“I assume so,” he says through a mouthful.
“But why would I do that?”
“In case we want to use it again?”
“So we used them before.”
“Yup, why?”
I tap my fingers on the table. I don’t know what bothers me more, knowing I hid a condom in my wallet, or not remembering that I found it before. “I don’t know. It’s just . . . What if I’m not the person you think I am? What if I kept things from you?”
He grins at me, disbelieving. “You think the condom is from an affair?”
I sit back, no longer hungry. “Could it have been?”
“I doubt it. We used those condoms.” He stabs his omelet, cuts a piece, and pops it into his mouth.
“But the expiration date is three years from now. Don’t condoms have a shelf life?”
“I never thought about it.”
“I’m afraid I—”
“What? You’re afraid you what?”
“I don’t know.” I press my hand to my forehead. My jaw tightens. The rain has stopped, but the gray sky still frowns in through the window.
“But I do know. I know your heart is with me. I’m certain of it.”
I withdraw my hand from his. My omelet seems to deflate. I pick at the mushrooms with my fork.
“You don’t have to finish the food,” he says. “I won’t be offended.”
“It’s not the food. It’s me. What if I don’t deserve you?”
“How can you say that? I don’t deserve you. You’ve always deserved better than what you got.”
A cold draft comes in from somewhere. “What do you mean? Better than what?”
He rubs his forehead. “Better than what you grew up with . . .”
“You mean my parents?”
“They were critical of you. Nothing was ever good enough for them.” He scrapes his chair back and gets up, carrying his plate.
“Why are you bringing up my childhood?”
“You’re a good person, and you deserve to be loved. That’s all I’m saying.”
“But did I? Could I have . . .?”
“No—look, sometimes we used condoms, like I said. It’s no big deal.”
“I kept one in case we were in the mood, before we were sure we wanted a family?”
“Why do you keep asking all these questions?” He’s still standing with his back to me, his shoulders hunched. “Can’t you just . . .?”
“Just what?”
“Can’t you just be with me?” He turns to face me, his face crumpled in pain and irritation. “Can’t you just be my wife? I’m trying my best.”
“I know you are.” My throat goes dry. “I didn’t mean to start a fight. But I can’t remember anything. I have to ask questions.”
“But you don’t take my answers at face value. You want to make up your own answers.”
“You’re right. I’m sorry, Jacob. You know I hope we can start again.” Why do I push him to the edge? Deep down, I worry that he’s giving me too much credit, pretending I’m a better wife than I actually was.
“We’re out of firewood,” he says. “I’m going to chop some logs. We’ll talk about this later.” He strides out into the blustery morning, the door slamming after him.
The fire has died in the woodstove. I scrape the remains of my omelet into the garbage beneath the kitchen sink, rinse the dishes, and load the dishwasher. Then I put the condom back in my purse. Was it so wrong to bring it out, to ask questions? Maybe I’ve asked all the same questions before. If I were in Jacob’s shoes, I would storm out the door, too. He’s consigned to a kind of hell, repeating the past to a wife who has forgotten him and who sometimes forgets what she even had for dinner.
I retreat into my study at the end of the hall. Painted soothing, pale blue, the room faces south, overlooking the garden and the cottage. I push up the cordless blinds and look out the window. Several yards from the main house, the small, cedar cabin nestles in a copse of Douglas firs and bigleaf maples. Its large bay window reflects Jacob’s shadowy form. He’s standing at the woodpile, his breath condensing into steam. I hear the muffled thud of the ax chopping the logs. He looks up for a moment, and I step back into the shadows, my heartbeat erratic. I have to work on remembering every moment of every day, or I could lose him.
But I don’t remember this heavy desk, the drawers neatly stocked with office supplies, my computer on top. When the hard disk crashed, Jacob salvaged what he could, but little data remains. I sign into my email and find ads, New York Times headlines, and Linny’s reply to my last message, which I sent to her when we arrived on the island.
Dear Kyra,
Mystic Island sounds like a dream. You wanted to live there, so maybe in a weird way, losing your memory was a gift. You finally got what you wanted. I envy you. Don’t get me wrong. My research brings me joy. But you married the perfect guy and now he’s whisked you off to paradise. Who could ask for anything more? I’m about to lose my connection. Signing off. Xoxo,
Linny
I click Reply and type: