Nick was standing over the stock pot simmering away on the island, sniffing and tasting what smelled like stew. “Well, it tastes alright, but it could use a sprig of rosemary.”
Sam’s face seemed to squish, turning her pressed smile my way. “A sprig. Did you hear that? A sprig.” Turning her attention back to Nick, she said, “If you’re not going to be calling the health department on me, could you back away from the pot and let me finish then?”
I tried not to laugh, I really did. Nick’s hands went up in surrender and he stepped off to the side. Sam took over at her work station, continuing to chop carrots and skinned potatoes. “Hey. Since you’re here, could you work your magic with the guest room toilet again?”
Groaning, he cried, “Again?”
“Always.”
After rolling his eyes, he asked me, “Will you be alright for a few minutes?”
Before I could even form words, Sam swatted his chest. “Of course she’ll be okay! What do you think I’m going to do to the girl? Feed her my cooking?”
Deadpanned, he replied, “Please don’t. She’s been through enough already.”
I laughed as Sam shoved her son a little harder, pushing him into motion. “Go on. Get out of my kitchen and get to work.”
“Alright!” Obviously trying to comfort me in case I was nervous, he added, “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
But seriously, what was there to be nervous about? This woman was a hoot.
“Don’t listen to him,” Sam told me once he was out of earshot, leaning over the rectangular island that separated us. “Just between you and me,” she said softly, “and Claire, because you knew this before, too. But I can actually cook just fine. Some time in his early teen years, he got interested in cooking. And the kid was actually good at it! Call me a bad mom if you want, but I began faking incompetence in the kitchen. I even threw together a few meals I knew would stink to high heaven just so I could get him to take over our family cooking full-time.”
My mouth fell open as I gasped, but laughter was soon to follow. “That’s horrible!” I yelled in a hushed tone, but with all the giggling, the reprimand got lost.
“Yeah, it probably was,” she conceded, “but hey, he may not be the chef he is today if I hadn’t done that.” Oddly enough, I couldn’t argue her logic. “Now that he’s gone, I have to do my own cooking again. He thinks my turnaround is because he taught me a few things, so he always likes to tease me when I’ve got something cooking.” She threw a few handfuls of vegetables into the pot, her face taking on a more saddened demeanor.
“You miss him, don’t you?”
“Of course I do! I know the two of you are only a few hours away, but still, I wish I could see him more than just once a month.”
I leaned over the gray Formica countertop. “You could always move to Portland.”
“I’ve thought about it. And I know he’s considering finding a job back here in Seattle, too.”
That stunned me. Say what? “Really? He hasn’t mentioned that to me.”
“Then don’t tell him I said that. He’s only considering it so you can be closer to your family while you’re trying to reconnect with them. He’s afraid seeing them once or twice a month won’t be enough to help trigger those memories of yours.”
I sighed, long and deep. It was sweet he wanted to take care of me, and I knew he had my best interest at heart, but I’d hate for him to leave a job he loved just to do that. Where was the fairness in that?
A moment of silence ensued between us before Sam asked me, “So what are you going to do now? Are you going to go to college?”
Shrugging and shaking my head, I admitted, “I have absolutely no idea what to do with my life anymore.”
Amused, she replied, “Well, then college is perfect for you.”
“How so?”
“Where else can you get a taste of every subject there is to offer? You don’t have to know what you want to do to attend college. Take an art class, a creative writing class, a business class. Whatever. Try everything until you find something you like. And if you’d rather work from home these days, go be a copy editor for those books you like to read. Or a web page designer or a writer. Hell, go learn how to write the code for those obnoxious video games the kids can’t seem to get enough of. Don’t tell me those jobs can’t be worked from home nowadays.”
“Sam, you are just filled with excellent suggestions.”
She playfully shrugged her shoulders and tipped her head. “Had to happen eventually.”
She winked just as Nick came back into the kitchen, wiping his hands down with dark red hand towel. “Alright, it’s fixed. Again. Just try not to use it. The next time I come into town, I’ll rip out the guts and replace them already.”
Her nose crinkled. “Sounds gross. Is that expensive?”
“No. I can probably do it for thirty bucks.”
“Oh, hell! If I’d known it was that cheap, I would’ve had you do it a long time ago!”
Turning his head, he not so subtly muttered to me, “I was hoping to get out of it but apparently, she’s never going to replace the damn thing.”
With a wink meant just for me, Sam replied, “Oh, well, you know me. Helpless unless you do it for me.”
18
My heart thumped as Nick pulled to a stop in front of a white brick, two-story home. I couldn’t help but grin over the thick, beautiful bushes of blue hydrangeas that lined the front of the house.
“You ready for this?” he asked me.
“Sort of. I want to meet them, I just hope they’re not expecting too much from me yet.”
“They’re not. I warned them you still haven’t remembered anything.”
I nodded as I released my seatbelt and slowly climbed out of the car. Nick was by my side in an instant, already comforting me by squeezing my hand in his, like he could transfer some of his confidence through our grasp. A young boy rode up on his bicycle and came to a screeching halt when he saw me. He was probably about twelve years old and just stood there staring at me with wide gray eyes.
“Who’s that?” I whispered.
“I think he’s one of the neighbor’s kids you used to babysit sometimes. Can’t remember his name though.”
I awkwardly waved at the stunned boy as the front door opened and Mr. and Mrs. Whitaker – uh, Mom and Dad – stepped out onto the porch patio. His arm was wrapped firmly around her shoulders. If I wasn’t mistaken, it was to keep her grounded, because she bobbed back and forth on her feet, seemingly ready to bolt towards us.
“Relax. Your parents are really great people.” That said, he pulled me up the walk.
“What should I say?”
“Whatever comes to mind.”
I didn’t know why, but I was absolutely terrified inside. The people standing before me raised a daughter that was stolen from them, and the girl coming back was completely different than the one they lost. I knew they’d always love me, but would they ever love me as much as they had Claire? How could they not long for the little girl they carried around in their arms and tucked into bed each night?
And how could I ever hold any of those feelings against them?
Two years, six months, thirteen days since I was ripped from their lives, since any memory of them began to fade into nothingness.
Those last few steps were the hardest. I could now see their eyes clearly – calmness coming from my father’s brown pair and elation beaming brightly from my mother’s pair. My father was at least six feet, somewhere in his fifties and had salt-and-pepper hair trimmed short. My mother looked a lot like me, but with hazel eyes instead of brown, and looked to be in her late forties.
Nick’s hand released mine as he lifted it to shake my father’s, saying, “Tom.” I think it surprised us all when he ignored the gesture and wrapped Nick up in a firm hug instead, patting him loudly on the back. I wasn’t sure what was said between the two, because my mother was now free to sob, “My baby,” and gently wrapped her arms around me. I breathed in her scent – sweet vanilla. So overwhelmed, all I could manage was a simple, “Hi,” in return and she responded by swaying our bodies right there for the whole neighborhood to see.
A hand firmly rubbed against the back of my shoulders. I expected it to be Nick’s, but when I pried my head free from the death-grip my mother imposed, I realized it was actually my father’s. My mother finally released me and I was easily transitioned into my father’s arms, who also leaned more towards a bone-crushing hug.
“We’ve been waiting a very long time for you to come home, young lady.” Tears threatened to shed right then, but what he said next made me laugh so hard they were completely forgotten. “By the way, you’re grounded.”
I pulled back and my hands swept for tears anyway, and I replied, “Don’t worry. Nick pretty much keeps me under house arrest.”
“Damn right,” Nick muttered, pulling me back to the safety of his embrace.
My mother was still having trouble standing still and she waved frantically, beckoning us into the house before we caused a scene – that little boy was only one of five currently gawking. They let me walk in ahead of them and the first thing I noticed was the strong scent of cinnamon spice. It both burned and soothed my nose at the same time, and I stepped farther in, scanning every little detail, praying for something to stand out and make me remember.
The living room was immediately off to my left and it seemed barely used. Its crisp colors of whites and beiges made me think it would be the perfect reading room with all that natural light. The formal dining room was off to the right, and again, seemed hardly used, the rich, mahogany table the focal point of that space.
I didn’t wait for an invitation to move farther down the hall and no one stopped me. They were eerily quiet in my wake, but I was sure they were speaking a thousand words through their eyes and facial expressions.
The hallway wall on my left soon transitioned into stairs that dropped down into the family room, with the kitchen and breakfast nook to the right. “Has anything changed?” I asked to no one in particular.
“No,” my mother replied softly. “Does anything seem familiar?”
The family room was filled with soft, warm jewel-toned colors. The kitchen was also warm in tone, with honey-stained cabinets and accessories in greens, reds and yellows.
“Uh-uh.” My parents were probably a little disappointed, but surely Nick expected this, given my lack of memory thus far. “Sorry,” I added softly, turning to face my attentive audience.
Nick eliminated the space between us as my mother waved me off. “Don’t worry about it, Megan. We know it’ll take time.”
Megan. She called me Megan. Nick had asked me the other night what I wanted to be called now that I knew I was Claire. I had chosen to stick with Megan, because like I said before, I wasn’t sure if the Claire inside me would ever make an appearance again, and I didn’t want to take over something that didn’t feel like mine. Especially her name.
She stepped forward and took my hand in hers. “Come. Help me out in the kitchen.”
My eyes widened as she tugged me along, Nick’s hand grazing my waist as I left. “Um, I don’t know how well I did in the kitchen before, but nowadays, I’m not so good.”
She chuckled lightly. “I’m sorry to say that hasn’t changed then. Just come keep me company.”
Nick shrugged with amusement as I was dragged around the bar and into the kitchen. Then he and my father disappeared into a room down another hallway.
“First things first. Here,” she said, depositing a ceramic jar into my hands before leaving to pull more food from the refrigerator. “Eat a cookie or two. You’re way too skinny.”
Letting loose a single laugh, I curiously replied, “What?” What mother does that? Encourages their child to eat something fattening, not to mention right before their meal?
“Those clothes never drowned you like that. You were a perfect, healthy weight before so I know you’re underweight now. So eat.” That last part was so firm, she was practically daring me to disobey.
I grabbed two of what looked to be homemade oatmeal raisin cookies and began to nibble, my lips curling when the perfect balance of sugar and spice crumbled onto my tongue.
“I’m sorry to separate you from Nick. I can only imagine how attached the two of you are right now. But your father wanted to speak to him alone for a bit. We really owe him a lot for what he’s done. He just up and left everything in his life to go watch over you.” Pausing her work, she turned directly to me and asked, “How are things between you two?”
“Good,” I answered. She cocked one of her eyebrows and I added, “Amazing, actually. We’re very happy.”
That satisfied her and she continued moving about the kitchen. “Good! I’m so glad you had someone like him to see you through this. He was always such a nice young man.”
“Was I happy with him? You know, before?” It was a little awkward to ask that, but I was curious if our relationship had always been this good.
“Very. Oh, we were a little wary of you dating a guy two years older than you when you first met, but he grew on us immediately. He always seemed to dote over you, if that’s what you’re looking for. It’s not an act because you’ve…had a hard couple of years.”
That last part killed her to say, and suddenly, she wasn’t the only one a little uncomfortable. It horrified me that my family knew exactly what had happened to me physically; that raw, uncut images were probably floating around in their heads as much as they were in mine.