Page 36 of In a Haze

“No, that’s just what they call me, so I figured it out.”

A bigger, perhaps more frightening question, but I must know. “Do we have children?”

He nods. “Two. Emma and Oliver.”

Oh. Now I have more questions than I can articulate.

He’s reaching into a pocket and pulls out a black leather wallet. Then he slides out a tiny picture from a translucent pocket and hands it to me across the table.

There is so much here that has me feeling shaky again. That’s me, all right, but there’s nothing familiar about the photo.

No, that’s not true.

Emma and Oliver.

They are sweet little children. The little girl, if I had to guess, looks to be about three years old and Oliver is a chubby little baby, sitting up and smiling. Maybe a year old? As I examine the children this man tells me are my babies, I’m hit with something.

Hard.

Emma. Thereissomething familiar about her. Emma is the little girl in the dream I was having on the morning I woke up. Really woke up. She’s the child with dark brown hair and dimply cheeks. In this photo, she’s looking like a proud little princess, sitting on her daddy’s lap but holding her brother’s hand. The baby is sitting on my lap.

And about me. I look familiar but…different. In this picture, my hair is darker than it is now, but shiny. Longer, ending at my chin. I have makeup on in the picture and I almost think I look pretty there.

This man, Don, has the same stoic expression in the photo that he does here. Staring at his face in the picture, I try to determine his age, because I know he has to be quite a bit older than I am. I’ve guessed that I’m maybe thirty, but I think he’s probably fifty or more. He’s quite handsome, so I could possibly see the attraction, but he’s cold.

So cold.

How did I have two children with this man? I feel no love for him, and he certainly doesn’t seem to care about me, not even in the photo.

I remind myself again, though, that he must have felt betrayed.

My eyes drift back to the children once more and then my image. We appear to be well-to-do. I don’t know a lot about menswear, but the jewelry I’m wearing in the picture, not to mention the royal blue suit and the children’s tailored clothing tell me we—or, rather—Donhas a lot of money.

My brain starts to come up with theories, but I am not drugged in the photo, or do I look like I’ve been posed unwillingly. That is most definitely me, and I appear to be very happy. That smile is genuine, no doubt about it. And I don’t think it’s photoshopped, either.

Once again, I marvel at the things I know somehow and still the memories remain elusive.

“Are you…an attorney?”

“Yes.”

Oh, shit. So my braindoesstill have something in there. This knowledge gives me a little peace of mind.

“How did we meet?”

“I was your father’s estate attorney. When he died, he left everything to you.”

“Do I…have any siblings?”

He shakes his head. “You were an only child.”

“What about my mother?”

“She passed away when you were younger.”

My brain is scrambled. “And I tried to commit suicide?”

He nods, his lips pursed. To stop myself from staring, I return my eyes to the picture and examine his face there. I try to imagine myself feeling passionate about this man like I did Joe last night.

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