Do You Remember(4)

If you relax and try to have a good day, you will be much happier. Just remember that the people around you care about you very much and only want you to be safe. Do what they say.

You are in good hands. Trust me.

Love,

Tess



After I finish reading the letter, I read it a second time. And then one more time. After the third time, the stream of water shuts off in the shower. Graham will come out any second. I am seized by the almost irrepressible urge to make a run for it. Before Graham comes out, I could throw on some clothes and run out the door.

But where would I go? This is my home. And I don’t even know what year it is.

The door to the bathroom swings open, and I’ve missed my chance. Graham comes out wearing a towel around his waist. At first, I look away, but then I take a peek. I can’t help it. And…

Oh my God. My husband is hot. He must work out or something.

“Tess?” His light brown eyebrows scrunch together. “Did you read it? Are you okay?”

I nod slowly. “When did this happen? When was my accident?”

“A little over a year ago.”

A year. I’ve been living this way for a year. Waking up every morning and not remembering my life.

He stands there, waiting for me to say something. When I don’t, he goes over to the dresser and starts rifling through the closet. “I’ll get dressed in the bathroom, okay?”

“Thank you.”

He selects his clothing and disappears back into the bathroom as I push away a stab of guilt. I am his wife, apparently, and this is his own bedroom. He shouldn’t feel forced to hide in the bathroom to get dressed. Yet I’m absurdly grateful that he did it.

I put down the letter and rise from the bed. I can’t stop staring at the collection of photographs on top of the dresser. My eyes are drawn like a magnet to the wedding photo. It’s right in the middle, after all.

I pick it up—it’s heavy. The frame is probably expensive, like our bed and our fancy toilet. Part of me is convinced this all might be some sort of crazy dream, but the weight of this photograph feels so real.

This is no dream.

I squint down at the photograph, studying it for traces that it might be a forgery. Harry would know if it was real or not. Of course, Harry is long gone if that letter is to be believed. So it’s up to me.

I look down at my image in the photo. The white dress I’m wearing is absolutely beautiful. It’s a chiffon dress with a double V neck and elaborate beading all over the neckline. It’s silky white and classy, just how I imagined my wedding dress. Like the frame, it appears expensive—how was I able to afford something like that? Is Graham rich too, in addition to being gorgeous?

I study my expression. I’m smiling at the camera, my dark hair swept back from my face. I look happy. And why shouldn’t I be? This is supposedly my wedding day.

But there’s something else there. I look happy, but there’s something off. Something in my eyes.

“Tess?”

Graham’s voice startles me—I hadn’t even heard him come out of the bathroom. The frame slips out of my fingers and crashes to the floor. The glass shatters at my feet.

“Sorry!” I step back, mortified. “I’m so sorry. I—”

“It’s okay.” Graham’s hand is on my arm, and his blue eyes meet mine. He’s fairer than any man I’ve ever dated before—that was never my type. But he obviously won me over. “I’ll clean it up.”

“I could—”

“Don’t worry about it.” Graham bends down and snatches the frame from the floor. The glass has cracked, but it hasn’t come loose from the frame. “There’s nothing to even clean up. It’s fine.” He places the cracked picture frame back on the dresser with the others—it seems oddly ominous now with the shattered glass obscuring my face, but Graham doesn’t seem disturbed by it. “How about this? You go take a shower and I’ll make some breakfast for us.”

“Okay…”

Graham has put on a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles and is dressed in a gray suit. The effect makes him look both devastatingly handsome and incredibly important. But I guess he’s not in a rush to go anywhere if he’s willing to make breakfast. It occurs to me he’s been juggling his work obligations and taking care of me. Again, I get that stab of guilt.

“Does the toilet work just like a normal toilet?” I ask. I don’t want to admit how intimidated I am by the appliances in our bathroom. I need an instruction book to relieve my bladder.

He nods eagerly. “It’s very easy to use. It has an automatic flush when you stand up. And it also has an LED nightlight and a seat warmer. It’s programmable, so if you wanted, we could make it open the lid when you approach. There’s also a tornado wash that self-cleans the bowl.”

I stare at him. “What are you—a toilet salesman?”

There’s a flash of something in his eyes, almost like irritation or anger. Of course, he has a right to be a little irritated if he has to repeat the same information to me every single morning. But it’s not like it’s my fault.

Just as quickly as it appeared, the flash vanishes from his eyes, and I’m not sure if I imagined it. He glances at the bathroom. “I know it’s all confusing. Do you need any help in there?”