Strangers: A Novel(21)

I shrug and, for some strange reason, start to feel guilty for not denying it.

Joanna folds her arms in front of her chest. “I came along to see this doctor because I want to know if there’s something wrong with me. I’m coming back home voluntarily. But let’s make one thing perfectly clear—you’re not locking me up again. Promise me, otherwise I’m not getting in that car.”

“I promise,” I say, not missing a beat. Not because I’m convinced Joanna won’t try to run away again, but because I know I can’t watch over her all the time. Neither do I want to. If she still wants to run to the police after seeing the doctor, I won’t be able to stop her. All I can do is hope that she won’t.

“Are you getting in?” I ask carefully.

“Only once you’re on the other side.”

I understand. She wants to test if I’ll really leave her be. If I trust her.

Is she waiting until I’m in the car to run off? No. She actually gets in the car. Relieved, I sit down behind the steering wheel. She buckles her seat belt and nods her chin forward. “Let’s go.”

Her voice sounds so impersonal that, in this moment, she really does seem like a stranger to me. It hurts.

I start to drive, eyes on the road, but my thoughts are on us. On Joanna and me. Will there ever be an us again? Will it be possible to reverse whatever happened to her yesterday? What if everything we had between us is irretrievably lost?

“Will you tell me what you talked to the doctor about?”

“I told her everything that’s happened since yesterday evening. From my point of view.”

“And? What did she say?”

“That there are various possibilities.”

“Like what?”

She seems to think for a moment. “I can’t say just yet. Maybe later. Once I know more about you.” Once she knows more about me? We haven’t been together for a full year yet, but there’s barely anyone who knows as much about me as Joanna does.

I feel another, new feeling pushing away the emptiness inside me. It’s faint at first, but when I glance over and see the delicate, familiar contours of Joanna’s face, which all of a sudden I can no longer caress, no longer kiss, the feeling surges through my entire being like a wave of heat.

Defiance. Rebellion. Anger. At this twist of fate, which is screwing up our lives.

There’s no way in hell I’m going to just roll over and accept this, no matter what else may come. I love this woman, and she loves me. Even if, right now, she has no recollection of it.

I’m going to tell her everything. Describe every single day we’ve spent together. Every hour if need be. I’m going to …

“What are you thinking about?” Joanna asks me all of a sudden. She does that often. Usually I have a hard time answering the question. Now, though, it’s easy. I quickly glance over at her again, our eyes meet.

“I was thinking that I’d like to tell you about us. Everything, from the very first day. Maybe that will help you remember again.”

“Everything, really?” she asks, a strange undertone in her voice.

“Yes, everything I can remember myself.”

“All right. I’m eager to hear.”

I’d give the world to know what’s going on in her head right now. Maybe it’s the same for her, too.

I eventually turn into the driveway to our house and park the car. We get out, walk to the front door. It’s almost the same as it always was when we came back home together. If only it weren’t for this pervasive, nagging sense of fear inside me, a feeling that even my defiance can’t suppress.

My eyes wander to the place where the cockatoo used to be. I resist the temptation to go see if any traces of it can still be seen in the soil.

We enter the house. I take care to do everything in the exact same way I always do. Keys onto the shelf, in the same place as always. Shoes next to the dresser, in the place where my black sneakers had been until yesterday morning. Rituals. They might just help.

Joanna goes into the kitchen. That’s almost always the first thing she does when she comes home. I’m waiting for the buzzing sound of the coffee machine being switched on, and, sure enough, hear it only a few seconds later.

I walk over to her, sit down at the small breakfast bar where we always eat together in the mornings. I look at her, feeling like I’m watching a film I no longer play a role in. This silence as we’re in the kitchen together … it’s so alien. Joanna usually can’t go a single minute without telling or asking me something.

“We met at a flea market.” Did I really just say that so loudly? Joanna takes her mug and sits diagonally across from me. Not too close.

“Uh-huh,” she mutters, taking a cautious sip of the steaming coffee.

She sounds so uninterested I have to force myself to keep talking. “Yes. I bought a little box right from under your nose. You were pretty angry with me.”

“That, at least, I can imagine quite well.”

“I gave it to you afterward as a gift. You didn’t want to take it at first. Until I told you I’d bought it for you.”

Another sip from the cup, which Joanna is now clutching with both hands as if she was trying to warm them on it. “When was that?”

“Nine months ago.”

“And how long have we allegedly been living together?”