Page 22 of That's Not My Name

I plop down on the couch while I eat, but I can’t find anything to watch. Mainly because all the streaming options stress me out. I can’t remember what I’ve seen before and what I haven’t.

When I’m finished with the sausages, I toss the Tupperware into the sink. How do I normally pass time? Do we come to this cabin often, even when our house isn’t being renovated? What would I normally do here?

I tug open the blinds on one of the big windows facing the yard and look outside.

The driveway ismuchless creepy in the daylight. In fact, it’s not creepy at all.

The gravel is hedged with empty half-barrel planters. Because it’s November and everything’s dead. Soft sunlight filters through the clouds, illuminating the side yard in patches, and I suddenly want to get out of the cabin and look around.

I look at my jacket hanging by the door in all its floral, rose gold glory, and grab the yellow afghan from the couch and wrap it around my shoulders instead. It smells like dust, but whatever. It’ll keep me warm and it’s less…flowery. I slip on a pair of rubber rain boots by the door that absolutely do not fit and flip the dead bolts. At first the door won’t budge, until I realize I forgot the lock on the knob.

A blast of crisp air shocks some of the tired out of me as I open the door. I step onto the porch with a little more energy than before.

The steps groan beneath me, old wood creaking against old screws. I round the front of the house and stop short. The most beautiful river glistens at me from behind the house. How did I not notice there was a river back here? I guess Wayne did say it was a fishing cabin…

I gravitate toward the slate-colored water.

The side yard is about as wide as the house, but not all at the same level. The ground slopes past the driveway until it’s level with the foundation and a gray metal door. That’s probably the basement entrance. The left side of the yard is all trees and a massive woodpile covered by a green tarp. The ground dips again past the house, down to the water’s edge. The mostly dead grass turns to brush and fallen leaves along the shore.

I come to a stop just shy of getting my borrowed boots wet. If I thought the view of the river was pretty by the house, it’s breathtaking down here. The water sparkles as it slides downstream, low-hangingtrees trailing branches through the current. A breeze whispers across my face that smells like late fall and wet things. The chains of a wooden bench swing creak, hung from a two-by-four screwed into two trees by the water. It looks old. It might hold my weight but would definitely leave me with a few splinters. I walk over.

I think I like bench swings?

I press on the seat with both hands, testing the strength of the chains. When nothing breaks, I sit down and simply…exist. I pull the afghan close around my shoulders and watch birds swoop down and scoop up tiny fish from the river. I break into a smile and breathe for what feels like a long time.

Long enough to spook Wayne, apparently.

“Mary?” His voice carries across the yard, tinged with worry.

I turn in my seat, but I can’t see him. The woodpile stands between me and the house. I cup my hands around my mouth, and shout, “Down here. By the water.”

He appears moments later. His shoulders sag in relief. “What are you doing out here? You should be inside.”

“Why? It’s beautiful out here.”

Wayne picks his way over and stops beside one of the trees. He smiles and looks out over the water. “I guess it is. I’ll sit with you, but only for a minute. It’s cold, and the last thing you need is to get sick on top of everything else.”

I’ll take it. I shuffle over to make room for him, and he sits quietly beside me. But the serenity isn’t quite the same with another person here. The silence feels heavy.

“So,” I say. “How were your errands?”

He shrugs. “Fine. Got most of what I was looking for. There’s still no sign of your car. Officer Bowman says they’re looking.”

Well, there goes that dream. I guess I’ll have to make do with Wayne’s clothes.

“I’m sure they’ll find it eventually.” I wonder what that’ll be like though, rummaging through boxes of my things. Will they feel like mine? Or will everything be like that floral jacket, and throw me off even more?

“Do you have any questions for me?” Wayne asks after a while. “While we’re sitting here, I mean. About our life? Anything you want to know?”

I raise an eyebrow. “You’re asking the person who can’t remember anything, to ask you questions…about the life I can’t remember?”

He barks out a laugh. “Fair point. What if I share the basics? Try and jog your memory that way?”

I shrug. “Sure, why not.”

“Okay, let’s see.” He leans back in the swing and takes over the pushing, which lets me fold my legs up on the seat. “You’re a senior in high school. You’re a great student. Kind of a homebody, definitely not a partier or anything like that. And you spend a lot of time reading. There’re a lot of books in your car. All clean books, of course, nothing crude.”

Nothing crude? What does that mean?

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