Page 19 of That's Not My Name

A moment later I hear the sound of his cruiser crunching out of the driveway. For some reason, my stomach sinks. Bowman wouldn’t have left if there were any doubt. He promised. But I clutch the business card tight in my hand.

Wayne strides into the kitchen. He pulls open the fridge and shakes his head. “Why don’t you jump in the shower and get warm? I’ll run back into town and grab us some food and whatever I can find first-aid-wise from the convenience store.”

That sounds amazing. I doubt I’ll make it to the food though. It takes most of my energy to stand up. “Good plan.”

He smiles and grabs his keys from the counter. “Do you want me to lock the door?”

“Yes, please,” I say, a shudder rolling down my back.

“You got it. Oh, and Mary?”

I pause halfway to the bathroom and turn to him.

“I’m so glad to have you back, kiddo.”

The sincerity in his voice tugs a genuine smile across my face. “Me too.”

I lay my jacket over the back of the couch and kick off my disgusting shoes before I step into the bathroom, which looks a lot like the rest of the house. Bright artificial colors and wood tones everywhere. There’s a pedestal sink, toilet, and tub/shower combo with a small window. I set Bowman’s business card on the windowsill.

I shed the rest of my dirty clothes and take what’s probably the best shower of my life. The hot water rushes over my skin and for the first time today, I feel alive again. Like I’m experiencing rather than drifting. I crank up the heat and the water washes away blood, dirt, and the worst parts of this unbearable day.

I imagine all the chaos swirling down the drain.

Well, maybe not all of it.

I try not to look at the bruises birthing their way across my knees and arms. Ghosts of blue and purple draw an ache through my muscles that even the hot water can’t quite touch.

Car accidents suck.

I run out of hot water long before I run out of chaos. I’m mostly dried off before I remember I don’t have any clean clothes. But when I poke my head out of the bathroom, I find a pair of too-big sweatpants and a black T-shirt hanging on the other side of the doorknob. A pair of clean socks too. And my jacket has been moved to the hook by the door. The bloodstained shoes are gone.

Wayne must have done this before he left; I’m so grateful I could cry. I tug everything on, not caring that none of it fits. It’s clean; that’s all I want tonight.

I absently wipe the steam on the mirror with my towel before I hang it up—an old habit, maybe?—and again, my reflection makes me stop.

This is my face. It’s the same as the precinct reflection, though this version is cleaner. My cheeks are pinker. The garish sight of two black eyes is a lot to deal with, but it’s not the jarring part. Thefaceis. I still don’t know her.

How can I not know my own face?

My stomach churns.

I turn away from the mirror and gather my dirty clothes and the business card. Wayne hasn’t made it back yet. I pad to my room, where I discover he’s made my bed too. Incredibly soft jersey sheets stretch across the mattress with a massive white fluffy down comforter that weighs a ton and smells like a good night’s sleep. The kindness of these simple gestures nearly breaks what’s left of me. I drop my dirty clothes by the door, lean Bowman’s business card against the floral lamp base, and use my last shreds of energy to sink into bed.

My bed.

Mary’s bed.

I close my eyes and burst into tears. They flow like a torrent. No matter how tightly I curl into my blankets, or how long I shower, or how many locks are on the front door, I feel exposed without my memories. I can’t own my name or my face.

“I’m Mary Ellen Boone,” I whisper to the darkness. “Mary. My name is Mary.”

And I cry myself to sleep.

SIX

MARY

DAY 2

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