Repeat(6)

Clem: Hey. Question: How would you describe my personality?

Ed: Used to be a bit of a worrier. Uptight sometimes. Detail-orientated.

Clem: Sounds awful.

Ed: Maybe I’m not the right person to ask.

Ed: Once upon a time it seemed cute.

Ed: No idea what you are now.

Clem: Me either.

Clem: What did I used to do with my time?

Ed: Read, watch TV, we’d go out most weekends or have friends over.



Detail-orientated made sense. Previous me worked at a bank. Given my current situation, the chances of me going through retraining and returning are slim. Doctor Patel warned me the first two years would be the worst. Brain injuries are tricky. “Possible cognitive and behavioral issues. A long list of side effects.” So I need to figure out what to do with my life. I have some savings, but they’ll run out eventually. After the breakup with Ed, I’d temporarily moved in with Frances. And despite how good she’s been about letting me stay here, I get the feeling she likes her space.

Ed thought previous me was cute. I’m almost jealous of my former self. Which makes no sense at all.

The cell goes into sleep mode. My sister lives about twenty minutes from the city, out in the suburbs. Sometimes, the quiet gets to me. But right now, it’s peaceful.



Clem: Where did we live?

Ed: Condo near the shop.

Ed: I’m still there. The memories suck, but it’s convenient.

Clem: Frances said we bought the place together.

Ed: Yeah. You gave me six months to pay you back your share of the down payment. That changed? I’d rather not sell the place if I can avoid it.

Clem: Let’s stick to the original agreement.

Ed: Good.

Clem: What was my favorite color?

Ed: Shouldn’t you make your own mind up about this sort of thing?

Ed: Go outside. Look at some flowers. Find a rainbow. Take a position.

Clem: Was just wondering. Will go out later when this headache is gone.

Ed: You have a headache? Is that normal? Headaches?

Clem: It’s not a big deal.

Ed: Violet was your favorite color. Hence your tattoo.



This makes sense too. There’s a fair amount of the color in the wardrobe she left behind. It’s not a definite for me yet, however. Maybe I’ll pick another color. I don’t know.



Clem: What about food?

Ed: Italian.

Ed: Try Vito’s in Old Port.



This information makes me feel a bit better about previous me’s last meal. It still sucked what happened to her. But she truly had eaten what she enjoyed. And if the attack hadn’t occurred, I would never have come into existence. Complicated situation. Let’s be honest. Any and all possible wrong ways of dealing with amnesia? That’ll most likely be where I’m at.



Clem: What’s your favorite food?

Ed: You don’t need to know about me. Anything else?

Clem: No. Thank you.



So much for making conversation. It’s not as if I even care what he eats. Not really. I’d just been trying to picture our life together. Us out at a restaurant, a happy couple talking and laughing. Him sitting across a table from me without the anger and distance in his eyes.

What I’d most like to ask is if he loved me, if we were in love. But if he won’t even tell me his favorite food, chances are emotional statuses are a real no-go area. He might even get mad and block me. It’s too much of a risk.

I slide my cell onto the bedside table, close my eyes, and try to nap.

I don’t know where the pornographic dream about Ed comes from. But it’s very pleasant. The one of being lost in the dark with warm sticky blood in my hair, far less so.



*



It’s been three days since I’d texted Ed.

Meanwhile, I’ve done a thorough inspection of belongings. Clothes-wise in the bedroom closet, we have the uniforms from the bank and a mix of summer and winter stuff in mostly light, happy colors with some floral prints. Some of it is okay, but a lot of it just doesn’t feel like me. There are a couple of pairs of sensible heels, some wedges, sandals, a couple pairs of ankle and knee-high boots, and sneakers.

In the garage, there are eight boxes. One is full of old assorted paperwork and family photos I’ve already seen. When I was in the hospital, Frances brought them in to see if I might recognize anything. I never did. The other seven are full of books. Lots of books. Apparently Ed was right about the reading.

I bring the most worn and beloved-looking of them upstairs. Anne of Green Gables by L. M. Montgomery, Beauty by Robin McKinley, The Stand by Stephen King, and Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen. A reasonably eclectic mix judging by the blurbs.

I finally regained access to my email and other digital things. Nothing interesting in any of the emails or text messages. And any mention of or photos taken during the period of dating Ed are gone. Whatever happened, previous me sure seemed determined to erase all trace of the man and anything related to him.

There aren’t many people in her contacts list. No close family to speak of and few friends. The exceptions being a co-worker at the bank, a nice-sounding woman from high school, and a guy she used to share an apartment with (platonically, so far as I can tell). There are no others. According to her phone log and text messages, she hadn’t contacted any of these people in months. She was a bit of a shit friend, and I kind of resent the fact she hasn’t bequeathed me a few more sources of information about my past life.