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But as I sit up in bed, all I can think of is my phone. Maybe I can go outside and look for it while Shadow rustles up some grub.
My fingers curl around the thigh-high weeds, grasping for a lifeline. I don’t know why I feel this way, but as I stare at the driver’s side door of my crumpled gray SUV, I have a preposterous feeling I’ll be sucked into the car if I don’t grab onto something.
“What are you doing?”
I startle at the sound of Shadow’s voice. “Oh, my God. You scared me. I didn’t hear you coming.”
“You should be resting. Come on,” he says, his hand reaching toward me.
“I need to find my phone,” I reply forcefully. “It has to be in there somewhere.”
“I have to try to tow the car out of the ditch with the tractor, then you can look for it. It’s not safe here now.”
“But it’s not—” Before I can finish my sentence, my feet begin sinking into the mud. “Oh, shit.”
Shadow coils a solid arm around my waist, and I yelp as he lifts me off the ground. “I told you it’s not safe here. The ground’s not stable. I’ll look for the phone once I’ve towed the car into my garage.”
“I’m sorry,” I mutter, seeing the strain in his face as he carries me a safe distance from the vehicle. “I just really wanted my phone. I didn’t mean to—”
“Don’t apologize,” he says as he sets me down on firmer ground.
The grass and weeds in the front of Shadow’s modest two-story home are about knee-high. The white paint on the clapboard siding is peeling, and the wooden lattice covering the crawl space under the porch is coming loose in some places. It’s not an attractive house, but something about it feels like home. It reminds me of somewhere I’ve been before. I’m confident I can walk in the front door without knocking, and I’ll know my way around.
But I can’t even remember how I got outside, or how I found the crash site. Sure, the SUV was right outside Shadow’s front door, but how was I to know that?
I reach up to touch the swollen cut on my tender forehead. I must have hit my head harder than I thought. Maybe I’m blacking out. I imagine my brain popping and sizzling with a short-circuit, the way the electrical system in my SUV had last night.
“Come on. You have to eat something.” Shadow nods toward the house, coaxing me gently, his gaze fixed on the grass, still unable—or unwilling—to look me in the eye.
I nod back, my body listless as my mind seems to surrender to the notion that Shadow’s in charge now. I need him to find my phone. And if—God forbid—he can’t find it, I need him to fix my car. I’m totally and completely at his mercy.
The look on his face is familiar to me. As if I’d seen that same look of pity before, though I can’t remember where or when. I can remember my name, but I can’t remember why I was traveling that road before I crashed. This must be how it feels to have amnesia.
I’d seen movies and read books about people who couldn’t recognize their loved ones, who didn’t remember what year it was. I’d seen the panic in their eyes, felt the terror in their confused pleas for help. But I never once imagined that if it happened to me, I would feel relieved.
Shadow’s dark eyebrows knit together over his strong brow, shading his blue eyes from the sunlight filtering through the umbrage of the trees. “You need something to eat,” he reiterates.
“Will food bring back my memories?” The flippant tone of my question surprises even me. “I’m sorry. I’m just frustrated. I’m not angry at you. I’m angry at myself for getting into this situation.”
“This isn’t your fault,” he assures me.
I force a smile in response to his assertion, and he heads up the front steps without another word. Following quickly behind him, I pull open the creaky screen door with my good arm. Shadow had left the front door open behind him, so I don’t bother closing it. It’s a beautiful autumn morning. We can close the door later if the weather turns.
I’ve only taken a couple of steps into the narrow foyer when I hear the clatter of pans coming from somewhere behind the staircase that leads to the second floor. I approach slowly, smiling at the sound of something sizzling in a skillet. As I pass through a swinging door, I’m overwhelmed by the smoky aroma of bacon.
A swooping sensation in my belly makes me lean against the wall for support. I don’t know if I should tell Shadow I’m a vegetarian, but I quickly decide against it. Eating the bacon is the polite thing to do.
Now isn’t the time to be picky or principled in my choice of food, not while I’m stuck in the middle of nowhere with no vehicle or means of communication with the outside world. The last thing I need is to offend my host by refusing a few strips of bacon. This temporary living situation is already awkward enough.
I move slowly as I push away from the wall, my bare feet landing softly on the gritty wood floor. I can’t remember taking off my shoes, but it’s a habit ingrained in me since childhood. I probably left my sneakers by the front door.
Immediately, a layer of sweat sprouts over my forehead and the back of my neck. The water in my belly gurgles as my stomach contracts. Before I can take another step, the liquid shoots up into my esophagus and explodes from my mouth.
I fall to my knees on the wooden floor and wretch loudly as I spew the remainder of the sour water. My stomach clenches and unclenches involuntarily until there’s nothing left inside me. Each breath comes faster, and heavier, fat tears stream down my cheeks as Shadow appears with a towel.
He tosses it over the mess I’d left on the floor, then scoops me up in his arms without hesitation. I wince at the pain that lights up my shoulder. He seems to wince, too, as if he can feel my agony. My head falls sideways, my sweaty forehead pressing against his warm neck. I can smell salty perspiration and the woodsy scent of the trees that press in on all sides of the house; as if Shadow is as solid and timeless as they are.
My body bounces lightly as he marches toward a downstairs room near the front of the house. I get a sudden urge to lick Shadow’s skin, to taste the salt, to quell the gnawing hunger in my belly. My lips part, but as I began to push my tongue forward, he sets me down gently on the bed. Curling into myself, I cradle my aching arm and weep.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper as he turns to leave, probably to clean up the mess I made in the kitchen.
Does he know how close I came to tasting him?
“Don’t apologize,” he replies, repeating the words he spoke outside just a moment ago. He finally lifts his head to look me straight in the eye, and a slight smile plays at his lips. “You stay right there, and I’ll bring you some toast. You need to get somethin’ in that stomach other than water.”
Don’t apologize.
I try so hard to figure out why that phrase sounds familiar, but all that comes is a headache. Instead, I use my good hand to spread open the fabric of the sling and peek at the tattoo on my forearm. I smile at the sight of the whimsical purple elephant.
* * *
Do you know
where the zurpas go?
Where the zurpas go?
When it starts to snow.
The zurpas go
To the earth below
When it starts to snow
Don’t you know?
Is a zurpas a bear?
No, it has no lair.
And it’s not a spy
For it cannot lie.
It’s not an orange
Or a bowl of porridge.
It’s a real elegant
Purple elephant.
* * *
My father wrote that poem in less than five minutes while visiting a local elementary school, just to prove he could find something to rhyme with the word orange. He drew a quick sketch of a purple elephant wearing pearls and high heels beneath the poem.
The poem and the drawing were featured in the local newspaper the following day. I keep a copy of that issue under my bed. I got the tattoo shortly after my father’s death to remind myself my father was capable of the im
