Chapter Five

Sounds of scurrying squirrels outside the door woke Jazz from an excellent dream she thought would make a great novel. Keeping her eyes closed to contain the idea, she reached for the pad of paper and pen she kept on her nightstand. Her hand slid across the smooth surface—nothing. It wasn’t where she’d left it yesterday.

“Stop it. It’s mine!”

A high-pitched voice shattered her idea, and the fabulous plot flew out of her mind. That wasn’t a squirrel. As much as she wanted to keep them closed, she wrenched open her eyes. Bright sunshine caught the edge of a crystal frame throwing colorful rainbows across the duvet cover. It held a photo of three smiling children and a dog—a big dog. She slammed her eyelids closed again and clicked her heels together under the covers like Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz. She wanted to go home!

She peeked through her lashes. The room remained the same. Maybe it only worked with ruby slippers. Or maybe she was still dreaming? She plucked a hair from her arm and winced at the pain. “Nope, not residing in Neverland.” She picked up the frame and tilted it to study their small faces. What did that man say his kids’ names were? Something boring, she remembered, along with the argument that followed. And what was his name? Caleb? Collin. The name shot into her brain. That’s good. Keep going. . . . Who are the others? She tapped her lip with her index finger and tried to recall. Mel, Misty—Madison! That was the daughter’s name, Madison. The other two names escaped her. And the dog? She had no idea, and right now she didn’t care. She slammed her head back into the pillow. Why was she here?

Jazz decided to maintain silence, hide out in the bedroom until the house was quiet, and then research the subject. There had to be something around this house with the names of the kids on it. Didn’t moms write names on coats? If she were a kitten, she would have purred with satisfaction at her brilliance. This would be easy. Match the name, the size of the coat, and the kid—that’s all she’d have to do. She lay back on the bed and prayed that no one would discover she was awake. As soon as they were gone, she planned to take a bath in that wonderful Jacuzzi tub she saw in the bathroom last night.

There were whispers at the door.

“It won’t hurt to peek.”

She sank her head back into the fluffy pillow, a pillow worthy of the most expensive hotel she’d stayed at one summer. Why had she been there? She pondered that question while she closed her eyes and feigned a deep sleep. Soon the soft sound of bare feet on the carpet alerted her of an invasion. She didn’t move. Maybe the intruders would go away if they thought she was sleeping. She tried to slow her breathing and willed her eyelids not to twitch. Although in a dream state they are supposed to twitch, aren’t they? She considered that thought for a moment, then let her eyes move a tiny bit. She was so involved in her acting skills she hadn’t realized one of them had come closer. She almost jumped when a soft, cool finger poked her cheek.

“It’s not Mom,” a very small voice said, close enough that she felt the breath of the breather.

“Is too. She looks like Mom.”

“If she’s Mom, why is she still sleeping instead of making us breakfast?”

Jazz forced her body to continue to lie as still as possible. No way would she climb out of this nice, soft bed and make oatmeal or whatever kids ate for breakfast these days. Maybe if she stayed motionless they would go away and their father would get their breakfast for them. Besides, didn’t he say last night he would take care of his kids this morning?

“Why doesn’t she move?”

Jazz fought the urge to open her eyes to see who was leaning over her.

“Maybe she’s dead,” said another.

“No, she’s not,” wailed a small voice. “She’s not dead! She’s Mom.”

Always a sucker for someone or something in pain, she couldn’t handle the hurt in that small voice. She opened her eyes.

A small boy scooted away from the bed and screamed. “She’s awake!”

The sound of Collin’s voice came from the hall. “Kids, are you in there with your mother?”

“Shh, maybe he won’t find us in here,” someone whispered.

Collin entered the room. “I told you kids to stay out of here. She’s not feeling good.”

His aftershave wafted through the room, reminding her of the deep woods in the fall. She couldn’t figure out where that memory came from since she didn’t remember ever being in the woods during the fall season. Maybe she traveled from Florida to Tennessee and hiked the Appalachian Trail? Didn’t matter; her nose liked the scent.

“Madison said she wasn’t our mom and we wanted to see. She is our mom, isn’t she, Dad?”

Collin cleared his throat. “Your mom hit her head last night, and she’s having memory problems.”

Jazz sat up in bed, wincing at the pain in her head. “I’m not dead, and I’m not your mom. You can call me Jazz.”

“Dad, Mom’s name is Louisa.” Joey looked at her like she was insane, then back at his dad for reassurance. “Right?”

“Yes, Joey, it is, but after the grill fell on her head, she woke up thinking she is someone else. Someone named Jazz.”

“That’s a funny name.” Joey scrunched his face as if he were thinking hard. “Is it like Jasmine in Madison’s movie?”

“I don’t have that movie anymore. It’s a baby movie.” Madison elbowed him. “Brat.”

“This is not the time, Madison. Joey is just trying to help.” Collin stood against the doorway. Jazz couldn’t see his expression, but she had a feeling he wanted to know the answer as well.

“I have a headache and I don’t remember right now, but I don’t think it’s a princess name. Ask me again later and maybe I’ll know.”

“If Mom is crazy, who’s going to take care of me?” Tim asked. “Are you going to stay home with me today, Daddy?”

“I’m taking you to Miss Laurie’s house for a little while. Then you’ll come back this afternoon, and your mother, Jazz, will watch you until I get home.”

“Is that smart, Dad?” Madison put her hand on her hip and squared off to face him. “How do you know she won’t do something like . . . like lock him in the bathroom or let him eat candy all afternoon?”

“Miss Laurie is next door, and . . .”

“I’m right here. Why don’t you ask me what I’ll do to him?” Jazz brushed an annoying strand of hair from her eye. “I may not remember being your mother, but I think I can watch someone so small without hurting him.” Can you? a nagging voice echoed inside her head. How do you know? What does a boy child do or eat?

“I’m sure you’ll be fine with him.” He turned to Tim. “You can watch your videos this afternoon and let your mother—Jazz—rest on the couch, okay?”

“Will she make me a snack?” Tim and Joey looked at her with huge brown eyes, like basset puppies begging for a piece of chicken from the table.

“I think I can manage a snack. Snacking is one of my favorite things to do, Tim.”

“Okay, then. I guess it will be fun,” Tim said and slid his hand into hers. “I like her.”

Collin clapped his hands together. “Everyone, out. Breakfast is on the table, and I’m late for work.”

Collin ushered the children from the room. With the edge of the door in his hand, he turned. “I’ll leave my work phone number on the fridge. If you need to, call. And try to rest today, okay?”

“What time do you get home from work, Collin? Please say before school’s out.”

“Usually around seven, or sometimes eight.”

“In the evening?” She moaned and fell back on the bed. “What about dinner? And what am I supposed to do with the kids?”

Collin rested his forehead against the doorway. “I’ll leave early and bring home takeout, but please call me if you remember who you are, so I can stay at work.”

“Sure.” But no way would she call. The doctor said to rest, and that’s what she planned to do—no matter who she was.

* * *

A door slamming downstairs startled her. Silence crept through the house, no high-pitched voices or feet thumping on the stairs. The only sound came from the electronic hum of the bedroom clock. Had they all left for the day? She crept from the warm bed to the bedroom door, opened it slowly, and peeked around the corner. Nothing to see but beige walls and beige carpet stretched like a runway down the hall.

“Hello? Anyone still here?”

A clock chimed from somewhere in the house as her only answer.

Sighing with relief that there wouldn’t be any questions for a while, she strode across the thick-carpeted bedroom to the bathroom. The whirlpool tub beckoned with its high-gloss ceramic tiles. With a quick twist of the brushed-nickel knobs, she started the flow of hot water for a well-deserved bath.

After her indulgent soak, Jazz realized she would have to wear yesterday’s clothes or wear something else of Louisa’s. Neither seemed appealing, but since clothing was not optional, she had to put something on. She dried off with a thick towel. Maybe Louisa had clothes worth investigating, if her linens were any indication. She decided to check it out.

As she opened the closet door, a light came alive overhead. Stunned, it took a moment for her to take in the size—the room had to be as big as her guest room! The cedar walls were lined with cabinets, shoe trays, and multilevel bars dressed with clothes. An essence of jasmine floated in the air, making her nose twitch. Suits in every shade of gray hung on Collin’s bar. Louisa seemed to prefer navy and khaki.

Jazz ran a hand over the clothes and looked for a pair of jeans. Nothing. Doesn’t the woman own any? She rapidly slid the wooden hangers aside. Their golden hooks scratched against the metal bar. Everything seemed to boast a designer label, and nothing had color—no reds, no pinks, and no bright blues; not even a plaid peeked from the mass.

And no denim.

A thrill of excitement ran through her. She wasn’t crazy; she knew who she was! She’d worn jeans home last night that would prove to Collin that she couldn’t be Louisa. He must have been so upset he hadn’t noticed what she wore. It was evident to her the woman didn’t even own a casual pair of pants. Collin would know that.

Dressed in Louisa’s clothes, Jazz felt rather washed out from the vanilla sweater and khaki pants. Her own personality desired attention. Back in the closet, she twisted one of Collin’s red ties off its hanger, wound it through the belt loops on her pants, and tied it at the waist. Feeling much better about her appearance, she trotted down the stairs. Collin had said he would leave a number to call him at work. She found it written on a yellow sticky note stuck to the front of the fridge. She punched in the number.

“Good morning. This is Mr. Copeland’s office. May I help you?” a well-dictioned woman asked.

“I need to speak with Collin immediately.”

“I’m sorry; Mr. Copeland is unavailable at the moment. May I take a message?”

“Yes. Tell him his wife is still missing.”

“Missing? Louisa is missing? Has she been abducted? Have you called the police?”

“No, I haven’t called them. It’s like she’s missing, but she’s not. Collin knows what is going on; it’s complicated. Just have him call home.” She wondered how long it would take for him to return her call.

“Let me put you on hold. I believe he can take your call now.”

The phone line swelled with soft classical music. Then, “Louisa?”

“Jazz.”

“Jazz, what do you mean you’re missing or Louisa is missing? Didn’t we determine last night that you are Louisa?”

“But that was before I had proof that I’m not her.”

“Proof? What proof could you possibly have?” Collin asked, disbelief dripping from his tone.

“Denim. Louisa doesn’t have anything denim in her closet, or anything colorful. I only wear denim, and I had jeans on last night.” Satisfied with her case, she waited for his rebuttal.

“Did you look in the dresser in the bedroom?”

“No.” She rubbed her forehead as she considered the obvious conclusion—she was wrong. Louisa wore denim.

“Then you don’t have the proof you need. That’s where she—you keep the jeans.”

“So she’s not missing, or at least you’re feeling confident that I’m Louisa?” She could hear him clicking a pen. Was it a nervous habit or was he frustrated with her? She didn’t know, and that bothered her. “Quit with the pen; it’s annoying.”

The pen quieted, but he didn’t answer her question about who he thought she was.

“Do you still have the pounding headache?”

The concern in his voice comforted her. “It’s still with me and getting worse.”

“I’m calling the doctor, then, and getting you an appointment this afternoon. I’ll call Laurie and ask her to keep Tim. You lie down and rest. I’ll be home soon.”

She disconnected and realized that she no longer liked the adventure she had been thrust into, book material or not. This was not fun.

* * *

Collin sat in front of the doctor’s desk and waited for him to come in after examining Louisa. The desk held a few family pictures but nothing else on its expansive oak top. Unlike mine. At this moment his desk overflowed with manila folders and stacks of papers, work he should have completed by now and would have if Louisa hadn’t turned into Jazz. He should be at the office and would be if his wife hadn’t called him insisting he needed to report her as a missing person. And all because of a pair of jeans. He had immediately called their family doctor for an appointment. On his way out of the office, he’d paused only long enough to tell his secretary he wouldn’t be back for the rest of the day.

The door swished behind him. Collin rose from the chair and offered an outstretched hand to the doctor.

Shaking Collin’s hand, Dr. Allen said, “Sit down and let’s talk about your wife.” Dr. Allen plopped a folder on his desk and flipped it open before he sat.

Collin perched on the edge of his seat. He pinched his pants and slid his finger and thumb down the crease on his thigh.

“Before she comes in, I’d like to make a suggestion to you,” Dr. Allen said as he carefully turned a few pages over in the folder.

“Anything.” Collin felt a moment of hope.

“Her memory isn’t coming back, and I believe she has retrograde amnesia.” He leaned his elbows on the desktop and made a triangle with his hands, tapping his nose. “Has she experienced an unusual trauma in her life?”

“Like what? We have three kids—sometimes that can be dramatic.”

Dr. Allen shook his head. “Nice evasion, Counselor, but I said trauma, not drama. Retrograde amnesia can be triggered by a bump on the head or a seizure. We’ve determined that Louisa didn’t have a seizure. The grill is heavy and could be the reason for the amnesia. Retrograde amnesia can cause a loss of memory from the time of a specific event. Is it possible your wife had something happen to her as a child that she hasn’t told you about?”

“No, no. I don’t recall anything that she’d want to forget.”

“There is more you need to be aware of: it is likely she’ll have problems remembering things from now on as well, although that shouldn’t last long. We have seen in some cases like this that patients don’t remember their past, so they fill in the details of what they think happened in their past, believing those details to be correct. They aren’t trying to lie, understand, but they may offer an exaggerated version of some truth.” He paused for a breath, steepling his hands again and resting them on the desk. “She’ll likely have frequent headaches that will get worse as she gets closer to remembering.”

Collin leaned back into the chair. “Does she know all of this?”

“I’ve explained it to her, but I’m not sure she’ll remember it.” Dr. Allen closed the folder.

“Is there anything good about this? Is there something I can do to move the process along?”

“Time will tell. You could try nudging her memory—sometimes a place or a smell will bring back the memory. It is usually a smell associated with the previous trauma that the patient doesn’t want to recall.”

“How am I going to accomplish that?” Collin would do anything to get his life back on track. He straightened his tie as if that would reinforce the need for normalcy.

“Talk to her mom and see if she remembers anything that might have happened to Louisa as a child—but to forewarn you, many parents are clueless about traumatic episodes, or they refuse to acknowledge them.” Dr. Allen leaned back in his chair. “Perhaps you could start by re-creating how you first met, your first date, that sort of thing? I hope your memory is better than mine. My wife tells me she is the only one who recalls everything about our dating years.”

“I’m not sure I can remember everything.” Collin reached for the BlackBerry in his coat pocket. He typed in Repeat dates. What had they done together? They went for ice cream and to the movies, but he wasn’t sure which ones. “How detailed do you think I need to be?”

“As close as you can get.” Dr. Allen offered a consolation-prize smile. “Give her things to smell, pleasant and unpleasant as well.”

“And that will work?” He keyed in Smells, good and bad. “Are you thinking like oranges and chocolate?”

“I don’t know what might trigger a memory, but don’t leave out negative smells like diesel fuel or cleaning supplies.”

“Can’t she do this herself?” He mentally started lining up those tiny candles with strong scents on the kitchen counter for Louisa to smell.

“There hasn’t been a lot of success with that because the patient is able to prepare and push the memory back. If they come across the smell unexpectedly, it seems to have a more powerful effect.”

Collin’s finger tapped in Use surprise attack. “Got it. I can’t plop her in front of a banquet of smells and think she’ll snap out of this.”

Louisa brushed through the doorway. “You aren’t talking about me, are you?”

Collin stood. “No. Not really.” He scooted over one chair, leaving her the one nearest the door.

“So what’s the verdict? Am I ever going to remember my address or phone number in Florida?” Louisa said as she sat down.

The doctor nodded at her. “In time you’ll remember things. For now, though, I think it best you continue as you are.”

“As Collin’s wife?”

“You are Collin’s wife. Like I told you in the exam room, I delivered Tim, and Collin was there.”

“So I’m to live as a fata morgana?” She sank back into the chair with a sigh.

“A what?” Collin asked. He tapped his foot, afraid of what her explanation would be.

“Fata morgana. It means ‘mirage.’ I’ll be living as your wife, but it won’t be real to me until I regain my memory of being Louisa.” The words seemed to float with ease from her lips.

“Exactly. Not the words I would have chosen, but it works nonetheless,” said Dr. Allen as he pushed his chair back from the desk. “Do you have any questions?”

“Are you sure there isn’t a magic drug I can take or some kind of exercise, like standing on my head, to make my memory come alive?” Louisa asked. “It’s just so hard to understand that I’m someone else when I feel like I am who I’m supposed to be, yet you keep insisting I’m Louisa.” She clasped her hands around her head. “And I have children.”

Collin reached over and took her hand. “Louisa, look at me.”

She turned to him. Her eyes begged for some kind of reassurance.

“You’ll remember and I’ll help you.”

“How can you? You don’t know anything about me.”