Page 35 of In a Haze

Finally, I can’t stand it any longer. I swallow and then I say, “Who are you?”

The way he raises his eyebrow indicates that he’s shocked. How I know this, I don’t know, but he tilts his head to make eye contact with me. His cold eyes assess me, but I can’t read him. He’s more like a closed door than anyone else I know here, and that’s saying something. “You’re talking, Anna.” I nod, wondering if maybe I shouldn’t have said a word, but I have a feeling this man could tell me so much. He slides his phone into his pocket, eyeing me like a prowling tiger behind glass.

Why does he feel like an enemy? Shouldn’t someone personally visiting me be a friend—or, at least, not a foe?

I repeat my question. “Who are you?”

I expect him to tell me he’s my lawyer. And then, like any good attorney, he should advise me about what the heck is going on—tell me who I am, what I did, and why I’m here.

But, instead, his next words knock me flat and take my breath away.

“I’m your husband.”

14

If the world could be pulled out from under a person like a rug, I would be experiencing that sensation right this moment.

Did I hear that right?

Myhusband?

Setting aside the relationship developing between Joe and me, I’m floored, because I haven’t remembered a thing about this man. Nothing.

I have too many questions and, once my brain gets back in gear, I have to ask them. “You’re my husband,” I begin, saying each word deliberately. “How long have we been married?”

The way he blinks once, his jaw clamped tight, makes me imagine him in a courtroom or across a highly polished table playing hardball with the opposition. “Seven years, give or take.”

“Why am I here?”

If it is possible, his eyes grow even colder, and I wonder what that means. “You tried to commit suicide.”

This is yet another revelation that leaves me reeling, feeling like the world is being pulled out from under me. Of all the things I would have guessed about myself (not including my marital status), I wouldn’t have pictured myself trying to end my own life. “I did?”

As he gives me a curt nod, I turn my hands over to examine my wrists. There is no evidence of attempted suicide there, but his sharp words interrupt my inspection. “You overdosed on pills. They had to pump them out of your stomach.”

We sit there quietly for several moments. Finally, I ask, “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why did I try to take my life?”

For the first time, his voice shows signs of being irritated rather than distant or bored. “I don’t know, Anna. The doctors seem to think you’d been dealing with depression.”

Wouldn’t he have known that as my husband? It all seems so strange, so foreign. I am having a hard time fitting this new information into what little identity I have. It’s like I’m putting together a puzzle with pieces from different boxes.

I almost don’t want to know more.

But I must. We’ve been sitting here for minutes now, silent. While this man—my spouse—has been willing to answer my questions, he hasn’t volunteered a single thing to me. Maybe he felt hurt or betrayed that I tried killing myself, leaving him alone.

It would definitely explain his coldness.

But thinking about thatt leads me to more questions. “I’m sorry. I can’t even remember your name.”

“Donald. Don.”

“Clawson?”

“Yes. You remember that much.”

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