9. memory lane

9

MEMORY LANE

DAY 9

Ensconced in the playroom with a mountain of Legos, Jameson and I listen to our parents in the next room.

"Please, Harrison, you know I'm phobic about water. Will you take him?"

"We've talked about this," replies my father sternly. "He needs to learn to swim. Jameson and Mia started lessons when they were one. I don't know why it's so different with Phillip."

"Phillip isn't fearless like them. Water makes him nervous, too."

"He's too young to be afraid. Clearly he's picking up on your fear."

"I don't think so. I'm very careful not to project ? —"

"Deal with it, Julia. I'm not putting a damned fence around the pool. You're the adult. Take Phillip to the swim lesson. I have work to do."

Jameson and I trade glances as our mother's footsteps pass the playroom door and go down the stairs.

"He's afraid of water?" whispers Jameson .

I shrug. "That's stupid."

Jameson frowns. "Don't call Phillip stupid."

"Fine, I'll call you stupid."

"I'm not stupid. You're stupid. I hate you."

I stick my tongue out. "Hate you too."

Minutes later, our mother comes back upstairs and pokes her head into the playroom. She's wearing a raincoat since it's been storming all day.

"Hi, lovebugs. I'm going to take Phillip swimming."

"Can I come?" I ask.

My mother smiles. "Not tonight, Amelia."

"But I can help!" I insist. "I'm not afraid of water!"

Jameson pinches me and I squeal, then punch him hard in the shoulder. He wails and throws a handful of Legos at my head.

"I'm going to watch TV," he announces, running from the room before I can retaliate.

"He pinched me first," I tell my mother.

"I saw. I'll have a talk with him later."

Oddly, she doesn't look angry. She normally hates it when we fight. She's constantly telling us how blessed we are to have siblings. Which, of course, falls on deaf ears.

"I really can help Phillip swim," I say, brushing Legos off my lap as I stand. I walk into her open arms, taking a deep breath of her flowery scent. She drops a kiss on my head.

"I appreciate that, lovebug, but you know what would be an even bigger help?"

I crane my neck to see her face—golden hair, warm hazel eyes, and a big smile for me.

"What, Mommy? "

She taps my nose with her index finger. "Clean up this playroom before we get home."

"Mom," I whine, "why am I being punished? Jameson started it."

With a tender swipe of fingers over my cheek, she replies, "Taking care of the gifts others have given us isn't a punishment. It's a privilege."

Knowing she's about to remind me of the bajillion kids who don't have toys to play with, I stomp away from her.

"Fine," I grumble, kicking a flattened soccer ball across the room.

"Thank you, Amelia."

I look up from a pile of twisted, naked Barbies. "If I clean up, can I have ice cream after dinner?"

She laughs, eyes sparkling. "My little deal-maker. Of course. Ice cream it is."

"None for Jameson?"

She winks. "We'll see. Be back soon. Love you, Amelia."

"Love you, too, Mommy."

"The lesson was at six and they were always home by seven fifteen," I say vacantly. "By eight, Jameson and I were starving. We asked my dad for dinner, but he yelled at us, so we sat together on the couch downstairs and waited."

"Your father didn't realize how late it was?" asks Chastain.

I shake my head. "When he was working on a case, he tended to lose track of time. "

"Please, continue."

I clear my throat. "Jameson answered the door. Two cops. We weren't stupid. We knew something had happened to Mom and Phillip. I remember thinking they must have drowned, because they were both afraid of water. But it had rained while they were at swim class and the roads were slick. Some kid in his daddy's Mercedes took a turn too fast and spun out, hitting them. They went off the road."

"Was Phillip in a car seat?"

My breath hitches; darkness crowds my mind. "Yes, but the car hit the back passenger side directly. Mom died when the airbag malfunctioned and her head hit the steering wheel, breaking her neck. She shouldn't have died, really. Neither of them should have. Bad luck."

"I'm sorry, Amelia."

He sounds like he means it, but I also know he's waiting for the rest.

"A neighbor came over to watch us so Dad could go with the officers. Mrs. Clemens, I think her name was. Nice lady. Held Jameson while he cried."

"You didn't cry?"

"Not then. I told them I was going upstairs to my room, then put on my bathing suit."

"Ah," he says, like some puzzle piece has fallen into place. "It was too easy to just jump in the swimming pool, wasn't it?"

I blink burning, dry eyes. "Yes," I say in a voice I don't know—raw and raspy. "I wanted to be close to them. I wanted to feel afraid. "

"But you didn't."

"No, I didn't. But I tried. I went into the attic and out the window onto the roof. It wasn't the first time I'd gone up there, but I'd never jumped off before. The pool wasn't that far. I thought I could make it."

"But the possibility of not making it?"

"Yes, smartypants. That's why I did it."

He doesn't acknowledge my nickname, not that I expected him to. "And you broke your arm?"

I nod. "Nearly cracked my head on the lip of the pool. Flinging my arm out gave me the winning inch."

After a small pause, he asks, "Have you had any other close calls?"

"You know I have," I say, eyeing him. "I'm sure Jameson told you."

"I know about the cliff-diving in San Diego when you were pulled into the rocks by rip currents, and I know about the base jump into the Cave of Swallows when your chute malfunctioned."

I smile grimly, nodding at him to continue.

"I know you've bungee jumped, skydived, parasailed, rock climbed, have earned a number of speeding tickets. How many car accidents?"

"Just the one that landed me here." I lean forward. "Which was an accident, by the way. My flip-flop got caught under the brake pedal. Criminally stupid, but not suicidal."

"What about the other accident?"

I frown. "There was no other accident."

Chastain opens a drawer in his desk and pulls out a thick file. Mine . He flips through it until he finds a single sheet of paper.

"March 3, 2016. You were involved in a twenty-car pileup on the 405 after a semi lost control and jackknifed."

I shake my head. "Wrong patient, boss. That wasn't me."

He reaches into the file and pulls out an eight-by-ten photograph, holding it up for me to see. I stare at it uncomprehendingly—it's my face, bruised and bandaged. I'm wearing a neck brace and a hospital gown.

I have zero recollection of it. Jerking to my feet, I cross the room and snatch the picture from his hand.

"You don't remember that photo being taken?"

My stomach clenches and a chill radiates down my spine. "No. No. " I force myself to look up, to focus on his face. "Where did you get this? Are you sure it's not from my accident last month?"

"It's time stamped," he answers softly.

In the bottom corner of the photograph is printed the date. 03.03.16. But it doesn't make sense. It's impossible. In March of 2016, I was…

I was…

I sway on my feet. Blood rushes in my ears, drowning out ambient noise. Cold sweat breaks out all over my body.

"I don't feel so good, Doc," I whisper.

Chastain jumps from his chair and grabs me just as my knees buckle. He lowers me to the floor, then brushes the hair from my face.

"Amelia? You need to trust me, and if you can't trust me, trust Jameson. You're here because of the accident in March two years ago."

"You're lying," I say through harsh breaths. "A trick. I'm dreaming."

"Breathe. Just breathe."

With his arm under my knees, he lifts me onto his lap and holds me tightly. Fingers stroke my hair and down my back. I start shaking and can't stop.

"Did I die?" I ask shrilly. "Is this… after? You're the devil?"

He exhales sharply. "You didn't die, though sometimes I do feel like the devil where you're concerned. We'll figure this out, Amelia. Together. I promise."

I tuck my face into his chest, clinging to him like he's the last rock in the goddamn ocean. "I don't believe you."

"Then I'll have to believe enough for both of us."

"I'm broken," I whisper.

His lips graze the top of my head. "Everyone's broken. Some of us are just better at gluing the pieces back together."

I laugh, still shaking. Teeth chattering. Unhinged.

"Well, at least I don't want to fuck you anymore."

"Oh? Why's that?"

I lift my head, finding his electric eyes. "I don't fuck people I like, much less people I trust."

He grins like I just told him he won the lottery. "You trust me."

I scowl. "I've never had a man this excited to be off my sex radar. I think I'm insulted. Help me up. I don't want to be in your lap if it's not doing anything for you. "

He bites his lips to dampen his smile but can't mask the sparkle of amusement in his eyes.

With some awkward navigating, we manage to get to our feet. I pull down my T-shirt from where it rode up my stomach, and Chastain tugs at his tie.

"Do you feel better?" he asks.

"A little discombobulated, but yes. Clearly the only cure for a mental breakdown is reminding me you don't want to get in my pants. Nothing like a blow to the ego to put things in perspective."

He bites his lower lip so hard it turns white. I roll my eyes. "Laugh at me, Leo. Do it."

He does.

I frown at him the whole time, pretending I don't love the deep, infectious sound of his laughter. Finally, he quiets.

"Are we done for today?" I wait for his nod, then blurt, "Amnesia?"

His humor fades fast. "Selective, post-traumatic amnesia, yes."

I hug my arms to my chest. "I have a bad feeling about this. What if I'm not supposed to remember? This is fucking surreal. And Jameson knows about this?"

He nods again. "It's why he called us. You're safe, Amelia. I've got you."

"Is that what you think?" I ask sadly, then shake my head and walk to the door. "No one's got me, Doc. Too many missing pieces."