I’m still wobbly on the bicycle. Frustrating, not to have my strength back. The ride takes all my energy and concentration. I head south toward town, past dense forests and vast, empty fields. Occasionally, I pass a herd of sheep or cows in a pasture, but I don’t see a single human or vehicle on the journey. Not one.
When I reach Waterfront Road, I’m out of breath and bathed in sweat, despite the cold. I’m fifteen minutes early for my appointment. The streets are deserted in late autumn. The shops huddle forlornly along the shoreline. Sylvia’s office is on the second floor of a quaint, faded green Victorian. The bottom floor is a boutique selling homemade soap, Mystic Thyme. Surprisingly, the sign reads, Open. I’m about to go inside, when a man waves and calls out to me. He’s in a black rain suit and boots, tying a boat to the dock.
He crosses the street toward me, stooping slightly, his handsome face weathered, deeply lined by time. “You’re back,” he rasps, his eyes wide and glassy. “It’s been so long. But it can’t be you. You’re . . .”
“I was here last summer,” I say. “Do I know you?”
His brows rise and he looks startled, then all the light goes out of his eyes. “Oh. I’m sorry. I . . . I thought you were someone else.”
“I don’t recognize you—”
“I’m sorry to have bothered you.” He turns and walks back toward his boat.
“Wait!” I shout. “You’re not bothering me!” I leave my bike propped against a lamppost and run after him. “I’ve forgotten your name.”
“I mistook you for someone else.” His eyes are haunted, and clearly, seeing me has shaken him.
“You recognized me. I need to talk to people I knew.”
“I’m afraid you and I don’t know each other.”
“But can we talk, at least?”
“We could if you like . . . I live up off Windswept Bluff.”
“Where is that?” I say.
“Road’s not marked. Four miles up, turn left at the twisty madrone.”
“That’s not far.”
“Everything’s close to everything else here.” He’s already unwinding the rope from the dock, pushing off in his boat.
“When will you be back?”
“Not sure exactly when. Soon.”
“What’s your name?”
He mouths his name, but I can’t hear the words above the roar of the motor. By the haunted look in his eyes, I can see that he did recognize me—or someone he thought I was. But he’s pulling out into the bay now.
I watch him go, unbidden tears in my eyes. I feel silly, about to cry for no discernible reason. Maybe it’s my feeling of déjà vu, with no way to recapture its source. The universe carved out chunks of my memory and threw them away, out of reach. Who is this strange man, and what did our encounter mean?
I’m bound to run into him again. Next time I see him, I’ll explain my situation. But the last thing I want to do is reveal to every stranger that I’m deficient in the memory department. How do I know he isn’t suffering from hallucinations or dementia? Maybe he goes up to everyone he meets and says, You’re back . . . Oh, I thought you were someone else.
I want to shout at the top of my lungs, Why me? Why? But the self-pitying moment quickly passes, and I cross the street and go inside Mystic Thyme.
The scents of eucalyptus and lavender fill my nose, and I know I’ve been in here before. I was drawn to the window display, to the rows of soaps and lotions arranged on wooden shelves among sprigs of dried lavender, beneath a purple, hand-painted sign reading Mystic Thyme.
You and your sense of smell, Jacob joked, following me inside.
You know I can’t resist lavender, I said. I see him like an apparition, picking up a bottle of aromatherapy massage oil. It was late summer, not the first time we’d been in the shop. He wore a T-shirt, shorts, and flip-flops, his sunglasses perched on top of his head. I was in a sleeveless summer dress and sandals. The dress, made of raw silk, shone in cobalt and swished as I walked. I loved that dress—brilliant blue has always been my favorite color. I collected cobalt bits of sea glass from the beach, cobalt ceramic pots for my plants, cobalt jewelry.
Where is the blue dress now? Is it hidden in a drawer, in a box of summer clothing in the closet? Maybe my memory is flawed, and I wasn’t in a blue dress. Maybe I wore a different color. I could have been in shorts and a T-shirt.
Now all we need are candles and the Kama Sutra, Jacob said. A young woman turned to look at him. My face nearly boiled from embarrassment. I needed to tell him something, urgently, but he had been putting me off, saying we could talk later, that we should just enjoy ourselves now.
“Everything’s organic, grown on our farm,” a soft voice says, breaking into my reverie. A woman stands close to me, her wavy, bleached blond hair tied back. She’s wiry, athletic, no part of her body wasted.
“The scents are wonderful,” I say, smiling.
“I thought I recognized you!” She breaks into a wide grin, her lips pulling back to reveal her gums. “Welcome back!”
“Thank you. It’s good to be back.” The familiar panic crashes into me. I don’t know who she is. I don’t want to have to explain. These social pressures were the very reason we decided to recuperate here, with fewer well-meaning acquaintances to pretend I remember. I smile and hope she won’t ask any personal questions.