Page 30 of Remember Me

“What did the doctor say? What if you’re not ready? What if…I don’t know, what if you have a panic attack or something once you get a mile down the road?”

“Then I’ll deal with it.” I sighed. “I had a check-up yesterday. I’m cleared.”

“But —”

“Hayes.” He silenced himself at his name on my lips. “This is happening, whether you’re supportive or not. I’d prefer the support.”

He didn’t reply immediately. When he did, his voice was clipped. Unhappy. “Meet me at John John’s at noon. I’ll send you a GPS text.”

“I’ll see you then.”

“Yep.”

“Have a good morning.”

“Bye, Birdie.”

That went well.

With a shrug, I went to tackle the next dragon guarding my cave: Mom. I couldn’t imagine she was going to want me driving.

My suspicions were confirmed when I asked for her car keys, as my vehicle had been deemed totaled and we were still awaiting an insurance payout.

“You’re not driving.”

“Mom, the doctor said it was fine. He said my reactions were good and the only thing I might struggle with were route directions. I’m using a GPS, so that takes care of that.”

“Birdie, it’s barely been two weeks.”

“And I’m tired of feeling like a small child who has to get permission to go somewhere! I’m a grown woman.”

She stared at me, frustrated, and I stared back, crossing my arms over my chest. Finally, she waved a hand at me. “They’re on the hook. Please be careful. You’ve already tempted Providence once.”

“I’ll drive like an old granny, I promise.”

The drive downtown was uneventful. I drove like a granny, as promised, and my brain must have been blocking any memory of the accident because there was no panic. No fear. I was instead filled with a vague sense of anticipation. For the next couple of hours, I planned to walk around and act like a tourist, exploring this small town that I’d grown up in and loved enough to stay through college. I would be alone, me, myself, and I, and wouldn’t have to worry about what someone else was thinking. Were they comparing my reactions today to how they once were? Were they disappointed that I hadn’t remembered them yet?

I found a parking place and gave myself a smug grin in the rear view when I realized I knew how to parallel park — and was damn good at it. Getting out, I chose a direction at random and began to walk, stopping briefly to send texts to Mom and Hayes letting them know I’d arrived safely. No reason to let them worry, even if the petty side of me wanted to include anI told you someme. After a brief hesitation, I did exactly that, grinning to myself.

We lived in what had to be the cutest small town in Tennessee. Somehow, I was certain of this, even without my memories. It was clearly a historic space kept alive with cautious modernization. Buildings boasted exposed brick and artfully decorated plate glass window displays. Storefronts were a unique blend of old and young — an upscale eatery sandwiched between a vintage clothing shop and a florist. Everything was decorated for the holidays, with evergreen boughs winding around lampposts and trimming windows. Even on this chilly November day, there were people strolling along a Main Street with me, ducking into this boutique or that cafe.

I paused outside of the florist, pushing my hands into my coat pockets and ducking my chin against a sudden gust of wind. There was a sign in the window claiming help was wanted. To my knowledge, I knew next to nothing about flowers, but the idea of working with them — smelling their heady fragrance, writing messages for the lovelorn — it felt good.

Tamping down my flare of excitement, I entered the shop.

A woman with curling hair, a mix of black and streaks of iron gray, worked at arranging a bouquet for a man leaning against the counter. Scraps of ribbon and discarded leaves, stalks, and other remnants littered her workspace, and as the bell over the door rang she looked up with a distracted smile that faltered before broadening into genuine warmth. “Hey, there, sweetie. I’ll be right with you.”

I returned her smile. “No rush,” I replied.

The shop was called The Farmer’s Wife and seemed to be a gift shop in addition to a florist. Gray painted walls boasted chalked quotations in strategic locations. I stopped beside one that read, “you belong among the wildflowers. You belong somewhere you feel free.” It struck a chord somewhere deep within, but the longer I stared at it the more elusive it was.

I moved on.

There were enameled mugs, and tee shirts, and a rustic hutch filled with cans of paint and coarse-haired brushes. Flowers were everywhere, tall stems rising from galvanized urns, fluffy blossoms emerging from squat glass bubble vases.

I took a deep breath of the fragrant air and felt, for the first time in days, like I could breathe.

“Thank you, hope she likes it.” I glanced up to see the woman cleaning her mess and offering a wink in parting to the customer. “How are you, dear? It’s been a while since you’ve been by.”

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