Page 175 of Mangled Memory
My face must register panic.
He holds his hands out, heels of his palms down. “I’m not saying that to scare you. I want you to be aware. If you spend a lot of time in here, pop out into the hall to check your phone. You have… Youhada tendency to lose time while you were in here.”
I don’t know what to say, so I don’t say anything.
“On the wall right there.” He points and I turn to what he’s indicating. “There are safelights switches. There’s also a vent for black and white days. I can show you more— well, what little I know—when you’re ready. I’m sure you’ve forgotten more than I’ve ever known, but for today, I can guide you.”
I walk up, throwing caution to the wind, and move to him, kissing the underside of his jaw, before walking down the hall and away from the danger that is Christian Barone.
5
aspen & evergreen
Ayla
I roll back the covers and slide inside, grabbing the tablet to turn off the television and marveling asthe mirror becomes solid again. Whatever wizardry that technology is is eye-popping.
The tablet has a button labeled comfort. When I tap it, several things come up, but one of them is the AC. September in Denver means warm days but crisp nights. While I’d generally prefer real cold to fake cold, I bump down the thermostat and watch the screen tell me it’s begun cooling this room. Seriously cool tech.
I was in bed for thirteen days according to my records; unconscious for eight of them. It’s not as if I’m not well-rested. I wasn’t lying that I needed an escape, but leaving myself vulnerable seems as foolish as napping on the terrace did, so I slip from under the covers and pad on the thick carpet to the door and turn the lock.
It may be silly. No. It’s wisdom. This house may be the address on my hospital paperwork, but I don’t know it as my home. It’s as foreign as any I might tour on an open house.
Christian might legally be my husband. He may be generous and hot as sin. He may not “want to off me” but he didn’t fail to mention my life insurance policy either.
He manages to follow every kind comment with something intimidating.I won’t kill you because I’d need your body for the moneydoesn’t invite comfortor safety.
How the hell I went into that room is beyond me. I know actually—the pungent tang of old vinegar… the smell of old thirty-five millimeter processing chemicals. And those smells, the stale sour notes that hung in the air like dust motes would in an attic… I was helpless to avoid following them.
That smell is buried in my brain, in my memories for as far back as high school, maybe longer. SLRs and DSLRs were available then. And I had those, too. But the old cameras—the one shot, no digital editing, softer edges of film—they’re my favorite.
I want to explore it, the odd rounded area in the angled room, but I want time there without the overwhelming emotions I’m engulfed by. The range of them flooding me is almost debilitating, especially without my memories to ground me.
The phone on my nightstand lights up. My thumbprint opens the screen even though I’ve never seen this phone before.
Italian Stallion: Sweet dreams, baby. Sleep well.
Italian Stallion? That’s atrocious. I change it immediately to “Christian Barone” in my contacts, and cringe at the version of me—or the sense of humor of the man it refers to—that would ever type that in.
I don’t respond to the text. I flip through the home screen, looking at the neatly arranged folders. All are organized exactly as I would expect, nearly as I remember frombefore. Photography apps, photo editing ones, social media.
Curious, I click on one called Picstagram. The feed is fine, but I want clues.
But there aren’t just clues here. There’s an entire life played out for the world to see. Picture after picture of me. Me sitting on Christian’s lap. Me laughing beside him in selfies. The two of us on a beach, his tan body juxtaposed against my fair skin. Me dressed in a formal at some gala, stepping out with my husband at my side. Cian and I at a restaurant, an amazing spread laid out before us. Halley and I in candid photojournalism black and whites.
Me, in profile, the mountains behind me, hair whipping around me. This one is black and white. I didn’t take it—that much is obvious. It’s not a selfie. It’s candid and I’m in the foreground, the background fuzzy, but impossible to miss.
So many photos.
I sit up in bed, hunched over my phone, expanding shots, looking for hints that help me remember. There’s nothing.
Well, nothing but an enviable life of lavish accommodations, gorgeous clothes, and obvious wealth.
A storefront shot captures my eye. The symmetry in the black and white photo is stellar. The frames of windowpanes are perfectly squared in the photo. There’s character in the old building that was obviously restored. The sign above states “Aspen & Evergreen.”
The caption reads:Aspen & Evergreen is the vision of Denver’s own Ayla Barone and her husband Christian, a local real estate magnate. Ayla is pleased to share her photography with our city. Her collections have graced the governor’s mansion, and her work hangs in the homes of Denver’s most prominent leaders.It goes on to give a web address and other social addresses.
The shop has a Picstagram account. What I find there both floors me and humbles me. Not because I did it, though I must have. But because what lies up the hill are the most breathtaking views on the planet, and I get to live here and play here and shoot here. And because those mountains, the valleys beneath, the aspens and the evergreens, they made me into something.
