Dear Linny,
I’m so glad you came back to be with me in the hospital for a while. I wish you never had to return to Russia. I need my best friend. Do you remember playing Bananagrams on my twenty-ninth birthday? You made me that collapsed vegan chocolate cake. But I know you remember many good times after that, including my wedding to Jacob. I wish we could sit and talk about everything for hours.
Jacob and our friends on the island are taking their time with me. It feels sometimes like more than I deserve. I can’t shake this feeling of guilt, is it for being so dependent on Jacob? Or for something that I’m scared to remember? I remember falling into another man’s arms—Aiden Finlay. Did I talk to you about him? Was I unfaithful to Jacob? Be honest.
I wish you were here.
Love, Kyra
I hit Send and sit back. I’m slightly dizzy from staring at the screen. My inability to concentrate makes me want to throw the nearest breakable object at the wall. Why can’t I remember four whole years of my life? Why only four years? Why not everything? Why not just the accident? Why do I forget conversations? Pieces of time? The doctors called me an anomaly, an outlier on the spectrum of memory disorders.
I’ve conducted numerous Google searches for types of amnesia, news about my accident, my own history. But I can’t read the results for long, before a headache knocks me square between the eyes. Often I’m about to hit upon an important tidbit of information, when the message pops up: You’re not connected to the Internet.
The computer offers me a list of options for fixing the problem, but none of them ever work. Refresh the page in a few minutes. Check that all network cables are plugged in. Restart your router.
A cosmic joke, these options. Jacob always manages to fix the connection within a few hours, or the Internet kicks back on like a ghost flipping a switch in the machine.
After I log out of email, I type my maiden name, “Kyra Munin,” in the Google search box for the umpteenth time. Nothing new. I’ve found my high school reunion photographs from years ago and a long-ago blog entry about resident Dall’s porpoises in Puget Sound. My personal bank account, which I opened years ago, shows a balance of $641.52. Jacob takes care of the joint account and our bills, for now.
Yesterday, I entered his name, and I lost the connection. But today, when I enter “Jacob Winthrop,” his biography appears on the Cascade Northwest Software site. He was a young computer genius educated at MIT. He read voraciously. He worked at various software firms until he founded his own company.
When I enter Jacob’s name and “diving accident” the usual articles pop up:
The man who survived a diving mishap near Deception Pass has been identified as the founder of a local software company . . . His wife suffered a head injury and was airlifted to Harborview Medical Center . . .
. . . Experts said the waters in Deception Pass are gorgeous but deadly. “The water is icy, atypical. There’s a precipitous drop-off,” said Tom Michaelson of Fire District 12.
I enter “Kyra Winthrop,” and the Internet crashes again.
“What did you find out?” Jacob says from the doorway, his tone neutral.
I nearly jump out of my seat. “I didn’t hear you come in. How long have you been standing there?”
“Not long. I made reservations at the Whale Tale for tonight. Dinner. Seven o’clock.” He seems to have recovered from his bout of frustration.
“Okay,” I say, suddenly nervous about going on a date with him. With my husband. This seems absurd. Our argument about the condom has flown out the window.
“I’m going to work for a few hours,” he says.
“I thought I might ride into town this morning.” Does he detect the tremor in my voice?
“Wait for me, and I’ll ride with you.”
“But you need to work on your book.” The only reason he would ride with me: to make sure I don’t hurt myself.
“What if you get dizzy?”
“Then I’ll stop for a bit.”
“The rear tire looked a bit flat.”
“It’s fine. I want to ride alone for once. You can’t always come with me.”
His fingers curl into fists by his sides. “Stick to the main road. If you’re not back in—”
“Give me a couple of hours. After that, you have permission to come looking for me.”