The Twilight Wife by A.J. Banner
Yesterday is but today’s memory, and tomorrow is today’s dream.
— Khalil Gibran
This morning, I know the scientific term for the vermilion star, Mediaster aequalis, but I have trouble remembering my name. I reach into the icy water to touch the sea star’s bumpy exoskeleton, and I feel like a child full of fascination, not a thirty-four-year-old marine biologist recovering from a head injury. They say I taught freshman classes at Seattle University, but I have no memory of those days. I wonder about the moments I’ve lost, the people I loved. We surely must have laughed together, lifted our glasses to celebrate weddings, birthdays, anniversaries. I used to have a life. But now I have only this island, the husband who stays by my side, and a peculiar recurring dream.
I came down to the water’s edge today, to see if I could conjure a memory, but instead I found this rare, healthy sea star, untouched by the mysterious wasting disease ravaging sea stars along the west coast. Here is this bright orange miracle, all five arms intact. I suppose I’m a miracle, too, still alive and intact after fracturing my skull in a diving accident three months ago.
These islands haunt me, but I have no conscious memory of this area. No memory of my decision to move here to study the rare Tompkins anemone. No memory of buying these pajamas, my sweater, my running shoes.
And I don’t recognize the jagged scar on my right thumb. A thin white line. My husband, Jacob, said I cut myself on a barnacle-encrusted rock while diving.
I once knew how to assemble a scuba unit, but I don’t trust myself to even put on a mask anymore. I don’t recall learning how to dive. Last thing I remember, I was thirty years old. And after that . . . the boat trip to this island two weeks ago. Jacob thinks the beautiful forest emerging from the fog and the rocky coastline of this special place will help restore me. All I can think is, what am I doing here?
I long to reclaim the four years I’ve lost. After my recovery in the hospital, we came here to Mystic Island in the Pacific Northwest, where the wind blows in cold from the sea. On this remote outpost, emergency responders can be slow—if they even get the call. The locals pride themselves on staying “off the grid.” Our landline goes out so often, we might as well not have one.
Jacob follows me everywhere. He worries I’ll forget where I am. He won’t like that I’ve wandered down to the beach alone. I could become disoriented, lose my way. My husband watches over me like a guardian angel.
And I barely remember him at all.
“Kyra! What are you doing?” His voice drifts toward me on the wind. He’s racing along the beach in graceful strides.
“I found a healthy sea star!” My name is Kyra Winthrop. I dropped my maiden name, Munin. I’ve been married to Jacob Winthrop for nearly three years. I have to keep reminding myself.
When Jacob reaches me, breathless, he pulls me to my feet. “You scared the hell out of me.” His T-shirt is on inside out, and he’s in jeans and hiking boots. He’s striking in a Nordic way, with blue eyes, strong features, and a blond buzz cut. If I could talk to my old self, I would congratulate her for making such a wise decision to marry this thoughtful man, who clearly loves me.
“Sorry I scared you,” I say, looking toward the sea. “I needed to get outside, that’s all.”
“You walked a long way. I got worried.” He looks around in a panic, as if some malevolent force might try to steal me. But there is no other human on this beach, only the seagulls riding the updrafts.
“You shouldn’t worry. You need your rest. Taking care of me is wearing you out.” I touch his cheek, rough with the beginning of a beard. His fatigue shows in the shadows beneath his eyes. I wish he didn’t insist on cooking for me, tidying up after me, doing the laundry. He patiently answers my questions, but I hate having to ask them.
He pulls me into a hug. “Tell me the truth,” he says. “What’s going on? Was it . . .?”
“Yeah, the dream again,” I confess. It’s always the same. I’m diving in murky, churning waters, struggling against the current. I wake in a cold sweat.
“That nightmare won’t leave you alone.” Jacob steps back and rests his hands on my shoulders. They’re heavy hands, as if his bones are made of concrete. “Maybe you need to talk to someone.”
“I’m sorry the burden has been all on you.”
“You’re never a burden. That’s not what I meant.” He lifts my hand to his lips, kisses my fingers. His breath is warm on my skin. “You could’ve woken me. I would’ve come down here with you.”
“But you looked so peaceful.”