Michael peered out the door. “You mean, you’re going to check out Mitch.”
“That, too.” Susan didn’t peel off her apron. The restaurant required them to dress period style: Susan wore a dark blue cotton dress, floor length and ruffled, with an enormous white starched and bibbed apron. Tall girls looked quite wonderful. Susan, however, looked ready for the third-grade Thanksgiving play. She lifted her skirts in order to cross the plaza speedily. Nobody gave her a second glance. In Boston in the summer, you expected people to dress like colonial dames.
Susan was too small to break through the crowd and too small to see the attraction.
“Amnesia!” said a woman in the crowd. “Just like a soap opera.”
“Does amnesia really happen?” said somebody skeptically.
“They wouldn’t have amnesia on the soaps if it didn’t happen in real life,” said somebody else with assurance.
Susan was irritated. She felt women should have better things to do in life than watch television weekday afternoons. “Nothing in a soap opera has anything to do with real life,” said Susan, and she shoved hard and broke through the press.
There was Mitch, the love of her life, holding the two hands of an utterly impossibly beautiful girl, a girl who was everything Susan was not: tall, slender, tan, athletic, stunning … and needy. The girl was trembling, and Susan could tell that Mitch loved that. He, Mitch, T-Shirt God, would wrap his biceps around her and carry her off to safety.
Mitch’s horizons had just narrowed. There was nothing in Mitch’s world except this girl, and her soft skin, and her bronze hair, and her frightened eyes, and her open lips.
I hate her, thought Susan.
Mitch was quite astonished when Susan suddenly appeared next to him, like a kid at a library story hour. He felt trespassed upon. This was his Miss Amnesia. He didn’t want to share her with Susan.
Susan said, “Amnesia? Come on. Amnesia?” She made it sound like a rare tropical disease that only three people on the planet had ever suffered, and none of them were from Boston.
Mitch would have glared at Susan but he was afraid Miss Amnesia would think he was glaring at her. She was beyond teasing. Susan shouldn’t do it. He tried to look comforting and safe. When the girl lifted her dark eyes to his, Mitch was shocked. The girl was terrified. She was a cornered animal. Not only afraid, but afraid of him.
The amnesia is for real, thought Mitch. She’s as afraid of us as if we were armed against her. We might as well be. We know who we are. She doesn’t.
He could not imagine the eeriness of it. To go on standing and breathing and being alive—but not know who you are.
He wanted to wrap his arms around her, protect her from the fear that shivered through her like fever. He had always kept his distance from needy girls. Now the last thing he wanted was distance.
Susan, in her rather piercing voice, the one she used in drama class to reach the back row, said, “Bet I can guess your name. I know all the popular names. Let’s see. You’re—Jessica?”
The girl focused on Susan, her eyes growing wider and wider, taking in so much sunlight it would blind her. Breathing hard enough to faint.
“Jennie?” said Susan. “Kara? Kristin? Ashley?”
In the heat multiplied by stones and bodies, the girl shivered. She closed her eyes, as if to close out the sound and sight of Susan.
The crowd began to offer names, too. “Megan? Heather? Kelly? Emily?” they said, going for the popular.
The girl clung to the paper cup of lemonade as if it were all she had. In fact, it was all she had. No purse, no backpack, nothing in her pockets.
The girl shook her head. Her hair fascinated Susan. It was very thick, and multicolored, but it was not dyed. Susan knew these things. The heavy hair stayed put, as if it were made of some other material altogether than Susan’s baby-fine locks. Her lips moved, and Susan could lip-read “I don’t know,” but fear had drained off sound. It wasn’t even a whisper.
Mitch didn’t even care now whether the girl was in high school or college. Anything she was would be perfect. He just wanted to help her, to jostle her mind, find the key to open her thoughts. He moved on to location. “Do you know where you are? This is Boston.”
The girl seemed truly astonished, even horrified, by that information. Mouth open, lips trembling, brows drawn, she stared beyond the crowd toward the water, and then swung around to look at the impenetrable walls of the buildings behind her. “This is Boston?” she cried.
Where did you think it was? thought Susan irritably. Moscow?
The girl grew so pale that Mitch obviously felt the only decent thing to do was put his arm around her. The crowd—excepting Susan—sighed happily. They hoped she would rest her head against him, and they would actually witness love at first sight, but she simply was rigid and frightened, more imprisoned than comforted.
Susan’s hair prickled. What girl would refuse a hug from Mitch?
Only a girl too panicked to see him clearly. Could this girl actually have amnesia? Susan had written her off as a sicko wanting attention. But if that were the case, the girl would certainly accept Mitch’s attention. That would be the whole point: attention.
Susan studied the girl more carefully. She was so lovely that even Susan had seen nothing but face and figure. Now she saw expensive but casual clothes, and absolutely nothing in the way of possessions. There were pockets in the long shorts, but nothing in them. No shirt pocket. No purse. No jewelry. No nothing.
You did not travel in a city without something. You had to have a wallet. You had to have money, or car keys, or commuter tokens. Even if you lived nearby (especially if you lived nearby; away from the tourist-attracting wharves, this could be a dangerous part of the city) you had to bring your door key. You couldn’t leave your door unlocked and go for a stroll.
Where had she come from?
Had somebody robbed her?
But the girl looked fine. No bruises. No torn clothing. No lumps on the head. No bleeding.
She’s an actress, thought Susan. But then, since I want to be an actress, and Mitch and Ben want to be actors, and we would be drama majors if our parents weren’t insisting on more intelligent lines of study, I always think in terms of acting. Most people aren’t on their own personal stage. And if it’s an act, who is this girl’s audience? She couldn’t care about tourists, could she? And she clearly doesn’t care about handsome young men, or she’d be in Mitch’s arms right now.
The actress in Susan tried to lose her memory, her name, her life, her past. It was horrible to imagine standing in a strange place among strange people and knowing absolutely nothing.
Because his T-shirt was too small for him, Susan actually saw Mitch’s lungs working harder.
Of course he’s going to fall in love with her, thought Susan, her own heart aching. A mysterious beautiful girl without a name? It’s Mitch. This is the scene he wants to play.
Mitch was as lost to Susan as the beautiful girl’s memory was lost. The hostility and anger Susan expected to feel drained away. She felt incredibly tired and used up.
Oh, Mitch. I wanted you so much, and you never knew.
The tourists pressed up against the girl.
She was sick, her stomach and throat betraying her. She got nausea just from their eyes, their greedy interest, even their laughter. Some of them thought it was funny.
People snapped pictures of her, as if she were a display in an historic building.
The small woman in the long, old-fashioned clothing kept throwing names at her, like darts. Trying to pierce her thinking with the right name: Kelly, Megan, Sarah, Jill.
Would I know if she said the right name? Or would it just be a syllable in a list?
Funny, she thought desperately. Maybe I should just pick one of her names. Choose a syllable, pretend I’m fine, get out of here.
And go where?
Where do I live, where is my house, who is my family, what is my name?
“Forgot her
name?” said somebody skeptically. “Right. Tell me another one.”
Laughter.
“This is a stunt. It’s for some TV show to find out how gullible the public is. See if we fall for this or not.”
It was too much. Her eyes overflowed. She reached for a Kleenex, but of course she didn’t have one—she didn’t have anything—and her rescuer silently handed over his handkerchief. Actually, it was a bandanna. Bright red with black patterns. It relaxed her, and he smiled into her smile. For a tiny moment, the trouble she had breathing had nothing to do with memory loss.
He was beautiful, in that rare masculine way. Not handsome but beautiful. Perfect.
She had not bargained for this. Somebody so attractive she wanted to forget everything else.
But I have forgotten everything else, she thought.
Chapter 3
MITCH KEPT EXPECTING COPS to show up, but maybe they were sick of this corner of the world. After all, they’d spent hours talking to people about a thirty-second drive-by shooting, which was probably a drug deal, or a really angry rich couple having a really hard time dividing the money in the divorce. Why come back for a teenage girl who doesn’t know if she’s Molly or Katie?
But the man who strode through the crowd was no cop. Tall and thin, he looked like a secretary of state whose life was bound up in difficult, consuming situations. He had deals to make. Diplomacy to factor in. Conference calls to get back to. His white collar was buttoned down, and his cuffs were held by links, not buttons. His tie was dark crimson with navy stripes, an alma mater tie; a tie to show how distinguished he was.
“What is going on here?” said the man quietly. His diction matched his suit: sharp and creased.
Mitch was still holding the girl, however lightly. He felt her shivers right through the lines in his palms. He might have been reading her future. She was still terrified. “The young lady,” said Mitch carefully, “does not seem to remember her name, nor where she lives.”
The man simply stared at Mitch. His composure was shaken. When he’d finished staring at Mitch, he stared at the girl. “Hope, what is he talking about?”
Although Mitch was delighted that a distinguished personage like this man had something to do with his beautiful watercolor girl, he was sick with disappointment that his moment as Travelers’ Aid was over. He had wanted her to stay Unknown. A Mystery.
Nice guy, he said to himself. Damsel in distress gets identified and you’d rather have her sobbing.
But she had not sobbed. She had hung onto herself, been pretty classy about it, in fact. Just as the name Hope was pretty classy. Hope. He liked that. “Hope,” he said to her softly.
Hope herself said nothing. She did not look less afraid. If anything, her anxiety moved toward terror. She began to breathe far too quickly, as if she would take in too much oxygen, and collapse in some sort of reverse faint.
What would I have done with her? wondered Mitch. Taken her home with me? Bought her dinner on the theory that calories restore memories?
Hope, thought Susan Nevilleson. What a classy name. It suits her. And they look alike, that man and her. They’re both so long and lean and rich looking.
The girl swept that bronze statue hair off her face, hanging onto the hair, as if to a lifeline, and then blinked her beautiful eyes. She said nothing, but just pitifully shook her head.
The man regarded the girl soberly. “This is my daughter,” he said to Mitch. He sounded very tired, as if he were past his limit. Mitch was struck by how few gestures he used: he didn’t rub his eyes or shake his head or press his lips together.
A sigh ran through the crowd.
His daughter. Too bad. No film, no stunt, no nothing. She’d been identified too easily. Amnesia was so much more fun.
“Come, Hope,” said her father. “We’ll go inside and work this out.” He took his daughter’s arm, but she jerked free. Smothering a cry, Hope stepped quickly back, pressing against Mitch’s broad chest. She rubbed her bare arm where her father had touched her, eyes wide with fright, unable to come up with speech any more than she had been able to come up with her name.
The tourists reacted. They were ready to save the girl. If this guy was mean to her … if she had reason to be scared of him …
Trembling, the girl ran a hand down her own throat, arching and tightening the fingers as if describing herself in sign language. “I don’t know what’s happened,” she said. “I don’t know if I was hit on the head or if I’ve had too much sun, or what could have gone wrong, and if you’re my father, I’m sorry, but I don’t remember you.”
Only then did the father become aware of the fascinated crowd. He controlled his features, which had been extremely controlled already. “Hope, this is going too far. I suppose I can endure this. I’ve endured everything else you’ve done. But why must you do this kind of thing to me, Hope? In public, no less?”
The girl shivered. It was a completely genuine shiver.
Her father was not moved. “Hope, I don’t know what you’re up to this time, but you may talk it over with your psychiatrist on Monday. You have wasted my entire afternoon with your antics. We have been searching for you for hours! And here you are, right outside the door.”
The door? The only door they were outside of was The Jayquith. Some of those suites took entire floors and had their own elevators. Supposedly they charged a thousand dollars for one night in their best suite!
Mitch, who stared at The Jayquith all day, stared again. A magnificently garbed doorman stood inside in the air-conditioning, arms folded. He was removed in every way from tourist troubles on the pavement, a sort of proof that anybody who stayed at The Jayquith would be removed from any kind of trouble.
The girl said, “But I don’t know you. How can I go somewhere with a man I don’t know?” She clung to Mitch’s arm without seeing Mitch.
But this appeared to be a script her father had heard before, and would hear again, and furthermore had to pay a psychiatrist to hear as well. Now he was being humiliated in front of a crowd of camera-toting strangers.
Susan could feel the father’s loathing of the publicness of this. How he despised being watched, being entertainment for the crowd! He managed to not actually look at anyone, and yet he controlled them, as a fine actor controls his audience. “My daughter is making a scene,” he said quietly, but like a stage actor, his voice carried neatly to the last person in the crowd. “I thank all of you for showing concern. It makes me proud to be a Bostonian. However, I’m sorry to say my daughter is just a spoiled debutante who cannot bear a day without attention. Although,” and here his voice cracked, “I did not expect her to come down and put on an amnesia display.”
The crowd’s heart shifted to the father. Imagine being the parent of such a rotten kid. Obviously she could make the choice to be nice. Instead she was subjecting her father to public humiliation. You thought wealth and beauty were everything, but then you saw something like this.
Susan was a little shocked. Faking amnesia to get some twisted revenge on her family? That was really sick. What kind of nasty little family did these people have behind those magnificent doors? Even Mitch blinked.
Good, thought Susan, he’ll fall out of love with her now.
“Where’s your purse, Hope?” said her father.
Hope shook her head confusedly.
“She lost it,” Mitch told him.
“How do you know?” asked the father.
“She told me so.”
The father tightened his lips. It was clear that his daughter said a lot of things that weren’t true.
“I’m Mitch McKenna,” said Mitch, sticking out his hand for the father to shake. Susan knew what was going on; Mitch wanted their phone number. The father shook Mitch’s hand once, hard, like an engine piston, and let go.
“If I had my purse,” said Hope, “I’d take out my license and I’d know who I am and where I live.”
“You live,” said the father, “at The Jayquith. Let’s go in
so you can lie down, and I’ll call your doctor.”
She lived at The Jayquith? That was impressive enough.
The crowd studied Hope and her father. Yes. These were people who would have their own elevator, their own suite, and their own psychiatrist making house calls.
I knew it, thought Susan. She does have everything: wealth, looks, mystery, family. Of course, she’s a nutcase.
Susan watched Mitch watching Hope.
Mitch himself felt almost drowned by Hope’s presence. And very aware that she had not reacted as if the name Hope were familiar. Of course, if she really had amnesia, she didn’t know the name. And yet, no matter how your memory failed you, could you fail to know your own father? Surely, even if words were gone, and facts were gone, she would know his face, his body, his presence.
But she didn’t.
The man had to be her father. Who else on earth but your real parent would humiliate himself like this to claim you? Plus, he looked quite like his daughter. Tanned and athletic. Gray hair, of course, but the crispness of his suit certainly matched the crispness of her shirt.
Still, Mitch stayed between father and daughter, as if to take custody. There was something wrong with the level of her fear. He felt her preparing to run, and he could not decide what he would do if she chose that. Chase her? Bring her down and return her to this man?
Mitch could not make things add up.
He was as tall as the father and much, much stronger. He took a chest-expanding breath to demonstrate that little truth to Dad. He said, “I wonder if we could see some proof of that, sir.”
The father stared at him. If he had been stunned to find his daughter was pretending to have amnesia, he was truly shocked when some hotshot musclebound college kid in a T-shirt demanded proof. He gave Mitch the look that adults give children who have stepped beyond the bounds of good behavior. “You’ve been extremely kind to my daughter,” he said. He pivoted and led his daughter into the hotel. Hope went right along, as if this was the ending she had expected. She did not thank Mitch, and she did not look back.