Page 70 of Find Me

“Andyoustop on greens.”

If their mother was behind the wheel, the trip to the cemetery would take twice as long as it should. Ellie extended her palm, a solution that seemed to satisfy everyone.

As Ellie slid back the seat of her mother’s CR-V, she recalled the last time she had made this drive, four years earlier, to sit at the foot of her father’s grave while she tried to force herself to finally accept the likely truth that he had chosen to take his own life. Today, she would apologize for ever doubting him.

41

Thursday, July 22, 1:07 p.m.

“So, it’s official. How does it feel?”

Hope could tell from Melissa’s expectant smile that the therapist already knew the answer.

“Fucking amazing. On the way here, I even did seventy-five on the LIE with the rest of the hooligans. Part of me almostwantsto get pulled over so I can go,bam, that’s my face right there.” In addition to having a legal name, date of birth, and social security number, Hope no-middle-name Miller was now the proud carrier of an actual, legit New York State driver’s license. “Sometimes I wake up, and it all seems too good to be true. It’s like I’m finally one integrated person with a past, present, and future.”

“So, you were on the LIE. Does that mean you were in the city?”

“Just for a couple of days.”

Hope and Lindsay were keeping the cottage for now, so she had chosen a therapist in East Hampton for her twice-a-week sessions. Once the owner came back to town, maybe she would move to the city, or she and Lindsay could be like the fancy people who “split time” between two “homes.”

“You mentioned during Monday’s session that Lindsay was going to pack up Scott’s things from her apartment.”

“That happened yesterday.”

“Is that why you went into the city? To be there?” An arched brow signaled that Melissa, once again, assumed she knew the answer.

“It’s not like that. I go into the city a lot. I have to. Lindsay works there, and I’m with Lindsay.” With each passing day, Lindsay seemed more comfortable about the idea of them being together and had finally (thank God) stopped trying to label it.

“Okay, but you did mention on Monday that you weren’t totally convinced Scott was going to remain out of the picture.”

Hope avoided her therapist’s intense gaze. “I just thought she might be upset when he picked up his stuff, so it was a good idea for me to be on standby. He was there for all of two minutes. They didn’t even hug to say goodbye or anything. I’m pretty sure he’s gone for good. Frankly, if I had to guess, he’ll be engaged in a year to some woman willing to let him prove to himself he can be a good husband and father.” It had been so obvious to Hope all along that Scott cared less about Lindsay as a person than about his desire to have a marital do-over. “The irony is that she would have married him a year ago if he hadn’t told her the truth about cheating on his first wife.”

“But then their relationship would be built on a lie.”

Hope shrugged. “Not a lie so much as an omission. And she never would have known, and it wouldn’t have mattered as long as he didn’t screw around on her, too. That saying, ‘Ignorance is bliss’?It exists for a reason.”

How many times had Hope steeled herself to tell Lindsay the truth? But she always found a reason to wait until another day. And after weeks and months and then years passed, she convinced herself that leaving Lindsay in the dark was the only way to spare her from having to protect Hope’s secret.

“I hear a slight edge in your voice when you talk about Lindsay andScott. To suggest someone might be ‘blissfully ignorant’ is not exactly a compliment.”

Melissa might be too insightful a therapist for her intended role, as it turned out. After all, Hope wasn’t here for true introspection. Maybe a man would have been a better pick—someone who would have hung on every word, eager to help the beautiful amnesiac with the tragic past regain her memory.

“Look, I don’t fault Lindsay. It’s just that she treats me like I’m so naive and in need of protection, but she’s actually the one who’s too trusting. If anything, I’m kind of envious. I was never given that luxury. I believe her when she says losing her mother scarred her, but she had Jimmy. And Miriam. And an entire town who thinks she walks on water. I had... well, Tara King’s life.” A screwed-up childhood, a screwed-up mother, and a sorta screwed-up boyfriend who accidentally killed a man and then let Hope think she did it. No ignorance, no bliss.

“Well, and that was the biggest breakthrough on Monday. You said you’re starting to remember things from Tara’s past.Yourpast. Has that continued?”

Hope put on her most enthusiastic smile. “Yes, it’s the strangest feeling. I can’t describe it, but it’s like there’s a dam or a wall of some kind in my mind, and these little cracks are starting to form. Does that make sense? I was chopping an onion last night and had this sudden image of my mother getting so mad, she threw a knife down on the counter and it ricocheted and sliced open my ankle. That one flash of a moment opened up all these other details. I remember her pressing the wound with this filthy dish towel—it was yellow with little pink elephants on it—cradling me on the ground, rocking me like a baby, saying she didn’t mean to do it. And all I could think was, But you do it all the time. You hurt me ... all... of... the time.”

“That’s a very specific recollection.”

“Yeah, but I’ve probably read as much about memory as you have, and fabricated memories can be extremely rich in detail. It doesn’t makethem real.” Hope had told Melissa during their last session that even though she was beginning to recall moments from her childhood, she wasn’t certain the events had actually taken place. But the knife incident? Oh, it had definitely been real, all the way down to the dish towel that Hope had bought for her elephant-loving mother, only to watch it grow dirtier and dirtier, until it was stiff and stank of mildew.

Melissa crossed her arms. “Of course, you know there’s one way you might be able to confirm the accuracy of these flashbacks.”

Her mother’s court file. The trial transcript. The photographs of Hope’s injuries. It remained to be seen if the stenographer captured the continual interruptions in the victim’s testimony as she repeatedly broke down in tears, but Hope remembered every excruciating moment of her three hours on the stand, knowing that she was sealing her mother’s fate, but also knowing it was the only hope she had of surviving.

“I’m just not ready for that. Not yet.” A few more weeks of therapy would do it, though. More cracks would appear in the metaphorical dam in her mind until the whole barrier collapsed. It would be her breakthrough moment. She’d fly to Wichita, finally prepared to scour the court files that would confirm the authenticity of her “recovered” memories. She would be, as she said, one integrated person with a past, present, and future. By the time she started classes at Stonybrook in the fall, the lying—most of it, anyway—could stop. She’d no longer be the girl without a memory.

---