Do You Remember(6)

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.

I suppose if there’s one person I can trust, it’s myself.

Can’t I?





Chapter 4


When I come downstairs, I feel much better than I did when I woke up this morning. I still have that slight headache, but it’s barely noticeable. Just a twinge. I feel like a different person now that I’ve had a hot shower and put on some clean clothing. My drawers and closet were filled with outfits that were unfamiliar to me. But that wasn’t a bad thing. It was like getting an entirely new wardrobe.

A wardrobe of incredibly expensive clothing. I checked some of the tags—Gucci, Fendi, Louis Vuitton. How could I afford any of this stuff? Graham must be loaded.

Most of the clothing seemed ridiculously fancy for a day at home, so I picked out a pair of designer skinny jeans and a fitted T-shirt. I may be older than I remember, but thankfully, I seem to be in good physical shape. My waist is still slim, my muscles toned. The only part of me that’s messed up is my brain, apparently.

As I reach the bottom of the stairwell, I see a flash of gold and brown, and then something nearly knocks me off my feet. For a split second, I’m terrified, until I hear the frantic and happy barks.

It’s a dog. We have a dog.

“Sorry to startle you.” Graham wanders out of the kitchen, wiping his hands on a dish towel. “I try to keep him out of the second floor during the night so you won’t be startled when you wake up.”

I notice now that there is an open gate in front of the bottom of the staircase. He must close it at night to keep the dog out. The dog looks up at me with those puppy dog brown eyes and licks my hand. Now my hand is covered in dog saliva, but I can’t be mad. I just met this dog thirty seconds ago, but I’m already in love with him. My first genuine smile of the day tugs at my lips.

Then again, I didn’t really meet this dog thirty seconds ago. This is my dog. I’ve probably had him for months, maybe even years. It’s like my heart has a memory of loving this dog.

Except why don’t I have any memory of loving Graham?

“What’s his name?” I ask.

Graham smiles. “His name is Ziggy.”

My own smile freezes on my lips. Ziggy. I named the dog Ziggy.

Harry and I always wanted a dog, but there was no room for it in our tiny apartment. And then when we moved here, the place was still such a disaster and Harry wanted to put up a fence around the backyard before we got the dog.

But we did have one pet.

Harry’s full name is Harrison Finch. So ever since he was a kid, he always owned a finch. I’m a Finch so I’ve got a finch. It was kind of his thing. He had a giant cage he kept on the first floor of our house, with an almost blindingly yellow finch inside. He loved that bird. When I saw the way he took care of his finch, I knew what a great dad he would be someday. It was something I loved about him.

And the bird’s name was Ziggy.

I keep the smile plastered on my face as I run my fingers through the dog’s soft fur. Ziggy pants happily. “Was I the one who named him?” I ask.

Graham nods. “You did. You said you were a fan of the comic strip.”

I never read Ziggy comics in my life.

I lied to my husband. I must have named the dog after Harry’s bird. Except why would I do that? I’m happily married to Graham, so why would I name my dog after an ex-boyfriend’s bird? It doesn’t make any sense.

But either way, Graham has no idea. And I’m not going to be the one to tell him.

Ziggy follows me to the kitchen, where the tantalizing aroma of eggs and bacon fills my nostrils. When we bought the house, all the appliances were old and rusted. I remember Harry kicking the refrigerator to get it to turn back on. But the entire kitchen has now been renovated. We have a giant stainless steel fridge with a built-in ice and water machine. There’s a gleaming black stove that has so many dials and knobs, I’m sure I will set myself on fire if I attempt to cook anything on it. And our old rickety wooden kitchen table has been replaced with a brand new marble island with padded swivel chairs surrounding it.

This could be one of the nicest kitchens I’ve ever seen. And it’s mine.

“Wow,” I breathe. “This is… amazing.”

Graham laughs at my expression. “It should be. You picked all the stuff out yourself.”

“I did?” I run my fingers over the flawless marble surface of the kitchen island. “Are we rich?”

He hesitates. “We’re… comfortable.”

I want to ask more questions, but I feel strange prying like that. Of course, it’s not prying if this is my own life, is it? Anyway, it’s not like we live in a giant mansion somewhere. This is the same house that Harry and I picked out together and got for a bargain. We live in Queens, New York—not Beverly Hills.

Graham grabs two white ceramic plates from a cupboard above the sink and scrapes the contents of the frying pan onto them. He sets one of the plates down in front of me and keeps the other one for himself. He also pours a cup of coffee for himself but doesn’t offer one to me.

I look down at my plate. There’s a little yellow pile of dry-looking eggs and two strips of bacon that are cooked to the point of being black. I take a nibble from one of the strips of bacon—it’s hammered. I’m sort of relieved that Graham didn’t cook the perfect breakfast. So far, my husband seems like this absolutely perfect man, so it’s good to know he has at least one flaw.