One woman is about to discover everything she believes—knows—to be true about her life...isn’t.

After hitting her head, Lucy Sparks awakens in the hospital to a shocking revelation: the man she’s known and loved for years—the man she recently married—is not actually her husband. In fact, they haven’t even spoken since their breakup four years earlier. The happily-ever-after she remembers in vivid detail—right down to the dress she wore to their wedding—is only one example of what her doctors call a false memory: recollections Lucy’s mind made up to fill in the blanks from the coma.

Her psychologist explains the condition as honest lying, because while Lucy’s memories are false, they still feel incredibly real. Now she has no idea which memories she can trust—a devastating experience not only for Lucy, but also for her family, friends and especially her devoted boyfriend, Matt, whom Lucy remembers merely as a work colleague.

When the life Lucy believes she had slams against the reality she’s been living for the past four years, she must make a difficult choice about which life she wants to lead, and who she really is.

About the Author

KARMA BROWN is an award-winning journalist and author of the bestsellers Come Away with Me, The Choices We Make and In This Moment. In addition to her novels, Karma’s writing has appeared in publications such as SELF, Redbook, Canadian Living, Today’s Parent and Chatelaine. Karma lives outside Toronto, Canada, with her husband, daughter and their labradoodle, Fred. The Life Lucy Knew is her most recent novel.

www.KarmaKBrown.com

Also By Karma Brown

In This Moment

The Choices We Make

Come Away with Me

The Life Lucy Knew

Karma Brown

Copyright

An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2018

Copyright © Karma Brown 2018

Karma Brown asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Ebook Edition © June 2018 ISBN: 9781474083683

PRAISE FOR THE LIFE LUCY KNEW

“[F]ascinating and deeply moving. I’m sure I’ll be thinking about this powerful, compelling story for a long time to come.”

—Jill Santopolo, New York Times bestselling author of The Light We Lost

“An emotionally complex journey... Brown delivers characters so vivid and truly likeable that it’s impossible to leave the book without feeling just a little bit better for having known them.”

—Jamie Brenner, bestselling author of The Husband Hour

“Brown is at the top of her game. Packed with rich layers and surprise revelations... [A] captivating love story.”

—Kerry Lonsdale, bestselling author of Everything We Left Behind

“[This] is the kind of story that engrosses you in a character’s life while making you contemplate your own. A fascinating look at what we most want to remember, and what we’d just as soon forget.”

—Jessica Strawser, author of Almost Missed You

PRAISE FOR THE NOVELS OF KARMA BROWN

“[A] meticulous study of unresolved guilt and buried secrets.... An admirably layered portrait of how love can bend and still not break, and how the pain of betrayal and lost innocence, once confronted, can slowly fade.”

—Publishers Weekly on In This Moment

“Brown delivers an emotional punch in The Choices We Make. This is a good, old-fashioned tear-jerker of a book.”

—The Toronto Star

“With effortless and beautiful writing, Karma Brown twists heartache and hope together in The Choices We Make, taking you on each character’s complicated emotional journey and exploring how the worst-case scenario can still bring joy.”

—Amy E. Reichert, author of Luck, Love & Lemon Pie

“A warmly compelling love story [and] deeply moving debut.”

—Booklist

“[A] beautifully written story of love and loss... Come Away with Me had me smiling through my tears.”

—Tracey Garvis Graves, New York Times bestselling author of On the Island

“Karma Brown is a talented new voice in women’s fiction.”

—Lori Nelson Spielman, bestselling author of The Life List

“Laughing one minute, then fiercely blinking back tears the next, we tore through this novel—so gripping that we were both excited and scared out of our minds to turn the page. Multilayered and completely consuming...[a] stunning page turner.”

—Liz Fenton and Lisa Steinke, authors of The Status of All Things

“In Come Away with Me, one woman’s journey through grief becomes the journey of a lifetime.”

—Colleen Oakley, author of Before I Go

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Praise

Quote

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Questions for Discussion

A Conversation with Karma Brown

“For in the end, it is all about memory, its sources and its magnitude, and, of course, its consequences.”

—Elie Wiesel, Night

1

I have a complicated relationship with my memory.

Most of us, me included, believe our memories are fairly accurate. That events happened the way we remembered them, like a video camera capturing a scene: hit the play button and you’ll see the same images, the same order of events, unfold before your eyes. The quality as good as it was the first time the scene was captured.

But apparently that isn’t at all how it works.

Like the bike I got when I turned eight, with the rainbow handlebar tassels I’d been coveting, and the tinny bell I insisted on ringing incessantly as I set out on a ride. I remembered waking the morning of my birthday and seeing it at the end of my bed, shiny and begging for me to ride it. But when I later recounted this memory as an adult at a family dinner, my mom told me that while, yes, I did get such a bike for my birthday, it was never in my bedroom. “How would we have sneaked it in there? And how on earth would you have carried it down the stairs, Lucy?” my mom had said, laughing. “It was in the living room, half-hidden by that ficus. Remember that plant? It lived forever...”

Yet no matter how I tried to place that bike behind the mangy ficus tree my mom routinely propped up with bamboo sticks and that lived past when I left home, I could only ever see it at the foot of my bed. The giant yellow bow glittering with the morning light coming through my thin curtains, its white rubber tires pristine, the paint glossy and chip free, the handlebar streamers sparkling rainbows.

At some point my brain chose a different setting for my eighth birthday gift, and every time I had remembered that event since, it solidified the image to the point where I argued with my mom that night about the recollection. She must have remembered it wrong; her brain more aged than mine, her memory less elastic. But when Dad and my older sister, Alexis, reinforced Mom’s version—my sister and I shared a room, so surely she would have remembered a clunky bike at the end of my bed—I was forced to admit I had gotten it wrong. And just like that I began to doubt myself, and the memory. How did I get the bike, nearly as big as I was, down the stairs? That would have been a major feat, like my mom had said. Soon enough I had to admit maybe the bike had never been where I remembered it, even if the memory felt as real to me as any other.

“Honest lying” is what the therapist I have been seeing, Dr. Amanda Kay, called it. The perfect oxymoron if I had ever heard one—how can it be “honest” if I am lying?

Apparently this re-creating of the past happens all the time, to everyone, Dr. Kay explained during our first visit. In fact, each time we recall something, we aren’t actually remembering the original experience; we’re remembering a memory of it. Our memories are fickle things, changing imperceptibly the very next time we recall them. They are not intact the way we imagine them to be but simply a construct of the real thing. Then a construct of the construct. And on and on it goes.

“It’s like putting a new layer of wallpaper over an existing one,” Dr. Kay had explained. “Multiple layers later, all you can see is the pink pastel roses on the top and not the blue and white stripes from a few years back, but the stripes are still there. Even if now you’d swear on your life that blue is actually purple, the white stripes gray. Our memory is not as reliable as we like to believe.”

“So we’re creating a knockoff version of an event and then remembering the knockoff as the real thing?”

“Precisely,” Dr. Kay had replied. “There’s no way to guarantee accuracy in our memories. Our brains pick and choose moments from our past and stitch them together to create something that suits us best at the time.”

I’d stared at her, the reality of my situation settling into me like an unpleasant virus. “So how can we trust the things we remember, the way we remember them?” I had asked.

“Because generally they’re close enough.” She had smiled then, the way she would at moments like these in our future sessions when she knew I was close to shutting down. Moments when I felt like I might never again be sure which memories I could count on and which ones were lying to me. “For the most part we get the highlight reels right and the extraneous details aren’t as important.”

Except when you wake up in a hospital bed believing you’re living a different life than the one you actually have, it tends to be the details that matter most.

Like I said, I have a complicated relationship with my memory.

2

I woke to find my coworker Matt Newman beside my hospital bed. Crying, which confused me immensely. What are you doing here? I wanted to ask him, but my lips were numb, my tongue thick. The room was bright and unfamiliar, and my body tired in a way I’d felt only once before when I caught a bad flu that had sent me to bed for nearly two weeks.

My parents were on the other side of the bed and, unlike Matt, weren’t crying but had forced, too-big smiles on their faces. “Relax, take it easy, you’re in the hospital, sweetie,” Mom was saying, while Dad bobbed his head up and down, like he couldn’t agree more with what she was saying.

“Hey. Hey there, Lucy,” Matt said, holding my hand, his thumb rubbing my skin. “Welcome back. You’re okay. You’re okay.” It was as though he was trying to convince himself more than anyone.

“Where am I?” My voice was rough, like I’d swallowed a roll of sandpaper. I tried to clear my throat, then sucked greedily at the drinking straw Mom brought to my lips. The cool water felt amazing as it went down.

“You’re in the hospital, love. Mount Sinai,” Mom said, glancing at Dad with a nervous look as she put the cup of water back on the nightstand. “But you’re going to be fine.”

Matt, now leaning over me, whispered again how glad he was I was okay. Am I okay? I wanted to ask, because I certainly didn’t feel it. But before I could get the question out, Matt shifted even closer and kissed me on the lips. On the lips!

“What are you doing?” I croaked. I would have pulled back and away from him if I could have, but there was nowhere to go, and besides, I barely had the energy to keep my eyes open. I had meant, Why are you kissing me? But Matt seemed confused by my question, even though I felt it should have been obvious why I was asking. What was Matt Newman, my friend from work—my “work husband” as I had taken to calling him—doing kissing me on the lips?

“Did something happen at the office?” Maybe I got hurt at work and Matt brought me to the hospital? But that didn’t explain his tears. Or the kiss. Oh, God...maybe I’m dying. I had never seen Matt so emotional before, so it had to be something pretty terrible even if I couldn’t remember what had happened.

“No, sweetheart. Remember? You hit your head. But you’re okay now. Just fine,” Dad said, smiling and bobbing and smiling and bobbing.

I couldn’t remember hitting my head. I put a hand to my scalp and felt around sloppily, my fingers not finding any obvious sign of injury. I looked from Matt to Dad to Mom, then scanned the small room, full of balloons (so many balloons) and bouquets of flowers, a row of greeting cards lining the windowsill.

“How long have I been here?” I asked, still feeling confused, like my brain had been removed and replaced with pillow stuffing. And even though I had barely moved, had done nothing more than lift my arm to my head, my heart thumped like I’d climbed fifteen flights of stairs. Sweat formed under my armpits and I recognized the feeling—my body was in survival mode—but still I struggled to assign context.

“A little while” was all Mom said, which I knew based on the singsong quality of her tone meant “quite a while.” Something bad must have happened. And then, in a sudden flash, it occurred to me what—who—was missing.

Daniel. Where’s Daniel?

“Were we in an accident?” Daniel drove faster than I liked and had a tendency to change lanes without signaling. Maybe it had been quite serious—the accident—and things were direr than they were letting on. Daniel might be hurt (or worse!) and they weren’t telling me yet because of my own fragile condition. I let out a sob and tried to sit up, needing to get out of this bed to find him, but my body didn’t respond the way I expected and I crumpled to my side.

Matt, still close by after the kiss, quickly put a firm hand underneath my shoulder blades as I lurched, the other hand a vise grip around my upper arm to prevent me from slipping from the bed. Sharp pains stabbed through my head, piercing holes into my thoughts. With a groan I leaned heavily into him and let him lower me back to the bed as Dad said, “There, there, Lucy. Stay put, love.”

I was full-on sobbing now, my vision blurry with tears. “Please tell me. What happened?”

“There was no accident, Lucy,” Mom said, pulling a tissue out of the cuff of her sweater and dabbing at my eyes. Brushing my hair away from my face with gentle hands. “I promise you. A slip on some sidewalk ice. You hit your head when you fell.”

“So he’s okay,” I choked out, closing my eyes as a burst of relief filled me.

“Who’s okay?” Matt asked, sounding nearly as confused as I felt.

“Daniel,” I managed, keeping my eyes closed to avoid the swaying of the room. I must have hit my head hard. “He’s not hurt, right?”

The room went silent. Long enough that I forced my eyes open to see what was happening. Dad’s smile faltered as he glanced at Matt, who had taken a couple of steps back from the bed and looked ill. Shocked, his face drained of color.

“Who, honey?” Mom asked as she stood over me, her hands still smoothing my hair, wiping at the corners of my eyes. Smiling, though her lips quivered slightly.

A flash of irritation moved through me. I was tired and having to repeat myself was hard work. Why couldn’t she answer the question? “Daniel, Mom. My husband. Where is he?” My tone was harsh and my mom recoiled slightly. I should have felt bad about that, but my bewilderment whitewashed everything else.

Her mouth opened and closed and she looked at Dad, whose smile had now been replaced by a frown. My heart started thumping again. Fight or flight.

“Where’s Daniel?” Now I shouted it. Everyone seemed shocked, especially Matt, who looked like I’d slapped him across the face with my words.

“I d-don’t... Lucy, what do you...” Mom stammered.

Dad’s fingers came up to pinch his lips as he watched me with worried eyes.

“Excuse me,” Matt said, then bolted from the room. I heard the sounds of someone being sick outside my door.

“Is Matt okay?” I asked, momentarily distracted as I craned my head to the side to look through the open doorway and into the hall. But I couldn’t see Matt and the movement made my head feel as though it was being drilled into. Mom kissed my forehead and said, “Shh, shh, shh.”

Dad’s too-big smile was back on as he stood behind her. “I’ll go check on him,” he said, walking quickly out of the room.

“Mom, what the hell is going on? Where is Daniel?” Why wasn’t he the one here in my hospital room, kissing me on the lips and telling me everything was going to be okay?

“We can talk about that later,” Mom said, shushing me some more. Later? Why not now? But before I could get another question out—my mind moving too slowly, like pushing molasses through a fine sieve on a cold winter’s day—a nurse came in. Mom shifted out of the way, crossed her arms over her chest and said, “She’s fairly, uh, confused right now.” She sounded panicky, but my mother wasn’t prone to panic and that was when I started to think I might be in real trouble here.

Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump. It was as though my body knew the truth but the connection to my mind was broken. I was missing something but had no idea what it was or how to figure it out.

“Oh, that’s to be expected,” the nurse replied, wrapping a blood pressure cuff around my upper arm and smiling at me. The cuff felt tight and her hands cold. My insides were jittery and I was shaking, hard. “Are you cold, Lucy?” she asked, her voice quite loud. The way you talk to a toddler, or a senior citizen with a hearing aid.

“Yes,” I replied, teeth chattering to prove it.

“I’ll get you a warm blanket in a minute.” She glanced at Mom, now seated with furrowed brow in the plastic chair by the bed. “Why don’t you go get something from the cafeteria, Mrs. Sparks? I’ve got a few things to do here, so Lucy won’t be alone.”

Mom pressed her lips together, seemed to hesitate but then nodded. “I could use a cup of tea,” she said. Then she stood and bent over me, resting a hand on my cheek. “I’ll be back in a jiffy and Dad’s right outside.”

Once Mom left, I focused on the nurse. “Has my husband been here?” She was reading the blood pressure monitor and her eyes briefly flicked to mine before going back to the monitor.

“I’m not sure, hon. Try to relax, okay? Your pressure’s a bit high. Deep breath. There you go.”

Relax? How could I relax when no one would tell me where Daniel was?

“I’m not feeling very well,” I said, my words clipped because of my chattering teeth. Anxiety crested through my body in waves and my heart continued its wild thumping.

“You keep taking deep breaths. Can you do that for me?” The nurse smiled again—wholly relaxed—then walked over to the whiteboard on the wall and wrote a few notations. It was then I saw my name at the top of the board. Lucy Sparks.

Sparks? It had been over a year since I was Lucy Sparks... “Do you know where my rings are?” My finger was bare and my hand looked lonely without them.

The nurse moved back over to the bed to retrieve the blood pressure cart and her Easter-egg-purple scrubs filled my vision. “Everything you had on when they brought you in was given to your mom and dad.” She pulled up the sheet and smoothed it down on one side. “Okay, hon, let me grab you that warm blanket and—”

“Please,” I whispered, clutching at her arm with desperate fingers and pulling her toward me. My breathing wasn’t right—too quick, unfortunately timed to my racing heart. I tried to infuse as much urgency into my tone as I could despite the breathlessness. “Please. I need to know where my husband is.”

“I’m sorry, Lucy.” She put her cool hand over mine, shook her head and gave me a sympathetic look. “I don’t know anything about your husband.”

3

I was indignant when they first told me the truth about Matt.

“That’s impossible,” I said, because it was. I was married, and married women didn’t have boyfriends. So Matt Newman could not be who they said he was.

“It’s the truth,” Alex said without preamble. I’d stared at her and she repeated herself.

This first foray into my new normal happened the day after I’d woken up. A day after those very confusing moments when I tried to piece together why Matt was crying by my bedside instead of Daniel. Why the whiteboard in my room and my hospital bracelet read Lucy Sparks, my maiden name. Why no one seemed to know where Daniel London—my husband—was. Or understand why I was asking about him.

“Stop it, Alex,” I said, waiting for her to admit she was messing with me, which was certainly offside considering the situation but not out of the realm of normal for our sisterly relationship. “Why are you lying to me? And where are my rings? Mom, please give them back. The nurse said you have them.”

“There are no rings, love.” Mom’s voice was barely a whisper. She’d done some crying before she came back into my room, telltale red splotches under her eyes and on her neck that hadn’t yet had time to fade. “There are no rings.” My dad stood quietly beside my mom, nodding and solemn.

Alex said it again, stone-faced, the bravest of the bunch. “Daniel is not your husband, and Matt is your boyfriend, Luce. You’ve been living together for two years, in a condo in Leslieville—which I think you pay way too much rent for, PS.”

“This is crazy.” I lay back against my pillow. My breathing was erratic, my heart pounding hard enough an alarm beeped on the monitor attached to me. Everyone looked at the screen, then back at me with concern. “How can I be with Matt? I’m married. To Daniel.” If I kept saying it, maybe it would turn out to be true.

The plastic bracelet itched my skin, and I tugged at it with my other hand. Seeing the name Sparks so clearly typed across it made me nauseated. I had to be dreaming. But when I pinched the skin on my wrist—hard—it hurt and felt all too real. “Daniel is my husband. We got married a year ago! You were all there.”

“No, honey. We weren’t.” Mom grabbed my shaking hand and squeezed softly. “You have never been married. To Daniel, or anyone.”

And then I’d lost my breath—it left me in a long wheeze and I had a hard time getting it back, even with the nasal cannula streaming pure oxygen up my nose. This wasn’t a joke, or a dream. They were not lying to me.

Later my parents brought proof. Photo albums with pictures of Matt and me together—wearing matching ugly Christmas sweaters for my best friend Jenny’s annual holiday party; on a boat in Mexico during some beach vacation, head to toe in scuba gear; holding up plastic cups of beer at a hockey game.

But Matt can’t be my boyfriend, I’d whispered again. And then once more in case I was too quiet the first time. Matt and I worked at Jameson Porter, a Toronto-based consulting company with impressive clients and a better-than-most corporate culture. It was full of young, highly motivated types looking to climb ladders quickly, and I’d been there for nearly four years. Matt was a business consultant, while I worked in communications, as the director managing the firm’s many press releases, industry reports and memos. We often grabbed lunch when Matt wasn’t traveling and joined our coworkers frequently for after-hours drinks at nearby watering holes.

“That’s the Matt I remember.” I squeezed my eyes shut and clutched the photo album to my chest. It made me feel sick to look at the pictures.

“Well, that Matt? Your work friend Matt? He’s also your Matt,” Alex said.

“But...but what about Daniel?” A crushing sense of loss crashed into me. “What happened with Daniel?”

And why could I remember him sliding a wedding band over my finger? Dancing to Harry Connick Jr.’s “Recipe for Love” for our first song as husband and wife. His hand on mine as we cut into our wedding cake—vanilla with lemon curd. What about the memory of him tripping, and us collapsing in a fit of laughter, as he attempted to carry me over the threshold of our Leslieville condo? How did I have all these memories of us together when apparently none of them had ever happened?

No one could explain it. They weren’t even sure where to start, except to acknowledge that obviously something was very (very) wrong inside my head.

“Honey, you and Daniel were engaged. But then you broke it off, oh, about four years ago now,” Mom said. “Is that right, Hugh?” Dad confirmed it was. Alex nodded. They looked as distraught to be giving me this history lesson of my life as I was to be receiving it.

“Four years ago?” They all nodded again.

Defeated, I pressed my fingers to my eyes to try to stop the tears. I’d never been more scared, and even with my family gathered tightly around me, I’d also never felt more alone.

* * *

“It’s called ‘confabulated memory disorder,’” my neurologist, Dr. Alvin Mulder, said, his white-coated arms crossed over my chart, which he held tight against his body like a shield. “It’s not uncommon in head injury cases.”

Does “not uncommon” mean “somewhat common”? I wondered as I took in his words. Or does it mean “rather unusual, but not exactly rare”? Not that it mattered. The answer wouldn’t change anything, couldn’t fix anything.

After I had asked where Daniel was, causing Matt to throw up with shock and Mom and Dad to insist on more tests, everyone realized things weren’t quite right with my memory. Obviously. But it wasn’t only amnesia we were dealing with; it was something altogether scarier. Dr. Mulder confirmed while my physical injury had mostly healed, it appeared there were some “deficits.” And these deficits may be long-term, he added, which caused Mom to slap a hand to her chest, her mouth open in a perfectly round circle. “How long-term is long-term?” she asked.

“Well, permanent might be a better way to think about it,” Dr. Mulder said, and I felt a jolt inside me.

“Permanent?” Mom echoed, her hand now on her neck, her fingers rubbing the skin there with apprehension. “I see.”

I didn’t see at all. All I had done was hit my head on some ice. And now I might be stuck with this mismatched memory permanently?

“I prefer the term false memories to confabulations,” Dr. Theodore Talcott, the hospital psychiatrist on my case, said. I glanced at him, careful not to turn my head too fast and set off a pounding headache, and he gave me a kind smile behind a trim, graying beard. “Your brain wasn’t creating new memories when you were in the coma and our brains don’t care for empty spaces, so it filled in the blanks.”

He tucked his hands into his pockets, rocked back on his heels, now made eye contact with my parents. “And sometimes, like in Lucy’s case, these gaps in the memory get filled with a combination of new and old information—which is why some of what you’re remembering is accurate, while other things are not.”

“Like her marriage,” Mom said, still working away at the skin on her neck, now red and angry looking. “Dr. Talcott, you should know she’s still having a very hard time believing it isn’t real.”

“Mom, please.” I hated that she brought it up with the doctors again, even though it was clinically relevant. That she was talking to them as though I wasn’t in the room, like grown-ups discussing their child’s invisible friend in her presence. Voices a little too upbeat and encouraging, yet laced with trepidation.

“Please, call me Ted,” Dr. Talcott said. My mom nodded, though I knew she would do no such thing because this was a case when formality mattered. “Ted” would most certainly not have the answers we needed, but “Dr. Talcott” just might.

“The thing with false memories that is so fascinating—so fascinating—is how real they seem to the patient experiencing them,” Dr. Talcott continued, excitement filling his voice. He’d admitted to us earlier I was only his second false-memory patient—the first an elderly man who’d had a stroke and woken up believing he had won an Olympic gold medal in pole-vaulting at the 1948 London games. However, according to this man’s wife, while he had been a pole-vaulter that year, he had failed to qualify for the Olympic team. “False-memory patients can recount incredibly detailed descriptions of the event they’ve invented. It’s fascinating.”

Mom scowled at his mention of this being “fascinating” three times in one breath. Because to us this was anything but—it was terrifying. Devastating, even. Especially when the doctors said they had no way of knowing if the hidden memories would reveal themselves, and if these false ones would eventually disappear when my brain reset.

“So what can we do?” Dad asked. “About these false memories? Is there some sort of treatment? Or medication? Whatever she needs.” He rested a hand on my shoulder. “Anything she needs.”

Dr. Mulder shrugged his shoulders, my chart still stuck to his chest. “Brain injuries aren’t like broken bones. They don’t heal with predictable patterns, and unfortunately there’s little medically we can do.” Dad smiled at me and rubbed my shoulder. I didn’t smile back.

“Based on how things look right now, there’s a good chance you’ll have some postconcussive symptoms, like headaches and mild dizziness, and those we can treat with medication. Though we expect those symptoms will alleviate with time,” Dr. Mulder said. “But as for the confabulation—as I said, there’s no magic pill, so to speak. Which is why Dr. Talcott is here. This condition is better treated with psychotherapy.”

“So, therapy is the answer here?” Dad asked.

“Yes,” Dr. Mulder replied.

Therapist Ted nodded, adding, “There’s great evidence therapy can help patients in these cases. But it’s a long process. As you can imagine, trying to reintegrate into a life that isn’t familiar can be a challenge.” He leaned on the rail at the end of the bed, and I noticed a wedding band on his finger. Shiny. I wondered if he was recently married, which made me think about Daniel. And Matt. I blinked hard and swallowed against the nausea that accompanied my pounding head. “However, the sooner you’re able to get back to your life, your routines, Lucy, the better.”

I didn’t want to do therapy, nor was I interested in this “long process.” I wanted to see Daniel, to have him comfort me and tell me everything was going to be okay. I wanted to apologize for missing our first wedding anniversary. And I desperately wanted—needed—everyone to stop looking at me like they expected more, like I was letting them down with every screwed-up memory I recounted.

But most of all I wanted to remember. To know the truth the way everyone else in my life seemed to. It was so easy for them to correct me, to gently explain the memories that felt so real were not, in fact, real at all. It was simple for them to be hopeful, because they weren’t inside my head where things were a jumbled mess.

If only getting things back to normal was as easy as going to a lost-and-found box, like we’d had in elementary school. A spot I could retrieve my memories like I might have a misplaced hat, or pair of sneakers, or my favorite pencil case. But it wasn’t going to be that easy, because according to the only two people in the room who had experience with this sort of thing, what had been lost might never be found.

4

One week later I was finally out of the hospital and desperate to get home. My parents had wanted me to stay with them initially, but I had balked at the idea, imagining the sort of hovering they would do if I moved back into my old bedroom. But even Therapist Ted had thought that sounded like a wise idea.

“This next while may feel like you’re speeding down a highway without the safety of your seat belt,” he’d said during his last visit as I was getting ready to be discharged. “Being in a familiar place, with the people you remember best, is likely a good transition strategy.”

“Our place will be familiar,” Matt had interjected before I could respond. But even with his confident (if not a bit hostile) tone, he looked worried as he said it. And fair enough. My memory was fuzzy, to put it mildly. There was a lot I didn’t remember and we were all on edge because of it.

Eventually my parents conceded, though they insisted on staying in our guest room for a while—at least until they were satisfied I wasn’t going to fall apart without them.

I do know this place, I thought with relief as we approached the front steps to the low-rise brick building in Leslieville, a short distance from Toronto’s downtown core. I could picture the buzzer pad that opened the front door, had no issue recalling the code. Once I walked into the building, I knew I had to go up a set of stairs, and then one more before reaching 2B, where I lived. When tested in the hospital on the wheres and whats of my current life, I had remembered the apartment and its location without trouble, had correctly described the high ceilings and exposed brick and great windows facing east so you could see the sun rise. But what I still didn’t remember? That Matt and I had lived in this place, together, for the past two years.

Climbing the last flight of stairs, my dad stayed close behind me, holding my elbow, his other hand pressed firmly to my lower back. As I unlocked my condo’s front door and walked through, my hand shaking with anticipation, I turned instinctually to drop my key into the silver dish on the hallway console. It was a small win, but an important one. I knew where I lived and where my key went, so I must belong here.

“Dad, I’m okay,” I said, because he still had his hand on my back. I was embarrassed by all the attention, like I was a kid again versus a twenty-eight-year-old who hadn’t needed her dad to help her do anything for more than a decade.

Still, I understood why my parents fussed. Why Matt’s eyes continued to dart my way, like he was waiting for me to collapse, or to break into a million pieces right there on our hardwood floor. Be forced to admit I’d forgotten yet another critical truth about my life.

“Of course you are, honey,” my dad responded, rubbing my back in tight little circles. I glanced over my shoulder at him and smiled, hoping it would help him relax. Mom busied herself with taking our coats and hanging them in our front closet, then announced she was going to put the kettle on. My mother felt a good cup of tea was the answer to nearly every situation, even this one.

“Here, let me take that for you,” Matt said, his face pinched and full of hurt I knew I was responsible for. He reached for my overnight bag, looking so tired—dark circles under his eyes, his lips dry and cracking when he tried to smile. I didn’t know this Matt, who stood in front of me in jeans and a sweatshirt, unlike the tailored suits I usually saw him in. The Matt Newman I had worked with for the past few years, who always seemed well rested, confident and ready to tackle whatever problem was thrown his way, was not this Matt Newman, who needed a haircut, looked like he might cry at any moment. Too thin for his frame, his jeans a bit baggy on his hips, like he hadn’t eaten a proper meal in weeks.

“Thanks,” I said, letting him take the bag I had insisted on carrying myself (“there’s nothing wrong with my arms”). I threw him a quick smile before he turned to walk into the bedroom. Though staying with my parents didn’t seem the right option, I hadn’t properly thought through what it would be like to come back here with Matt and the heavy weight of expectation.

As a result I was nervous around him, unsure about how to act and what to say and, quite specifically, where to sleep. My memory and my reality were at odds, in a battle it wasn’t yet clear could be won. Because despite the proclamations from my family and Matt—along with the undeniable photographic evidence on the walls, the “his and hers” sides of the closet, the clues sprinkled throughout the condo—that this was our place, my memory still told a different story.

And while I did remember I was in a relationship, that I was in love, I didn’t remember it being with Matt.

5

When I came out of the bedroom the next morning, Matt was already up. He sat on the couch reading a book, pillows and blankets folded beside him. I set the photo albums I’d taken to bed with me on the coffee table and gave Matt yet another forced smile. I had been doing that a lot in the past twenty-four hours.

My initial relief at remembering the condo had quickly given way to a series of awkward moments with Matt, culminating in a bizarre good-night incident when I went to bed. He had leaned in to give me a kiss on the cheek and I’d tried to give him a hug at the same time, which resulted in him kissing my nostril and us squishing uncomfortably into one another. We’d laughed, but it did little to cover how out of sync things were.

“Morning.” He smiled back, still looking as tired as he had the night before. “How did you sleep?”

“Pretty well,” I said, though the last time I’d glanced at the alarm clock it was after three in the morning.

“Glad to hear it.” He set the book down on his lap and I glanced guiltily at the stack of blankets beside him. While I couldn’t imagine sharing a bed with Matt, I suspected he couldn’t imagine not sharing one with me.

When I first lay down on our bed, I chose the left side. For one, that was where I always slept, and two, there was a small stack of folded T-shirts near the pillow on the right side. Then my head hit the pillow and the scent of Matt (a soap and citrus smell that was distinctly him) wafted into my nose. It took me a few minutes to realize I was on his pillow, on his side of the bed. But...but...the left side of the bed was mine, the right Daniel’s! However, it seemed Matt and I had the opposite arrangement, and I cried as I switched the pillows, though I stayed on the left side.

“I put the T-shirts you left out in the dresser. Hope that’s okay.” Being up half the night meant I had time to not only put Matt’s shirts away but also reorganize my clothes in the other half of the dresser. I also learned Matt rolled his socks and boxers, and kept his side of the closet much tidier than mine. “I didn’t want them to get wrinkled.”

That was an excuse—the T-shirts had zero wrinkle risk, the cotton so soft it seemed a crease would never be able to hold its shape. No, I had put the shirts away because they reminded me of the boyfriend I couldn’t remember who was sleeping on the couch right outside the bedroom door. Out of sight, out of mind.

Matt gave me a look I had a hard time deciphering. “Sorry. I probably should have left them. I thought—” I began.

He waved away the apology. “Totally fine. I, um... Actually, I had left them out for you.” He dog-eared the novel in his hands—folding over the bottom corner of the page—and smiled, but it did little to hide his pained expression. His fingers strummed the book’s cover in a relentless rhythm as he seemed to struggle with what to say next, finally shrugging before landing on, “You like to sleep in my T-shirts.”

“Oh.” A blush crept up my neck as I imagined Matt carefully choosing the shirts in anticipation of my homecoming, placing them just so on my side of the bed.

“It’s nothing. Don’t worry about it.” Matt smiled again, more convincingly this time, and stretched his arms high over his head. His T-shirt rose above his belly button, showcasing a toned stomach, and I averted my eyes. How could I explain it felt like cheating, being here with Matt, glancing at his bare stomach this early in the morning? None of this made any sense. A wave of vertigo hit me and I held tightly on to the back of a chair, hoping Matt wouldn’t notice. Why did I think this was a good idea, coming back here? I should have stayed with my parents.

“I turned the coffee on. Want a cup?” he asked, after what felt like an impossibly long and uncomfortable silence.

“Yes, definitely. But I can get it.”

“No, no, you sit.” He stood quickly, still in nursemaid mode, and I told him to relax.

“It’s just coffee, Matt. I’ve got it.”

“You’re sure? Okay, thanks.” He settled back onto the couch, turning on the television as though to prove everything was just fine. This was a perfectly normal morning for us.

I was relieved to find the mugs, as I remembered, lined up on one of the kitchen shelves. The faint sound of a newscaster’s voice made its way into our galley kitchen, even though Matt kept the volume low so as not to wake my parents. Matt was thoughtful. That I remembered well.

I glanced at the calendar tacked on the fridge while the coffee finished brewing. It was March already—it was still shocking to think I’d spent nearly all of February in a coma. So much time lost. Scanning the days, I saw Matt had a dentist appointment in two weeks and there was a thirtieth birthday party for someone named Jake (Jake from work?) at the end of the month. The rest of the days were blank, except for every Monday and Friday where someone—Matt, I assumed—had written in Lucy: Dr. Kay. Dr. Amanda Kay was the outpatient psychologist who was going to help me deal with the side effects of my head injury, with my “new normal.” I flipped ahead a few months, saw the many standing appointments and sighed wearily.

The coffeemaker beeped and I poured the hot liquid into the mugs, adding cream and a half teaspoon of sugar to both. It was only as I walked back into the living room that it occurred to me I wasn’t sure how Matt took his coffee.

Paralyzed by this realization, I stood still, the mugs clutched in my hands. I must have made Matt plenty of morning coffees over the past two years. But my memory failed to kick in, and when Matt shifted his gaze from the television to my statue-still stance, I gave up and asked, “How do you take your coffee?”

The wince was nearly imperceptible, but I caught it. “However you made it is fine,” he said. His eyes locked on mine as if hoping to convey this was the truth. But while I understood what he was trying to do, should have been grateful for it, the gesture made me angry.

“No, it isn’t fine,” I snapped. “Please tell me.”

He paused. “Black.”

I stared into the coffees, both of which were beige thanks to the pour of cream. “Right.” I turned back toward the kitchen and he was up a second later and following me.

“Honestly, I’m fine with however you made it. Lucy, wait.” He took the mugs with cream and sugar out of my hands and set them on the countertop. “It’s okay,” he said softly, pulling me to his chest. “This is all part of it. It’s okay.”

It should have been comforting, but our closeness felt unnatural. Matt was much taller than me (taller than Daniel) and we didn’t fit together easily. I wondered where I used to put my head when he hugged me—against his sternum, maybe? Because that was about where my cheek rested now. With Daniel it was between his neck and shoulder, right under his chin. “Don’t be upset,” Matt said again.

“I’m not upset.” I pressed my face into the soft fabric of his shirt, overcome by the hints of lemon and cedar and the warmth of him as I tried, unsuccessfully, to hide my crying. I didn’t remember being so emotional before my accident, but this head injury had left me with unruly and unpredictable mood swings. The doctors told me the moodiness would probably get better, but it might not, too. That had been their answer to everything. Your memory might resolve...or it might not. Your headaches will likely improve...but there’s a chance they won’t. Your brain is astonishing, will rewire as needed...but you may be left with a few holes, perhaps long-term. No one wanted to promise anything, which meant I also couldn’t count on anything. I was stuck waiting to see what happened along with everyone else.

I pulled back, stared into the face that was so familiar and yet not at all in this context. “I need to know these things, Matt. If I’m going to... I need to know—” I took a deep breath. “The truth. Even about how you take your coffee. It matters, okay?”

“Okay, Lucy.” He ran a thumb under my eyes before lifting the thin fabric of his shirt with his hand and using it to gently dry my cheeks. I was pretty sure he wanted to kiss me, his gaze lingering on my lips. My heart beat fast and the vertigo was back, making my socked feet unsteady under me, as though I was standing on a floating dock. Do I...want him to kiss me?

“You all right?” he asked, holding me tightly.

“Yes.” I wasn’t, and we both knew it, but he accepted this without argument. A moment later we separated, though I wasn’t sure who took a step back first. We leaned against the countertop, side by side, and Matt reached over for our coffees, handing me mine.

He grimaced after he swallowed his first sip, then laughed. “This is terrible.” I laughed, too, glad for the distraction.

“Here, let’s start over.” I took his mug and set it into the sink, pouring him a new coffee.

He smiled as he took it, leaning back again, though he didn’t drink it right away. He did say black, right? As I was about to clarify, he asked, “Did Daniel take his coffee with cream and sugar?”

Does, I almost said. But I swallowed the word back. Lie, I thought. Say you don’t know, can’t remember how Daniel takes his coffee, or anything else about your life with him. Don’t hurt Matt more than he’s already been hurt.

But I didn’t want to lie about something I knew for sure; because that list was shorter than the list of things I didn’t know.

I turned to look at him, but his eyes stayed downcast. “Yes.”

He nodded, staring straight ahead. “I need to go in for a meeting, so I’m going to shower,” he said, pushing off the counter’s edge. “Thanks again for this.” Matt held up the mug, but then rather than taking it with him, he set it in the sink, untouched beside the first mug.

“Sure,” I murmured a few seconds later, too late because he’d already left the room. I stayed in the kitchen because I wasn’t sure where else to go, thinking about Daniel and missing him enough there was a physical ache in my chest. I wondered where he was this morning—drinking his coffee with cream and sugar, completely unaware I believed he was my husband.

6

“Where’s Matt?” Mom asked as she emerged from the guest room, fastening one earring and then the other. She had a Ziploc of tea bags tucked under her arm.

“Getting ready for work.” I busied myself with stirring more sugar into a second cup of coffee, nodded toward the Ziploc bag now in her hands. “I have tea, you know.” But then I stopped stirring. Did I have tea? I had no idea actually.

“Oh, it’s fine. This is always in my purse,” she said. “How are you this morning, Lucy love?”

“Good. Better.” Except I made coffee the way Daniel takes it and I forgot I liked sleeping in Matt’s T-shirts and there’s no way I’m fooling anyone, especially myself.

“Good!” Mom handed me the tea and took two bobby pins out of her pocket, putting them in her mouth and pulling and twisting a front section of her long, silver-blond hair before fastening it with the pins. “Dad has a meeting with the Realtor this morning, so it’s you and me, kiddo. I thought we could have a girls’ day.”

“A Realtor?” I asked, my voice ratcheting up. “Why? Are you and dad selling the house?” While I hadn’t lived at home in nearly a decade, that house safely held my history and the thought of them selling it made me anxious.

Mom waved her hand around, her bangle bracelets jangling. “Of course not,” she said. “Just keeping our options open. So, what do you think about meeting Alexis for a late lunch?”

“Sure. Maybe,” I replied, though my plan was to stay put here at home until my memory fixed itself. “I’m a bit tired, though.”

Concern flitted across her face and she frowned. “Of course you are, sweetie. This has been quite a...um, transition.”

Dad came out of the bedroom, fastening the Rolex watch he wore daily that Mom had gifted him for his fiftieth birthday. Now nearing sixty, Dad looked a decade younger and still taught political science at the University of Toronto. He hated being asked when he planned to retire, like many of my parents’ friends had, because he claimed to have no intention of ever quitting teaching. “Those kids keep me young,” he would say, referring to his university students. “Retiring is the fast track to the grave.”

“I’m going to spend the day at the house,” he said to Mom and me. “Fix that leaky faucet in the master bathroom and touch up the paint in the front hall before tonight’s class.” Those certainly sounded like tasks one did to get a house ready to sell...

“Good. Yes,” Mom said. “I’ll stay here with Lucy.”

“You don’t have to, Mom. Stop fretting, okay? You’re wrinkling with all that frowning.”

Mom ran her fingers across her forehead as if trying to smooth the worry away, then smiled and patted my cheek. “Sweetheart, I am your mother and it’s my job to worry. And these things?” She pressed a finger to the space between her eyebrows and rubbed vigorously. “These are my well-earned love lines.”

“Barbara, have you eaten anything yet?” Dad asked, glancing at Mom’s insulin pump monitor clipped to the front of her leggings.

“I’m fine, Hugh,” Mom replied, annoyance coloring her tone. Dad held up a hand in surrender and I caught his eye, both of us thinking Mom’s blood sugar was probably low. She got snappy when it dropped.

But Mom recovered quickly, her smile bright and irritation seemingly gone as she took the tea back from me. “I’m going to put the kettle on and call Alexis, find out about lunch. Sound good?”

“Maybe breakfast first, Mom?”

“Oh, not you, too,” she muttered good-naturedly. “Fine. Breakfast. I’ll make my famous pancakes and bacon.” Then she saw the look on my face, which was probably a confusing mix of longing and disgust. “Oh, right, you’re not eating bacon.”

Along with the strangeness of forgetting Matt my boyfriend and remembering Daniel my husband, I also woke from the coma believing I was a vegetarian, among other small and apparently out-of-character changes. So even though bacon sounded appealing, a louder voice inside my head shouted I did not eat animals. Even ones disguised as delicious, crispy breakfast food.

“Okay, how about oatmeal? Does Matt like steel-cut?”

Another thing I had no idea about. I shrugged, feeling all at once useless like I had earlier with the coffee fiasco.

“I’m sure he does,” she said, her tone soothing. “Back in a jiffy.”

I sat beside Dad on the couch and he set a hand on my knee, patting it a couple of times. “So how are you feeling this morning, kiddo?” His graying, bushy eyebrows rose with the question. The skin on his arms seemed darker than normal, especially for the time of year. He and Mom weren’t the snowbird types—they liked the cold, and Dad often said shoveling kept his core and arms as strong as when he was thirty years younger.

“Good. Better.” My now-standard response. I gestured to his arms, bared from the biceps down because of his short-sleeved golf shirt. “Hey, why are you so tanned?”

He looked at his arms, holding them out. “Am I?”

“Your arms are for sure,” I said. “Were you guys away somewhere?”

“No,” he replied. “Lots of walking outside lately. Plenty of good vitamin D sunshine this winter.”

I nodded and was about to ask the obvious—how one’s arms got tanned in minus-twenty-degree weather when coats were a requirement—when a pot clanged loudly from the kitchen, followed by a long string of curse words. “Mom okay today?”

“She’s fine,” he said. “You know how she gets when her sugar drops.” But then he looked pained, realizing his blunder.

“I know,” I said, nudging him with my shoulder. “I remember, Dad.”

He smiled, relieved. “She’ll be better after that oatmeal.”

“So, Mom says you’re meeting a Realtor this morning. What about?”

He opened his mouth, then closed it and shook his head. “Nothing for you to worry about, pumpkin.”

Telling someone not to worry about something was a great way to ensure she would do just that. “Dad, what’s going on?”

“Your mother and I are considering a few changes.”

“What sort of changes?” I asked.

Dad patted at my knee again. “There’s a house a few streets over your mother has had her eye on. So we thought we’d see what we could get for our place. The market is excellent right now. Quite excellent.”

“That’s it? You might move a few streets over? Why don’t you repaint the house or update the kitchen instead?”

Dad slapped his palms against his thighs as he stood. “All good ideas, sweet pea,” he replied. “I’d best get going. Tell your mom I’ll call her after the meeting.” He leaned over to kiss my cheek, told me not to bother getting up.

“Go easy on yourself and remember what the doctor said. This is going to be a long process. Rome wasn’t built in a day.”

“I know.” I smiled at the pithy remark he was so fond of. “I’ll take it easy. Promise.”

As he left and the front door clicked shut behind him, I felt a vibration from inside my sweatshirt pocket. Thanks to the lingering effects from the concussion, I was supposed to be “screen free” but had so far been noncompliant. Like many in my generation, living without my phone felt akin to going through life blindfolded.

The vibration signaled a text from my sister: all caps and begging me to take away our mother’s phone. Obviously Mom had called Alex about lunch, my sister picking up only because she thought it might be about me, and was now holding her hostage with rambling chitchat. Our mother was not good at taking cues someone wanted off the phone.

One might think Mom and Alexis would get along brilliantly, both of them free-spirited and artistically minded—Mom had been a high school art teacher, who now dabbled with acrylic classes out of her home studio. But there had been plenty of explosive arguments between them over the years, the similarities not enough to dispel the oil and water quality of their relationship. I quickly texted Alex back, Be nice, and then clicked through to my email.

A few Welcome home! Hope you’re doing great. We miss you! emails from my team at Jameson Porter, and one from Brooke Ingram, my second in command and closest work friend (outside of Matt). She had sent me a card in the hospital that read “At least it’s not syphilis. Get well soon,” which had made me laugh hard enough to cry and told you everything you needed to know about Brooke. Today’s email was a running checklist of outstanding communications projects, which I’d asked her to send daily to keep me in the loop for when I went back to work.

Of course, like everyone outside of the doctors, my family, Matt and my best friend, Jenny, Brooke didn’t know about my memory lapses. Matt and I had agreed to keep it quiet, hoping things might reset themselves soon and it would be a nonissue.

Knowing I probably had only minutes until the oatmeal was ready and Mom—or Matt—busted me for being on my phone, I clicked on the Facebook icon. Twenty-six unread messages. I didn’t have time to deal with the messages or my bloated timeline, nor was I interested to see all those picture-perfect posts when my life felt like anything but.

Taking a deep breath, I glanced nervously toward the kitchen and then the bedroom before typing into the search box. I had almost done this a dozen times already but had so far held back because I knew it wouldn’t help things. But today...well, the urge was too strong to ignore this time.

A handful of names filled my screen, and I scanned the first few until I saw him. Daniel London.

The picture was tiny, but I recognized him immediately. My finger hovered over the “add friend” button, but then the bedroom door opened and I jumped, my phone dropping between the couch cushions. I scrambled to pick it up again, quickly closing Daniel’s Facebook page, which illuminated my screen.

“Everything okay?” Matt asked. Black. The thought popped into my mind. Matt takes his coffee black. Try to remember.

“Yes, yes,” I replied, feeling as though I had Mexican jumping beans inside my belly. “Alex texted. Mom’s making us oatmeal. Steel-cut.”

“Sorry I have to leave. I love oatmeal,” he said as he tightened his tie. I had the urge to write these things down: black coffee, likes oatmeal. “Going to say bye to your mom.”

“Matt?” I rose quickly onto my knees and grasped the back of the couch with both hands so I was facing him. He was only a foot away and close enough I could touch him if I wanted to.

“Yeah?”

Looking into his face, which carried the hope that I might say something revolutionary (like, I remember you now! I remember us!), I had the feeling he wanted to reach for me but wasn’t going to, because he wasn’t sure what I wanted.

I paused, regretting the urgency with which I had said his name. I was quite aware anything I said now would be insufficient, but I pressed on regardless. “Thanks for sleeping here. On the couch, I mean. Last night.” It was anticlimactic, and Matt was unsurprisingly deflated by my words.

“No problem,” he finally said before heading into the kitchen. I watched him go, then sank back down onto the couch.

No problem. I wished it were that simple.

7

“You look better,” Jenny said. She held up a white plastic bag, heavy with take-out food containers. “Lunch, as promised.”

The smell of whatever was in the bag wafted past me, and my stomach grumbled. I pulled her inside and set the bag on the kitchen table. “You’re a lifesaver.”

Feigning a last-minute headache relieved me of lunch with Mom and Alex, but the second I was alone I wished everyone would come back. It was too quiet and the silence meant I could ruminate on my situation without interruption. Thank goodness for Jenny and her bossy insistence she was coming over whether I wanted her to or not.

“What silverware do we need?” I asked.

“Way ahead of you.” Jenny opened her purse and pulled out two sets, rolled tightly in napkins. “I got you the chili. Beef chili.”

“Thanks.” I sighed. “I know I’m not actually a vegetarian, but I feel like I’m supposed to be.”

Jenny reached across the table to rub my arm before unrolling our silverware and flattening out the napkins.

“It was that documentary on Netflix, or that’s how I remember it. About how carnivores are ruining the planet. What’s it called?” I snapped my fingers, trying to bring the name to mind. “Something about knives...”

“Forks Over Knives,” Jenny said, prying the lid off her take-out container and stirring the golden orange soup.

“Yeah, Forks Over Knives. I can still picture all those tortured animals—God, even the chickens made me sad—but still, I want to eat meat.” I cringed, slapped a hand to my forehead.

“Look,” Jenny said, licking a drip of her soup from her thumb, “you’re a good and kind person who loves animals, even chickens, and it’s okay that you still want to eat them. You’re just a bit mixed-up. I’m the vegetarian.”

I rubbed my fingers deep into my temples. “Yes. You told me that.” It was Jenny who, after watching Forks Over Knives, had done a one-eighty two years ago—going from Friday night wings and a beef brisket sandwich obsession to stocking her fridge with vegan butter and cashew cheese overnight. I sighed. “I’m like a memory thief.”

“Luce, pace yourself. It could be like this for a while, right? And in the meantime,” she began, passing me a soft white dinner roll and a pat of melting butter, “my plan is to be like a battery pack for your memory. I’ll give you a boost whenever you need. We’ll get you sorted.”

“I think I need to make a list.” Testing my memory, I tried to recall where I kept the notepads and pens (hallway console drawer) and was encouraged to find them exactly where I remembered. With a deep breath I grabbed both and went back to the kitchen table, uncapping a pen. “I need to write down what I remember and then figure out whether it’s real or not.”

Jenny tugged the pad and pen out from under my hands and moved them over to her side of the table. “You know how I love lists,” she said. “But let’s eat first. Then we’ll work on it until we go cross-eyed. Deal?”

“Deal,” I replied, opening my lunch container and digging into my very meaty, guilt-inducing chili.

* * *

“Okay, where should we start?” Jenny asked. She had the notepad and pen on her lap but had yet to write anything down.

“I have no idea.” I was exhausted. A headache threatened and I felt too full from the chili, even though I’d eaten only half of it.

“Maybe with the stuff you know for sure?”

“Okay. Fine.” I sighed.

She raised an eyebrow, tapped the pen a few times against the blank page. “Tell me, without thinking too hard about it. What are you feeling about everything, right this second? One word.”

“Weird,” I replied. “It’s weird. Being here with Matt. Without...Daniel.”

“Weird,” she said, writing the word down in capped letters. Underlining it with a bold stroke of pen. “Yeah, that’s one word for it.” She grimaced, but in a comical, exaggerated way that made me laugh. I instantly felt better. It was easy with Jenny and I needed easy right now.

“So, I have to ask.” She clicked the end of the pen repeatedly. “Have you and Matt, well, since you’ve been home...you know?” She wiggled her eyebrows.

“No! God, Jenny, I just got home. I still can’t even—” The words caught in my throat. “Matt is my friend. I don’t... I can’t think about him like that.”

“Matt is your boyfriend,” she said, enunciating the syllables. She spoke more gently now. “He’s a good guy, Luce. Better than good actually.” She underlined the word weird again, and as I watched her, another word popped into my mind. Afraid. Abruptly I started crying.

“Oh, no. Lucy. I’m sorry, hon. I didn’t think.” Jenny shook her head, grabbed my hands, pulled me from the chair where I was sitting and tucked me in beside her on the couch. I rested my head on her shoulder and cried harder. “This is messed up.”

“Yes, it is.” My voice cracked and I wiped at my damp face, my hands coming away with streaks of the mascara I’d carefully applied before she arrived, trying to look like I had my shit together.

“I know Matt is supposed to be my boyfriend. Obviously.” I gestured around the room, where photos of us sat on top of bookshelves and on walls. His constant presence in this place I still couldn’t picture him in.

“But I don’t remember him that way. And the memories of... Daniel.” I practically whispered his name. “They’re vivid, Jenny. They feel so real to me I can’t believe they’re not. I remember everything—the engagement, living here together, getting married. Everyone has to think I’m crazy.”

“Stop it. No one thinks you’re crazy.”

“Well, I think I might be a bit crazy,” I said, my eyes widening. “How did all this happen from hitting my head? How can I remember marrying Daniel when we supposedly broke up years ago?”

“Have you gotten in touch yet? With Daniel?”

I shook my head and thought back to my earlier Facebook search, which I’d abandoned after Matt came into the living room. “Besides, even if I did, what would I say? ‘Hey, Daniel,’” I began, pretending to type on my phone. “‘Hope things are good with you, wherever you are and whatever you’re doing, and, oh, hey. I remember our wedding day even though I’m apparently the only one who does. All the best!’” I let out a harsh laugh, and Jenny smiled gently.

“I can help if you want,” she said. “We’re Facebook friends. He’s gone back to school.” I was instantly jealous, Jenny knowing things about Daniel I didn’t. “Grad school.” She paused then and took a breath, her face clouding over briefly. “He’s actually pretty lame on social.”

“What was that look about?”

“What look?” she replied.

“Is there something you’re not telling me?” I narrowed my eyes. “Jenny, you promised me you wouldn’t keep things—”

“No. There’s nothing.” She sighed and then looked at me directly. Softened her voice. “But, Luce, you’re with Matt, right? And Daniel is—”

“Not my husband,” I mumbled, picking a piece of lint off my black sweater.

“Not your husband,” Jenny repeated.

“What happened with us?” I was asking myself as much as Jenny. But she seemed to think I was searching for an answer from her.

“You never talked about it, after you broke up,” she said with a shrug. “Just moved out, went back home with your parents for a bit. You wouldn’t give any details and I didn’t pry. Figured you’d tell me when you wanted to.

“And then six months later I started hearing about this cute strategy consultant with great hair who did triathlons and was obsessed with hockey and made you smile when you said his name, and you never mentioned Daniel again.”

“Until I woke up a few weeks ago, wondering why he wasn’t at the hospital and where my wedding ring was.” I gave a wry smile.

“Hey, I have something for you.” Jenny got up and reached into her purse. She handed me a gold-toned plastic bag. I looked inside, pulled out a black-and-gray-striped tie and a receipt. I stared at the tie, not understanding, before looking back at her.

“You bought this when we were out shopping the day of your accident.” I glanced back at the tie, fingered the silky fabric. “I know you don’t remember, but you bought it...for your anniversary.”

I turned the tie over and read the label, but it carried no meaning. “A tie?” My memory chugged as it tried to slide the right pieces in the right slots. “I bought a tie?”

Jenny laughed. “I told you it was lame. I mean, a tie for an anniversary gift? But you said he would get it. It was an inside joke and you were very pleased with yourself.”

“I bought this for my anniversary. With...” I nearly said “Daniel,” before reminding myself that, no, there was no anniversary with Daniel.

“It was for Matt,” she said, confirming the truth once again. “For your three-year anniversary.”

8

I had the notebook with my memory list on the table, a slew of highlighters fanned out on the coffee table. The pink highlighter (the color I’d chosen to signify fabricated memories) was uncapped, the nonmarker end in my mouth as I scanned the list.

“Did we watch Forks and Knives?” I asked Matt, who was sitting on one of the living room chairs, catching up on work. It was Saturday morning, and almost three weeks since I’d come home from the hospital. My parents were back sleeping at their own place, my mother finally convinced I wasn’t on the verge of a breakdown and could cook for myself. And while things with Matt weren’t as awkward now, they were far from back on track. Most days it felt like we were merely roommates.

It didn’t help that I would twirl my wedding ring that wasn’t there, particularly when I was nervous or anxious—a gesture Matt caught more than once, looking wounded when he did. I had also made his coffee wrong twice since that first day, but he claimed he didn’t mind the sugar so much.

Sometimes I imagined I was living parallel lives, the knock on my head making it possible to see both timelines simultaneously. Or perhaps it was an elaborate setup, coordinated for reasons too fantastical to believe. I had mentioned as much to Dr. Kay at my appointment the day before, trying to lighten the mood. She had smiled when I’d said, “Maybe I’m a CIA operative who had memories implanted during a mission gone wrong?” before replying, “Well, that would make things easier to accept, wouldn’t it? So how are things going at home this week, Lucy?”

Damn, she was skilled at not allowing me to dodge my complicated feelings, to avoid talking about the things that kept me up at night and preoccupied during the day. I would much rather have discussed the theory, however implausible, that I was a rogue special agent versus accepting all this happened because a store didn’t throw salt on the ice outside their front door, and I had made a poor footwear choice—heeled booties versus sensible winter boots. All of which led to me slipping—so dramatically both my feet left the ground before I landed, hard, on the back of my head and knocked myself out.

“Forks Over Knives?” Matt asked, eyes still on his laptop as he finished typing. He was back from his dentist appointment—the one I’d noticed on the calendar that first morning I was home—and his mouth was frozen from having a cavity filled, so he sounded like he had a lisp. “The documentary? On Netflix?”

“Yes,” I replied, nibbling on the end of the highlighter. “Did we watch it?”

He nodded. “We did.”

I drew a thick pink line over Forks and Knives on my list with the highlighter, crossing out the and, writing over in its place with pen. “Did I mention wanting to become a vegetarian after that?”

Matt smiled, but his frozen mouth only half rose with the movement on the left side, making him look like he was smirking. “You did.”

“So what happened? How did I go from that place to two servings of pot roast at Christmas dinner?” It was so bizarre, not remembering such basic details of my life. Relying on someone else to fill in the blanks, trusting him to give me the truth. Because of course he could have told me anything and I’d have to believe him, which was unsettling at best and terrifying at worst. But as my anxiety intensified I reminded myself to take a deep breath and to remember Matt loved me. He didn’t want to hurt me and certainly wouldn’t lie to me.

“You declared yourself on a ‘meat break’ and then two days later you told me you missed bacon too much.”

“I missed bacon? That was all it took?” I shook my head. “Wow, I’m glad to hear I stand by my convictions.”

Matt laughed and then winced as he put his hand to his cheek. “You love bacon, Lucy.”

I did love bacon. Even as I thought it, I knew it was true, despite the memory of my turn to vegetarianism still feeling real. I could as easily be convinced my diet was meat free.

“Definitely not a vegetarian,” I murmured, highlighting the word vegetarian in pink. The whole vegetarian thing wasn’t new information, but I put it on the list for the satisfaction of crossing it off, even though seeing yet another pink line made me uneasy. “But at least I know I didn’t make the whole thing up. I mean, I did try not to eat meat and we did watch the documentary.”

Matt nodded, still amused. “Do you want to watch it again?”

“Definitely not,” I said. Matt smiled and then went back to his laptop. He squinted at the screen in concentration. “Hey, where are your glasses?” Matt always wore glasses to work, but it had only just occurred to me I hadn’t seen him wear them since I’d been home.

“Contacts,” he replied. “I hate them, but they’re better than always losing my glasses.”

“Oh,” I said, wondering when he had made the switch. Missing the way he looked in his glasses—handsomely bookish.

He closed his laptop, gestured to the notepad. “So what else is on today’s list?”

I had divided up the main list in chunks of five or so memories, which had been an exhausting task. My brain bruise had fully healed, but my mind was still “lethargic,” according to my doctors, and would be for a while. They had suggested not pushing things too much, offered gentle warnings that my “softer” memories could potentially lose some of their defined edges if I did.

I read the items in my head, touched one with my finger. “Your parents.”

“My parents? What about them?”

“They live in California, right?” Matt nodded. “I remember meeting them once. When they came to visit the office and took us out for lunch. We went to that Korean barbecue place, remember?” Again, Matt nodded. Of course he remembered. “It was fun. Your dad is supertall, and your mom hugged me after lunch.”

“They just celebrated their thirtieth wedding anniversary,” Matt added. Then he paused, and I said, “What?” and he finally added, “We threw them a big party. Do you remember?”

I didn’t, so I shook my head, feeling frustrated—as well as mildly irritated with Matt because he obviously knew I didn’t remember the party. I had just finished saying I met his parents only one time, at the office, so why bring it up?

“You and my sister, Evelyn—you remember Eve, right?” Again, reluctantly, I shook my head and the frustration swelled. “Anyway, doesn’t matter.” But his face certainly looked like it mattered a lot, that I didn’t remember his sister. I wondered where she lived, if we were close. “The two of you organized everything. I was on a case in Montreal and had barely been home in weeks, so you took over.” I wished I could crawl into his head so I could see it, too. “Eve lives in San Diego. She’s a marine biologist. Here, I have a few photos on my phone.” He clicked through the photo icon until he found what he was looking for and sat beside me at the table.

In the first photo we stood between his mom and dad and a tall, tanned woman with a blond bob who looked like Matt and whom I guessed was his sister. The five of us wore beaming smiles, and I was in a canary yellow A-line dress. I could tell I felt good in that dress by the way I held myself, and I wondered if it still hung in my closet, when I might have another occasion to wear it. There were flutes of champagne, which we reached out in cheers toward whoever had taken the picture. A dark sadness filled me and I tried to stay engaged as he flipped through a few more photos, but I was fading.

“Eve looks like you,” I said, because I couldn’t think of what else to say. Nothing about the photos felt familiar, which was surreal because if I had organized the party, if we had flown five hours for it, and had, as Matt was telling me now, taken a week’s holiday to do some skiing at California’s Heavenly Mountain Resort before coming home, why couldn’t I remember any of it? Not a single thing tickled my memory.

Until I saw the photo of us dressed head to toe in ski garb, standing at the top of a mountain with the blue sky behind us and our poles raised in the air, grins from ear to ear on our cold-red faces, sparkling snow diamonds everywhere.

With a rush I remembered that photo being taken.

But...it was Daniel, not Matt, I remembered standing beside me. His newly grown beard keeping the bottom half of his face toasty warm, though I had complained about how much the coarse hairs prickled my chin. In my memory it was Daniel with the one arm around me, the other jutting his pole up to the bluebird sky. Daniel, who, after the ski patrol took this photo for us, turned his phone around and kissed me deeply while snapping a selfie. And as that memory landed into my mind, Matt flipped to the next photo and there it was. The kissing selfie. Except it was Matt kissing me in the picture, not Daniel. Matt’s beard, which he no longer had, tickling my chin while we pressed our lips together.

Matt watched me carefully, kept the kissing selfie on his screen, waited for my reaction. An icy feeling filled me and the mild headache I’d been dealing with all day pounded with insistence. I pushed back from the table quickly, and the chair legs screeched as I did. Matt, clearly startled, stood up as well, his phone clattering to the tabletop. I stared at the photo and in a strange detached way noted how happy we looked. How right we seemed together, our lips fitting together so perfectly despite the bulkiness of our goggles and helmets and the inches he had on me. Then the screen faded, the picture gone.

“My head is killing me,” I said, looking away from Matt’s phone and glancing toward the bedroom. “I think I’m going to lie down for a bit.”

“Sure, sure,” he said, his face a mix of concern and confusion at my abruptness. “Do you need anything? Can I grab your pills for you? A glass of water?”

I shook my head, which made the pounding worse. “I think it’s going to ease up. I just need some rest.”

“Okay.” Matt let out a breath, his hands jiggling on his hips in that nervous-energy way I recognized. It occurred to me I hadn’t seen him take his bike out yet this week. I remembered he normally rode daily, always to and from work, and was usually training for some kind of race.

“Why don’t you go for a ride?” I said. It was chilly outside, but the snow had melted and the slush had evaporated to only small puddles here and there.

“Maybe later,” he said, but I knew that meant he wouldn’t go. “I probably shouldn’t have made you look at the photos. They said no screens for a while. Sorry, Lucy. I didn’t... Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” I said. “You didn’t make me look at anything. I wanted to. And I don’t think a couple of minutes is going to do much damage.”

He nodded but didn’t look convinced.

“I’m okay, Matt. Honestly. An hour or so to shut my eyes. Seriously, go for a ride. I bet you’ll feel better, too.”

With a glance at his bike, which hung from a hook on the brick wall in our entryway, he seemed to consider this. “Maybe I will. But I’ll be here when you get up.” He gave me his lopsided smile and for the first time since coming home I felt a rush of something more intimate toward him. It was a whisper of something, but it was there. Maybe it was the selfie, after all. Even if I remembered standing beside a different man, I couldn’t ignore the evidence: at some point, in my not-so-distant past, I had been in love with Matt Newman.

9

I doodled along the edges of the paper, making tiny swirls and intricate mazes of triangles. The paper itself was cheap. Thin and flimsy under the heaviness of my pen strokes. On it were a series of questions that should have been easy for me to answer. I continued doodling, my pen lazily making a tornado of swirls down the side, and glanced over the list again.

What’s my favorite food?

Where did I go to university?

What was my major?

When is my birthday?

Who’s the prime minister of Canada?

Who’s the premier of Ontario?

Who’s the president of the United States?

Where did I take my last vacation? Who with?

Where do I live?

Where do I work?

How long have I worked there?

Do I exercise?

Do I have any allergies?

Who was my childhood best friend?

Have I ever had a pet?

What are my current hobbies?

They were all questions taken from a sample list Dr. Kay had given me. “It’s meant to spark your memory,” she’d said when she’d handed me the papers. “Some of these seem like silly, incredibly simple things. But it will help your memory confidence, being able to get the answers right and with ease.”

Memory confidence. This was a new term to me, but one Dr. Kay used often during our sessions. Our goal, as she explained it, was to help me build a framework for my memory. To create the landscape the way it existed today, and to work off that rather than trying to go back to how things were before I slipped on the ice.

“Lucy, we hope you get your memories back, but there are no guarantees things will get better than they are now. Your memory is a bit like a trickster at the moment, and we need to help you find a way to trust it again.”

So I’d been writing down memories I knew were real, the way you add a completed to-do item on a list for the satisfaction of checking it off. Memories from my childhood were easiest and most concrete, like when only a year after I was gifted my beloved birthday bike with the rainbow tassels, it was stolen and I told my parents I had locked it up—though I hadn’t. Or the time in ninth grade when I forged a doctor’s note and skipped school, then got caught when the principal called my mom to check how I was feeling because I’d misspelled tonsillitis (tonsellitus) and she was onto me.

I’ve also been thinking a lot about this “honest lying” thing. I mean, I’ve told friends I loved their haircuts when I didn’t, told bosses I made a dinner reservation for out-of-town clients when I didn’t (I forgot, blamed it on the hostess) and exclaimed my delight over gifts I knew I would be regifting or returning. These are all times I lied, on purpose and with intent. But now my own memory lied to me and I was as gullible as I had been when Alex told me as a kid if I swallowed my gum it would expand until my stomach exploded.

“It may not feel like it,” Dr. Kay said, bringing me back to the present. “But we’re making progress. Great progress actually.” She pointed to the list, my new cheat sheet, where I had been diligently filling out answers and adding questions.

Along with my memory confidence list, Dr. Kay and I spent a lot of time talking about Daniel, which I appreciated because he was a topic avoided in most other conversations I was having. My parents seemed to believe if they didn’t mention him, or the fabricated marriage memory, it didn’t exist, and after the coffee incident that first morning, Matt and I hadn’t discussed Daniel at all. I understood why no one wanted to talk about it, of course, but it was hard on me not to acknowledge him.

So Dr. Kay’s office was one place I could share—without worrying about how it all sounded—what I was feeling when it came to Daniel, which was a cornucopia of things. Loss. Confusion. Love. Bewilderment. Abandonment. Desire. Guilt. She never said much when I talked of Daniel, simply nodded encouragement to keep going, keep sharing, and on occasion would pepper the discussion with a few questions to keep things moving. To prevent me from shutting down and folding into myself, which many times I desperately wanted to do.

Depression was, according to Dr. Kay, an issue we needed to stay on top of. “It’s not unusual for people suffering memory loss to also suffer depression,” she said. “Accepting things as they are versus how you wish they could be is a challenge for anyone, but especially for those who are struggling with big holes in their recall.”

I wondered if I might already be depressed. I was far from feeling happy about things, but having never experienced depression—or at least having never remembered experiencing it—I wasn’t sure what we needed to keep an eye on exactly. Mentally, I added it to my set of questions. Ask Jenny or Alex if I’ve ever been depressed. I figured if I had been, I would have confided in one of them.

“How are things on the relationship front?” Dr. Kay asked, and I looked up from the list and my doodles.

“Well, I’m working on accepting Daniel and I aren’t actually married, if that’s what you mean,” I replied.

She smiled. I knew that wasn’t what she had meant, but I didn’t feel like talking about Matt right now. “How’s that going?” she asked.

I shrugged. “Okay?” She waited for me to continue. I sighed. “I can still picture our wedding day so clearly. The dress. The flowers. The rings.” I looked down at my bare left ring finger, tucked my hand under my thigh. “But I think I might be remembering my sister Alex’s wedding.”

“What makes you think that?” Dr. Kay asked.

“I was going through some photos my mom and dad brought over, and Alex’s dress looks pretty similar to mine. Or the one I thought I wore. At a wedding I apparently didn’t have.”

The dresses—the one I remembered wearing when I married Daniel and the one Alex wore on her wedding day—were not similar; they were identical. Peach-colored satin, but so pale it looked almost off-white in the sunshine. Vintage-style, to the knee with a rhinestone belt and capped short sleeves. Remembering myself in that dress had been somewhat confusing, though, because it was a style I would never have imagined myself wearing. My perfect dress would have been more classic, based on my style: maybe a strapless A-line, with a modestly poufed skirt, in winter white.

So how could I explain the vintage peach satin dress I thought I wore, which was much more Alex’s style? I couldn’t. Until I saw the photos of her wedding. I had forgotten entirely she was—well, had been—married. She and this sound engineer, Paolo, from Brazil met at a music festival in New York State and he followed her back to Toronto under the guise of a few weeks’ vacation. Apparently Alex sprang the city hall wedding on us two days before it happened, and she told me when recounting the story that Mom had been none too pleased, which should have surprised no one.

Our mother considered herself a forward-thinking parent: one more interested in experiential learning over structured homework; one who cared little if grandbabies came before a wedding; and one who would have been as delighted for Alex to marry a woman as a man, which was entirely possible. My sister didn’t subscribe to convention and since high school had been in plenty of relationships, gender irrelevant. My parents were happy when Alex was happy, so Mom couldn’t understand why she hadn’t told us about Paolo.

Alex and Paolo were married for less than a month before having the marriage annulled when Paolo went back to Brazil. As it turned out, his first wife was as surprised by this spontaneous wedding as my parents, and I, had been.

“And it wasn’t only the dress. We both had cupcakes instead of wedding cakes. And her bouquet was...my bouquet,” I told Dr. Kay. “She carried paper flowers. They were beautiful.”

“How does it make you feel, knowing these facts don’t belong to you?”

It was a strange way to put it, but she wasn’t wrong. I had taken ownership over the details, had crafted an entire section of my past around them without ever realizing they weren’t mine. How did it make me feel? Completely unhinged. Like I might never find my way back.

“It makes me feel like I’m insane,” I said, being honest with Dr. Kay because I had no reason not to be. If she had a reaction to my use of the word insane, she didn’t show it. “But don’t they say crazy people don’t know they’re crazy? So maybe I’m okay?”

“You are okay,” Dr. Kay said, leaning forward onto her crossed knees. I was somewhat reassured. She looked relaxed, not concerned in the slightest by my admission.

“Mostly it makes me feel alone, and yet entirely reliant on other people,” I said. “I can’t remember some things, other things I’m remembering completely wrong and some stuff I’ve made up altogether. Who can possibly relate to that?”

“How much of these memories with Daniel have you shared with Matt?”

At first I said nothing. Wasn’t sure how to talk about Matt and Daniel in the same sentence without the hit of bitter guilt that came with it.

“You’re allowed to mourn the loss of the marriage you remember, Lucy. Your feelings are valid. I know you know this, but it’s worth saying again—these fabricated memories will feel as real to you as any confirmed memory does.” I nodded, looked down at my list, the words blurring as my eyes filled. “But that also doesn’t mean what you have with Matt isn’t real or important.”

“I miss him. Daniel, I mean.” I took a deep breath, fiddled with my watch. Saw our hour was almost up. “I have to keep reminding myself it didn’t happen, because...it still feels so real.”

Dr. Kay handed me the box of tissues and I took one. “Do you wish you could talk with him?” she asked.

“Daniel?” I said, wiping at my eyes. “All the time.”

She paused for a moment, considering this. “Then why don’t you try to contact him?”

“But...I thought that wasn’t a good idea. I’m supposed to be focusing on my ‘memory confidence’ and talking with Daniel, seeing him...” There was a flutter in my belly at the thought. Excitement. “Isn’t that going down a rabbit hole I should stay away from?”

“It’s possible seeing him will help your brain reconcile the missing pieces,” Dr. Kay said. “One of our goals in spending time together is to help you develop coping skills. And if you’re able to talk with Daniel and understand firsthand he’s not the person your memory wants you to believe, it may be easier to compartmentalize that particular issue.”

While I liked the idea of remembering things as they were, I was somewhat panicked at the thought of no longer recollecting Daniel as my husband. I was unsure what to do with Dr. Kay’s suggestion. On the one hand, getting permission to contact Daniel made me feel lighter than I had in weeks. It is doctor recommended, I could say, leaning heavily on this justification. She thinks it might help, I would add, and of course no one would question it then. They all wanted me to get better.

But on the other hand, what if I saw Daniel and all the memories I had of us together—being in love, being husband and wife—disappeared? Then I would be left without the safety that came with thoughts of Daniel. Because even if the memories were false, they were all I had.

“Apparently I haven’t spoken to him in four years,” I said. “Since we... Since I ended our engagement.”

“You don’t have to do this, Lucy,” Dr. Kay said. “But I understand your desire to track down the truth about things. To not have to rely so heavily on your family and friends to fill in the missing pieces. I think that’s a great instinct and you should see where it takes you.”

“But what would I say to him? I mean, this all sounds so...”

“Crazy?” she said, and we laughed. I was shaking, the thought of seeing Daniel, of talking with him, causing adrenaline to course through me. “Reach out however’s easiest for you, whether it be via email or phone, or even with someone else’s help,” Dr. Kay continued. “Just see what happens.”

In my mind I was already writing the script of what I would say to him, how I would say it. As if reading my mind, Dr. Kay asked, “To finish up today, why don’t you tell me what your expectations are for this meeting, if you decide to go through with it?”

Good question. “I honestly have no idea,” I said. “There’s a tiny, irrational part of me that wishes he’ll tell me I am remembering things right. That this has all been one big misunderstanding.” Dr. Kay smiled gently at me, though not in a pitying way. “And there’s a big part of me that hopes I get the closure I need. That seeing him will wiggle something in my mind and I’ll remember everything right and things will go back to normal.”

“What is that for you? ‘Normal.’”

I paused. Even if I was scared to shatter the connection I felt to Daniel, to accept we were not together and lose everything that came with that awareness, I realized I was more scared to stay in this wacky bubble where I couldn’t trust my own mind.

“I think normal is what life looked like five minutes before I slipped on that ice.”

10

“I have to tell you something,” Jenny said, shaking cinnamon into her latte, her eyes on her mug. We were at my favorite café, Bobbette & Belle, only a few blocks from my place, indulging in a lunch of salted caramel macarons and raspberry scones with clotted cream, and milk-whipped coffees. Caffeine had proved to be an asset for helping with my concussion headaches, so the two shots of espresso in my latte practically felt medicinal.

I stopped slathering the clotted cream onto the warm scone and looked up at her as prickles of anxiety filled me. I had no idea what she was about to tell me and for a moment considered maybe it had nothing at all to do with me. How glorious that would be! To not be the center of attention. But then she said, “And I don’t think you’re going to be happy about it,” and I knew for certain I was wrong—it had everything to do with me, after all.

“What’s up?” I asked, trying to appear stress free as I continued layering the cream onto my scone. Relaxed, like whatever she had to tell me would be just fine. I took a bite and chewed, waiting.

“So, I know you’re thinking of getting in touch with Daniel,” she said, now stirring the cinnamon into the frothy milk. She took a sip and the milk left a thin foamy mustache above her upper lip. “And I think that’s great. Brave, even.”

Hmm. Brave? “Okay. And?”

“And here’s the thing,” she said. But then she stopped and looked at me worriedly.

Now I was irritated. “What is it, Jenny? Spill it. You’re making me nervous.” And she was, my heart rate up and my palms sweaty.

“He’s married, Lucy.”

It was as though she’d sucker punched me. Even though no one had ever slammed their fist into my gut—as far as I could remember—this had to be what that felt like.

“Oh,” I managed, trying to catch my breath. The first shock waves dissipated and then I felt stupid. Naive for not having considered such a scenario. Why wouldn’t Daniel be married? We were approaching thirty; this was when people coupled off in a more permanent way. And we hadn’t been together for over four years. Of course he would have met someone else and fallen in love.

Jenny was speaking fast now, clearly wanting to get it all out as quickly as possible. It made me dizzy, trying to hold on to all the details as they arrived rapid-fire from her. “He got married two years ago. I wanted to tell you. Said we had to tell you. But, well, it was suggested maybe you weren’t quite ready to hear that.”

I wondered, flickers of anger moving through me, who had made that suggestion.

“And honestly, we all thought things would have settled by now. That you would have, you know, remembered everything.” She cringed at this last part, tried to say it quietly as though my memory lapses were less significant if discussed in hushed tones.

“I guess I shouldn’t be surprised,” I finally said, hating how high and squeaky my voice was. “To be honest, I’m an idiot for not considering that.” Do not cry, Lucy. Do not cry. I dug my fingernails into my palm, relished the pain there because it shifted my focus from the pain elsewhere.

“No! Don’t say that,” Jenny said, grabbing my one hand still resting on the table. “How could you have known? I should have told you.” Her mouth turned down in a scowl. “It wasn’t right to keep it from you for this long. I’m sorry.”

I let her hold my hand, pressed my other hand harder against my stomach as I tried to take a few deep breaths. “So, who did he marry?”

Is this what it feels like to be cheated on? A sense of sickness spread out from my belly, threatened to take over my whole body. It was quickly followed by the trifecta of doom, embarrassment and regret for any decisions that had led me to this place. Whatever I was experiencing in this moment, I never wanted to feel it again.

“Yeah, so, here’s the other thing.” Jenny gently squeezed my hand a few times. “He married Margot. Margot Hendricks. Well, I guess she’s now Margot London. Unless she didn’t take his name. She probably didn’t take his name. She was kind of a dick about it at your engagement party. Remember?” Jenny looked stricken, her eyes scanning my face as she watched me take in the news. “I’m so sorry, Lucy. I know this has to be a massive shock.”

My breath came out in a rush, along with my words. “He married Margot? Our Margot?”

“Yes,” Jenny said with a sigh. “Our Margot is now his Margot.”

I had met Margot Hendricks at university, in social studies class. Though we’d never been close the way Jenny and I were, she was someone I had looked up to. An outspoken feminist who didn’t only give lip service but actually showed up at protests and marched and made her voice heard. She spoke three languages fluently, thanks to her Swedish mother and Spanish father, and talked of becoming a professor before one day joining the United Nations. Whip smart as she was, Margot Hendricks never made you feel like you were anything but equal to her, even though we all knew she was the brightest of our group. And most relevant to this particular conversation today in the café, she never—in the four years we were at school together—had a boyfriend or even a whiff of a relationship.

We had stayed in casual touch after graduation, when I went to work and she started grad school, and she had come to Daniel’s and my engagement party—but that was the last time I remembered seeing her.

“Were we still friends?” I asked Jenny. Margot seemed someone I would have stayed in touch with, even if only through happy birthday posts and the occasional liking of a photo on social media. At least until she married my ex-fiancé.

Jenny shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

“You don’t think so?” I asked, frustrated by this noncommittal answer. “Or no?”

“No. You are not friends. As far as I know.” Jenny and I had been best of friends since we were eighteen years old, and I spoke to her nearly daily. She would know if Margot and I had stayed in contact.

“Are you friends with her?” She shook her head slowly. “And you still don’t know why Daniel and I broke up?” Was it because of Margot? I wondered.

Jenny looked surprised, her eyes widening—my tone clearly suggesting I thought she might have omitted that truth, as well. “I swear to you, Lucy, I don’t know why.”

I nodded. The headache was back and I needed to go home. But I continued to push my brain, trying to grasp on to memories of Margot. How had she ended up with Daniel? They had known each other only casually, and only because he and I were dating.

What the hell had happened, to all of us, since then?

11

“You know, I’ve never had sex in the water,” Lucy said to Daniel, shifting her body between his legs and leaning back against his chest, the hot water in the bathtub pushing up the sides, threatening to spill over the edge. There were pink rose petals floating on the surface of the water, the heady floral scent enveloping them, seeping into their pores. Two glasses of red wine, nearly empty, were on the tub’s ledge. Daniel wrapped his arms around her, kissed the side of her face, her outstretched neck. She shivered and goose bumps prickled across her exposed arms.

“Really?” he murmured, still nibbling her neck. “How did I not know this?”

She shrugged against him. “You don’t know everything about me,” she said, smiling back at him. “I still have some secrets.”

“I’m sure you do,” Daniel said. “This revelation is giving me so many—” He stopped talking to take his mouth lower, onto the delicate skin of her collarbone. Lucy closed her eyes, felt the way his body changed under hers and wished they had more time.

In about an hour a room full of their closest friends and family would toast their engagement with champagne and far-too-pricy appetizers, and choosing this bath over quick showers had already guaranteed they were thirty minutes behind schedule. “So, so many ideas.”

“Oh, yeah? Like what?” Her heart beat quickly. She knew they needed to get out of the bath and into party clothes, but she didn’t want to. Not quite yet. Lucy moved one of Daniel’s hands lower, until it sank under the water and settled between her legs. “Maybe something like this?”

“Exactly what I had in mind,” Daniel murmured, moving his hand with precision, the gentle pressure and warm water a delicious combination. She sucked in a breath, opened her legs wider so they pressed against the sides of the bathtub, her left kneecap connecting hard with the overhanging faucet. Later, visible because of her above-the-knee cocktail dress, a crescent-shaped bruise would form on her knee, but the pain barely registered now because of what Daniel was doing to her. “I think this will get us in a more celebratory mood, don’t you?”

She couldn’t speak, was too focused on what was building between her thighs, throughout the rest of her body. As his fingers became more purposeful, she arched against him and moaned, no longer caring about the water that now splashed over the edge of the tub. Afterward, she lay breathless against him, eyes closed. “You were right,” she murmured. “I definitely feel like celebrating now.”

“Good,” he said, his mouth close to her ear. “But if we’re already late, why not a few minutes more? We could do something about your bucket list right now.” He slapped his palm down on the water’s surface gently, causing a few ripples. “We have water, and I’m sort of an expert.”

“An expert?” Lucy laughed, twisted her neck so she could look at him. “Besides, I’m not sure I’d call it a bucket list item, and we don’t have room in here for that.”

He looked down at their naked bodies filling every spare inch of the bathtub. “I’m willing to give it a try if you are.”

“Hmm, tempting, but I have a feeling we’ll end up regretting that decision. The last thing we need tonight is a pulled muscle.” She kissed him, and though she was still in the afterglow of the orgasm, she was also beginning to feel the pressure of the ticking clock. “I’d say we have about three minutes before we have to shift into panic mode.”

He groaned, laid his head back against the tub’s ledge. “Do we have to go?” He sounded like a petulant middle schooler being told to hurry because the school bell was ringing soon.

Lucy sat up and turned to face him. “Yes, we have to go. If we didn’t show, I’m not sure which mother would kill us first.”

He laughed, deep from his belly, and then grabbed her in a hug from behind. “Definitely yours.”

“You’re probably right,” she said. Lucy’s parents were fairly laid-back, liked to refer to themselves as “free range”—and that had been mostly true during Lucy’s childhood. She and Alex were allowed to play outside on the street even after it got dark, were expected to do their own laundry and make school lunches, and they never once complained about the state of Lucy and Alex’s bedroom. But along with turning the lights off when you left a room, their mother was militant about lateness. Once, Alex had slept in the day they were driving to Boston to visit their cousins and wasn’t in the car at the predetermined time—7:00 a.m. sharp—and so their mother had put the car in Drive and left fifteen-year-old Alex at home, even as Lucy cried (she was only nine and couldn’t imagine how Alex could survive the four days alone).

Lucy disentangled herself from Daniel and stood in the tub, shivering as she grabbed a towel. She plucked a few of the pink petals that clung to her wet skin, then patted her body dry before bending at the waist to wrap the towel around her hair. Daniel was right behind her, planted a kiss on the goose-bumped skin on her shoulder before grabbing his own towel and aggressively rubbing it against his arms and legs, like he was trying to exfoliate with it. “I will never understand why you use your towel for your hair when you’re so clearly freezing,” he said.

She was already applying body lotion, starting to warm up now that she was dry. “One of life’s great mysteries.”

He laughed and wrapped his arms around her body as they locked eyes in the mirror. Lucy gave him her most serious look. “Daniel, stop. We do not have time.” She glanced at her phone on the vanity. Mom was going to blow a gasket. “We’re already going to be late.”

In a flash Daniel whipped off his towel and pulled her toward the bedroom, then tossed her, laughing, onto the bed. The towel fell off her head and the wet strands of hair stuck to her back and shoulders. “Seriously, we don’t have time!” But her protests were lost in her laughter as Daniel jumped into bed beside her, snuggling both of them under the duvet.

“If we’re already going to be late...” he said, grinning, his own damp hair stuck to his forehead in wet spikes.

Lucy thought once more of her mom’s inevitable irritation, and of their friends who would be standing there waiting for them to arrive—the champagne perfectly chilled and ready to pop—then said with a sly grin, “What’s another few minutes?”

* * *

They arrived at the Thompson Hotel, where the engagement party was being held, nearly an hour late. It was hard to say which mother was angrier, though after some discussion they decided they had been right with the earlier guess. While Daniel’s mom was visibly displeased—telling because she was the stoic sort who rarely showed emotion—she did express relief they weren’t hurt after they said their taxi driver was in a fender bender (which did not happen, but was completely plausible).

But Lucy’s mother would have none of this excuse. She was onto them the minute her younger daughter opened her mouth—Lucy had never had much luck trying to feed her mother anything but the truth, so should have known better. But at least she didn’t call them out on it in front of everyone. Merely narrowed her eyes before saying, “Well, how awful. I’m so glad it wasn’t more serious.” Dad hugged Lucy tightly, while Daniel’s father, a personal injury attorney, had a dozen questions for his son about the accident and what happened. Luckily Daniel’s mother shut that down quickly, reminding everyone they were here for a party and the champagne had been waiting long enough, and Obviously everyone is fine, so let’s get on with things.

And despite lamenting the social gathering—Daniel was raised on a regular diet of parties and events thrown by his high-society parents and had developed a severe aversion to anything requiring black tie—Daniel relaxed as soon as he got a couple of drinks in him. They danced and sashayed among friends, chatted politely with their parents’ acquaintances and extended families, and by midnight only a handful of die-hards remained, including Lucy and Daniel, Jenny, Margot, Alexis and her current beau, Allen, who was a performance artist (Lucy had to laugh watching Mrs. London attempt to understand what it was he did for a living).

Jenny, Margot, Alex and Lucy kicked off their shoes, then stole a full bottle of top-shelf Scotch and a glass off the bar and headed up to the rooftop, giggling drunkenly as they did. Lucy poured the glass full to the top and it was passed down the line while they leaned against the rooftop’s ledge, enjoying the warm night and the very expensive booze Daniel’s parents were paying for.

“So, Mrs. London,” Jenny said, after a big sip from the communal glass, “when’s the first garden party?” The rest of them broke into sloppy laughter, and Lucy snorted.

“Screw you, Jenny,” she said, taking a sip straight from the bottle. The Scotch warmed a path right to her belly. “There is only one Mrs. London, and she’s downstairs.”

Margot raised a brow. “You’re not taking his name?”

“Of course she isn’t,” Alex said, grabbing the bottle of Scotch and taking a swig. She wiped her mouth with her arm and hiccuped. “We’re Sparks girls. Forever and ever, right, Luce?” She threw an arm around her little sister and kissed her on the side of the head.

“I’m sort of surprised.” Margot swirled the remaining finger of Scotch in the glass before tipping it back.

“You are?” Lucy asked, spinning out from under her sister’s arm to look at Margot. “Why?” For whatever reason, even in her drunken state, Margot’s opinion mattered a lot to Lucy.

Margot shrugged at Lucy’s surprise. “You seem the type.”

Lucy was immediately offended, despite believing there was nothing wrong with wanting to take your husband’s name...even if she didn’t want to. But Margot’s words stung. You seem the type? Was that a diss or a compliment? Maybe she saw Lucy as confident enough in who she was for it not to matter if she gave up her maiden name.

Jenny murmured something about how she would for sure take her husband’s name, because her last name hadn’t been the easiest to live with.

Alex snort-laughed and said, “I don’t know. ‘Jenny Dickie’ has a certain ring to it, don’t you think?”

But Lucy decided she was too drunk to sort out what Margot meant, so better to come right out and ask. “The type?” she finally said, turning to Margot. “What does that even mean?”

Margot pushed off the wall, then came to stand right in front of her. “It means nothing. Don’t get worked up, okay?” Then with only a few inches between them, she leaned in and gave Lucy a quick kiss, right on the lips. The move erased any response Lucy might have given, and she found herself slightly breathless. “I should have said he’s the type,” Margot added, smirking.

Daniel’s the type? The type to what? Want his wife to take his family’s name?

They had discussed it, the whole last name thing, after Daniel proposed. And while he admitted he would have preferred them to share a surname, he was fine with whatever she wanted to do. Lucy was about to announce all of this, felt the need to defend Daniel and her feminism, but by the time she pulled herself together, Margot was already walking back toward the stairs. “Come on, ladies. We’re out of booze, and therefore possibilities, up here.”

They stumbled behind her, Lucy touching her lips as she did, which were still slightly tacky from Margot’s gloss. A few shots of tequila later Lucy had forgotten the conversation—and the three or so hours following it—entirely. Until the next day, when she and Jenny nursed hangovers with plates of waffles and rehashed Margot’s comment. Lucy let Jenny reassure her she and Daniel were not “predictable” and Margot clearly had no idea what she was talking about.

“Maybe I will take his last name,” Lucy said defiantly, cutting her waffle with more gusto than was required.

“Maybe you will.” Jenny pursed her lips and pointed her fork Lucy’s way, matching her tone.

“I can still be a feminist and take my husband’s name.”

“Damn right you can,” Jenny said.

Lucy put down her fork. “Lucy London.” She repeated it a few more times. “Not bad, right?”

“Not bad at all,” Jenny said. “But I’m probably not the one to ask. Jenny Dickie, remember?”

They laughed so hard that Lucy, who had unfortunately just taken a bite of her breakfast, spit the piece of her waffle right into Jenny’s face, which only made them laugh even harder. Then Lucy went home and told Daniel she was going to take his name, after all.

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