We brought the Trek bicycles in the truck, after the movers had already transferred everything else to the house on the bluff, but I’ve forgotten our long voyages to the island. The old ferry, MV Mystic, runs infrequently and often breaks down. Only thirty cars fit on the lower deck. On the day we moved here, there were five cars on the boat and no other passengers out on the upper deck. I awoke from a long sleep, surrounded by mist and holding a strange man’s hand. I gasped and yanked back my hand, as if I had touched a hot stove. I almost screamed—I know I was startled.
The tall, handsome stranger smiled down at me, his nose slightly crooked, a dimple in his right cheek. He seemed unperturbed, as if we had done this before. I’m your husband, remember? We’re on our way to our new home. The images returned to me. I saw him leaning over my bed in the hospital. And before that, a walk by the ocean. I saw him kissing the back of my hand, squeezing my fingers, his eyes full of adoration. His deep voice comforted me, but the moments flashed by like fleeting reflections of light, there and then gone. I remembered my condition, that my short-term memory still faltered, leaving me disoriented, unable to easily hold on to what had occurred even ten minutes earlier. I stood in a cool mist, not alone, but alone with these thoughts.
Our new home, yes, I said. I looked at our matching gold wedding bands, shiny reminders of our union.
As the boat glided into the harbor, a thick mist enshrouded the shoreline, enveloping the town in mystery. Jacob led me down to the truck on the lower deck. The captain cut the engine, and we drifted the last several yards toward the dock. All the while, pieces of memory fell into place—Jacob bringing me a cup of hot tea from the galley, pointing out sea lions resting on a buoy, assuring me that I could recover in peace on Mystic Island.
A few quaint stores and brick buildings emerged from the fog—a yellow Victorian housing the library; the mercantile in a small brick building; and the only bed-and-breakfast on the island. We stayed there when we first arrived last summer, he said. In the Gargoyle honeymoon cottage.
I asked him about the rented house I remembered in Seattle, my roommate, my plants, my former life. It was all gone, he reminded me, four years in the past. My last few months as a graduate student were old news. I’d started teaching marine biology; I planned to conduct research at a satellite station in the San Juan Islands. You hit your head on a rock, he said. We were diving two-and-a-half months ago. You spent a week in intensive care, then almost nine weeks in rehab. Physically, you’re doing remarkably well. But we have to work on your memory exercises. The doctors thought you wouldn’t get the last few years back, but if we work hard, you can build new memories.
The truck vibrated as the boat hit the dock. The ferry workers scrambled to secure the moorings. A man in orange rain gear, his face ruddy from the cold, directed the cars to start their engines. In a moment, we ascended the ramp and into our new lives. As Jacob drove along Waterfront Road, I felt as if we’d entered a quiet, alternate world of dirt lanes, boutiques, hanging flower boxes, and iron streetlamps. He made a sharp right turn onto the main road heading north, a twelve-mile stretch traversing the island from bottom to top. Five miles up, he turned left and headed west on a winding, narrow driveway toward our secluded house on the bluff.
Our house. I still can’t get used to the concept, although I’m growing accustomed to the play of light on the walls, the soft hum of the refrigerator, the distant, calming rhythm of the waves.
*
I call Sylvia LaCrosse from the hall phone. The line fills with static, but the phone rings at the other end. An answering machine clicks on. Her voice sounds soft and pleasant, like a lullaby. You’ve reached the voice mail of Sylvia LaCrosse. If this is an emergency, hang up now and dial 911. Otherwise please leave me a message. I give her my name and the time I’m calling. “I’ll come down to your office—”
“Hello?” She picks up, out of breath.
“I was just leaving you a message. I’m Kyra Winthrop.”
“Nancy mentioned you,” she says.
“I’d like to make an appointment.”
“Can you get here in an hour?”
So soon. “I’ll do my best.”
I dress quickly and find my bicycle in the garage, next to our scuba suits hanging on hooks. Our scuba tanks sit on a shelf nearby. My bicycle helmet dangles from the handlebars by its chin strap. I press the button on the wall to open the garage, and the electric door whirs upward. The wind has quieted; wrens and towhees take up their chittering in the underbrush. The blackberry vines twist darkly, but the tops of the trees glow in the slanted rays of autumn sunlight.
I consider telling Jacob I’m riding down to see Sylvia, but he’ll worry even more. He’ll insist on coming with me to talk to her. I see him in my hospital room, through my haze of memory, holding my hand while my neuropsychologist asks me to memorize various pictures. Her features elude me.