Café mug in both hands and stare down at the list, then into an old shoebox I found in my closet, where I have all the items piled together.
Suddenly, I feel a twinge of pity for my grandmother after she threw away Justin Webber’s Jolly Rancher wrapper all those years ago.
How was she supposed to understand the significance of something anyone else would assume was junk?
Because right now, that’s what this looks like: a small box of junk.
It’s not junk, though, I remind myself. These are memories. My memories. All I have to do is visit the places associated with them and those memories will come back. Simple as that.
For a half second, it honestly feels that easy.
But as my gaze flits over the contents of the shoebox—the Monopoly dog, the random piece of string—I realize the colossal kink in this plan: I don’t know where half these items came from.
They obviously mean something to me, but without any other tangible details to go on, it’s virtually impossible to decipher them.
And that’s fine, I remind myself. I don’t need to know where all this stuff came from.
If Janine is right and all I have to do is visit a few places to trigger my memories, then I just need to focus on the items that have locations attached.
And figure out how to get to them. And what I’m looking for once I do. And then, how to get back home.
Before I reach peak levels of panic, my phone starts to ring on the cushion next to me. When I look down, I see Sara’s name lighting up the screen.
“Did you have coffee with Matt today?” she says before I can say hello.
I straighten, my eyebrows stitching together. “How do you know about that?”
“Garrett, obviously. He just called me and said Matt texted him, so now I need to know why you didn’t call me immediately afterward.”
I roll my eyes. “Because nothing happened. Honestly. We grabbed a coffee and talked for a few minutes. That’s it.”
“That’s it?” She sounds utterly disappointed.
“He had to go to work, and I had a doctor’s appointment.”
“Okay, fine. When are you meeting up again?”
“I’m not sure we are,” I say. “Matt didn’t seem to think that was a good idea.”
Sara scoffs. “Why not?”
“I don’t know. It sounds like his job is really demanding right now. Or maybe he’s seeing someone else and doesn’t want to give me the wrong impression.”
“Impossible,” she says. Her voice is so resolute, I almost believe her. “But whatever, I’ll have Garrett give him a call and ask what his problem is.”
“Sara—”
“How did the doctor’s appointment go?”
I sigh. “It was fine.”
“We’re talking about a traumatic brain injury, Marnie. You have to give me more than ‘fine.’ ”
I smile, letting my head fall back into the sofa cushions. “Well, my brain is healed, so that’s a good thing. And we came up with a game plan to recover my memories.”
“A plan! Yes!” she exclaims. “What do you have to do?”
“I’m supposed to visit places that are familiar and wait for something to trigger my brain so my memories come back.”
“Okay, but how can you do that when you don’t even remember moving to Boston?”
“Because I keep finding all these mementos from Boston around my apartment. Movie ticket stubs. A piece of string. A receipt for a copy of Jane Eyre.”
Sara is well aware of my sentimental menagerie of items—I kept the cork from the bottle of drugstore prosecco we opened when I moved in with her prominently displayed on our bookcase for years—so I know she’ll immediately understand.
“So you’re going to those places to see what looks familiar? God, that’s so brilliant.”
“Only if it works,” I reply.
“Of course it will work,” she says. “Now tell me what we’re working with.”
I go through the list with her, detailing each item until we get to the end and she lets out a gasp. “Wait. You kept all these things because they’re from moments you wanted to remember, right?”
“Right.”
“What if they’re moments you wanted to remember with someone else?”
My brow furrows. “What do you mean?”
Sara groans. “Isn’t it obvious? These are from dates with Matt!”
“How can you possibly know that?”
“Because I just know. He always said he was going to read Jane Eyre, right? Who else would you buy a copy for?”
She has a point. I had been begging him to read it ever since we started dating.
After we moved in together—and my copy was readily available on our shared bookshelf—he said he would try, but he never found the time.
Did I buy him his own book after the breakup?
One last parting gift that could be sitting in his apartment right now.
“Matt’s the only person you know in Boston, Marn,” Sara continues. “And if you two were toying with the idea of getting back together, then it makes sense that you’d go out a few times, too.”
The thought rolls around in my head, not knowing which way to go.
“Maybe that’s why he doesn’t think it’s a good idea to get together again,” Sara continues. “He’s waiting for you to remember so it’s not, like, emotional manipulation or something. When you think of it that way, it’s really kind of selfless.”
I smile. “You should write romance novels.”
“No way.” She scoffs. “I’m much too cynical. Besides, I’m within spitting distance of this VP job, I know it.”
There’s a knock on the other end of the line, then the sound of a door opening.
“Oh shit, my four o’clock is here. I gotta go,” Sara says. “Call me later!”
She hangs up and I leave my phone on the cushion beside me, taking a sip of my tea as I do another audit of my carefully curated box of memories.
Are these all from moments I shared with Matt? The idea doesn’t ring true, but that doesn’t mean much since nothing in my life rings true right now. All I can do is follow this list until something triggers my brain and my memories come back. Then I’ll know for sure, one way or another.
Now I just need to decide where to start.
I reach inside the box and pull out the small Monopoly dog.
When Sara and I lived together, she told me her Monopoly theory: If you feel like you’re falling in love with someone, you should play a game of Monopoly together.
If you came out the other side still liking the other person, then it was meant to be.
The idea sat in the back of my brain ever since, waiting for the right moment to test it with Matt, but that never happened—or if it did, I don’t remember it.
It’s also nearly impossible to know where this particular dog came from since there are probably thousands of Monopoly games in Boston.
I place the dog back inside and pick up the receipt from the bookshop. The address is printed at the top, so at least I know where to go. Then I notice something else: the date of purchase. I not only know where to go, but exactly when I was there last.
It feels like a nudge from the universe, one of those signs my grandmother always told me to watch out for.
Sure, I have no idea why I bought a copy of Jane Eyre when I already own one, or why it would mean so much that I memorialized it on my corkboard, but those are all details to work out later. For now, I have an address and a date.
I lean down to examine the receipt for the Brattle Book Shop again, looking for any other details that could be helpful.
The good news is it’s in Boston. The bad news: I don’t know Boston at all. If this were Malibu, or even LA, I might have a chance, but the idea of an aimless wander around an unfamiliar city is enough to send my fragile optimism into freefall.
I flip open my phone and type the address into the small browser window. A map pops up that’s almost impossible to decipher, so I try to follow the directions list. This might work, as long as I don’t make a wrong turn. If that happens, I’ll never find my way back.
I close my phone and glance at my front door.
Maybe I could ask Ben for directions. He had offered, hadn’t he?
His text had explicitly said Knock if you need anything else, with perfect serial killer punctuation.
And this would definitely constitute something else.
He wouldn’t even have to leave the building this time, just write down directions like he did before. Easy enough, right?
I’ve just about convinced myself to go knock on his door, when I hear footsteps out in the hallway.
A moment later, there’s the rough edge of Ben’s voice, though I can’t make out the words.
Not that I’m trying to listen. Only, it’s impossible not to.
Apart from the distant echo of ABBA’s “The Winner Takes It All” from downstairs, it’s only me and my own thoughts, and those are getting me nowhere tonight.
Then I hear something else. It’s another voice, but this one is lighter, soft and melodical. A woman.
I’m on my feet in an instant, tiptoeing across the room as if they could possibly hear me, then I press my eye to the peephole.
Ben has his keys out, ready to unlock the dead bolt, while a woman waits beside him.
Their bodies are distorted by the fish-eye lens, but I can tell she has long brown hair pulled back in a low ponytail.
She’s talking, using her hands to animate her words, while Ben nods, his broad shoulders barely concealed under his faded work coat.
The door muffles any chance I have to hear what the woman is saying and, a moment later, Ben gets the door open and they both disappear inside.
Huh. Ben Morgan has a girlfriend.
I stare out the peephole for another minute, on the off chance that maybe, possibly, she might leave. But the door stays shut. And that fact sends a small, strange ache through my chest.