Page 32 of Amnesia

Stifling a smile, I replied, “I reorganized everything back here. Paper goods are over there now, more accessible because they need restocked faster.” I gestured, then walked over to show him. Then I went on about a few other changes I’d made.

He gazed around as if he were just noticing all the modifications. “Looks good,” he said, gruff. “Very streamlined.”

I didn’t show it, but his praise meant something to me. “What do you need napkins for?” I asked, going to the box and pulling out some packages.

“You need some on the shelf out there, and we’re almost out at home.”

I loaded up my arms and went out into the store. It was a large place, and it fit in with the lake charm of the entire town. Loch Gen sort of looked like a big log cabin. The walls were all wood, the type that looked weathered. The ceilings were pitched, also covered with wood, and there were log beams that crossed the width of it. In between them, ceiling fans hung down, which I always kept on (set on low) for better air circulation.

The walls were decorated with old boat oars, the Maine flag, and some old Maine license plates. There was also a big, red metal lobster, but the paint was chipping. A few windows were scattered throughout the building. They didn’t look commercial; instead, they looked like windows you might find in a house.

My favorite part of the large store was the upstairs loft. It stretched just half the length of the building, and the wooden railings were open so from up there, you could look down over the entire place.

The narrow staircase to get up there was against the wall toward the back, and tucked beneath them was a small bathroom. Up in the loft area was my office of sorts. There was a desk, an updated desktop computer, and everything else I needed to essentially run the place.

The back of the store was lined with coolers where we kept a lot of the dairy and cold items. Near it was also the frozen section. The produce section was toward the front of the store, the aisles for most everything else in the middle. Toward the back, near the bathroom and stairs, we had a section of clothing and other Lake Loch merchandise. T-shirts, hoodies, hats, etc.

I was hoping to expand on the place over the next five years, bring in some new groceries and goods, but it was something that took time.

After stocking up the napkins, I went to the front and closed the front door that was still wide open. The watchful eye of my father followed when I stepped behind the long counter and checked the register (which was not old like Joline’s. I used an updated electronic one that took credit cards).

“I already booted it up and checked the drawer,” he told me.

“Thanks,” I said, still making sure it was all in order. Mostly, I was just avoiding him. I knew he was going to bring it up.

As much as I thought about Amnesia (she occupied about eighty percent of my thoughts these days), I wasn’t so keen on talking about her. I felt defensive. Protective. Wary.

“How’s she doing?” Dad asked. “Any memories yet?”

I thought of the dream she told me about, a conversation she shared with me in confidence, and how haunted and unsure of herself she seemed about the whole thing.

“No memories. None at all,” I said. “But physically, she’s doing better.”

Abandoning the register, I propped my elbows on the counter and looked at Dad.

I looked a lot like him—dark hair, square jaw. I got my height from him and also my work ethic. My blue eyes, though, those I got from Mom.

“You’re worried about her. Involved.”

“I’m not involved with her, Dad. I’m being her friend, something she needs right now.”

He sighed. “I didn’t mean romantically. But I think we both know you want it to be more than friendship. I meant you’re involved with her life, invested in her.”

“Of course I am.”

“You still think it’s her? After spending time with her, talking to her. You think she’s her?”

I looked up, meeting his eyes. “I know she is.”

Dad came forward, stopping just on the other side of the wide counter and resting his hands on the top. “Just because youwantsomething to be true, son, doesn’t mean it is.”

I knew he wasn’t trying to be unkind. Or even pessimistic. He was worried. I saw it in the lines around his eyes and the set of his lips. I was sorry he was concerned. My mom, too. But it wouldn’t change anything.

“You haven’t seen her. No one has come to see her,” I said, angry.

Just because I knew where he was coming from didn’t mean I liked it.

“People are wary, son. You can’t blame them. This is an odd situation. People are afraid to get involved.”

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