Mind of Her Own (5 page)

The bed loomed large in front of her. The comforter faded from pale beige to tan in an indistinct pattern. She ran her fingers over the fabric. Cotton, no texture, but there did seem to be a fern motif. Hooray—some form of expression! Collin’s wife—Louisa, Jazz reminded herself—seemed to be lacking a personality, more of a clean-slate brain. Maybe that’s why Jazz couldn’t remember being this woman. If she was her. No, that wasn’t right; she wasn’t the woman who lived in this house. She wasn’t someone without a personality. Why, her name alone shouted that she had pizzazz!

The crystal clock on the nightstand echoed the time in her body—late. She longed to land facedown on the bed among the cream satin pillows stacked against the headboard. She pushed the door closed and turned. Then she saw it. A dresser stood to the right of the door, and over it hung a giant wall portrait. Of her. In a wedding dress, holding a bouquet of calla lilies tied with a forest-green satin ribbon.

Soft beige carpet muffled her landing as she sank to her knees. Dear God, who am I?

* * *

Collin watched the familiar stiffness of Louisa’s back as she climbed the stairs. He had noticed her walking away from him all too often this past month. Even if she thought she was someone else, Collin had no doubts she was his wife, and his heart ached at the chasm between them.

He searched for some excuse to follow her, then remembered the ibuprofen. She would need that. Rushing back into the kitchen, he found a bottle of extra-strength hiding in the cabinet behind the cartoon-character vitamins Louisa doled out every morning to the kids.

Collin doubled-timed up the staircase to their room, stopping abruptly in his tracks at the closed door. He gave the door a quick tap with his hand, almost hoping she wouldn’t answer so he’d have a reason to rush in, be her hero, and save her.

The door opened, but no more than the width of a cell phone. His wife peeked around the edge. “What?”

“Here.” He thrust the bottle at her. “You might need these. Now you won’t have to navigate the house in the dark to find them.”

“Thanks. I didn’t think about needing to take them later.” Her hand stretched beyond the cracked opening, grasped the bottle, then closed the door.

Resigned, he went back downstairs to what had become his bedroom—the family room. He yanked open the armoire doors and pulled out the pillow and blanket, tossing them onto the girly couch. Toile was what Louisa called the fabric. “Very chic,” she’d said. He had wanted brown leather, not this cream and brown stuff.

He scratched the back of his head and stretched. He knew he should review the stack of papers in his briefcase, but instead he scooped up the remote from the top of the glass coffee table. He used his thumb the way it was meant to be used, turning on the TV and cruising through the stations to search for something interesting. The channels flew by. He didn’t stop until a Japanese Western dubbed in English caught his attention. Realizing it was nothing but mindless entertainment, he relished the relaxation it would bring him.

Stripping off his shirt and suit pants, he draped them across a chair. In his boxers, he stretched out on the sofa, and his feet bumped the arm. Groaning in frustration, he twisted until his knees bent, hanging slightly over the edge. He prepared for another long night of trying to get comfortable. He dozed off and on, changing the channel as the night went by but never finding anything to watch except infomercials that attempted to sell him something he didn’t need.

“Collin. Collin.” A small hand clenched his shoulder, shaking him.

He sat up and rubbed his face with both hands. The television shot varied colors through the darkened room, creating a sci-fi vision behind his wife. “What, Louisa?” He blinked his eyes, trying to shake the sleep from them. He jolted, realizing he should have checked on her before now.

“My head hurts and so does my wrist, the one I need to open this.” She held the offending bottle out to him. “Can you get the lid off this?”

Collin swept the blanket out of his way and reached for the bottle. “Childproof cap,” he grumbled. “More like adultproof.”

“Um, Collin. You don’t have any pajamas on.”

He glanced up in time to see her backing away, her gaze fixed on the ceiling. “Sorry.” He retrieved the blanket and covered his legs before remembering it was his wife who stood before him. “I never wear pajamas. I guess you still think you’re Jazz?”

“Who else would I be?” She rubbed her forehead with her hand. “Don’t answer.”

Collin lined up the arrows on the cap and squeezed. The lid popped off in his hand. He shook out two caplets and handed them to her.

She tossed them into her mouth and swallowed, without water.

He could feel the edges in his own throat. “Don’t you want something to drink with those?”

“No, I never do. I learned how to take pills without liquid in Mexico. Good water is precious there.”

“Mexico?” He felt like he’d been surprised by the prosecution. “When did you go there?”

“Long time ago, before my parents died.”

“Your mom is still alive—or, rather, Louisa’s mom is.”

“No. I’m sure my mother is dead.”

He had to admit this new Louisa fascinated him with her imagination. He patted the cushion next to him. “Want to sit and tell me about Mexico while you wait for the pills to kick in?”

Hesitation flashed across her face. Shades of Louisa not wanting to be near him? Then she surprised him by plopping down next to him.

“My parents were missionaries.” She yawned and leaned against the back of the sofa. “I was about twelve when we went there.”

He couldn’t picture Louisa’s mother as a missionary. She seemed cold to him, almost uncaring—even when it came to her daughter. “Can you speak Spanish?”

“Sí.”
She tilted her head and rested against his shoulder.

Collin blinked in surprise. The only Spanish Louisa knew came from
Sesame Street
. Of course, she hadn’t really spoken the language. One word everyone knew hardly counted as conversational. She relaxed against him. It felt nice to have her there again, her Eve to his Adam.

“I saw the wedding photo in the bedroom. It’s my face, but I don’t remember any of this,” she said. “Were we happy together?”

He realized she couldn’t know the depth of pain her question caused. He didn’t know how to answer it. If he said yes, what if her memory returned in the morning? But if he said no, she might demand to leave him right now. He couldn’t take that chance. Even if she never remembered being Louisa, he didn’t want to lose her.

He glanced over, and her eyes were closed. Her smooth, even breathing eased his anxiety. Saved by the sandman! He wouldn’t have to answer her question. Not yet, anyway.

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

“Stop it. It’s mine!”

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

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

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

There were whispers at the door.

“It won’t hurt to peek.”

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

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

“Is too. She looks like Mom.”

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

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

“Why doesn’t she move?”

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

“Maybe she’s dead,” said another.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Miss Laurie is next door, and . . .”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Usually around seven, or sometimes eight.”

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

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

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

* * *

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

“Hello? Anyone still here?”

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

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

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

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

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

And no denim.

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

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

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

“I need to speak with Collin immediately.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Jazz.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you still have the pounding headache?”

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

“Anything.” Collin felt a moment of hope.

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