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Saige gulped. “I have everything under control...then something happens and I feel like I’m about to lose it again.”
“I can’t begin to understand what it’s like to suddenly have that slapped in your face...your memories.” Tamsyn stepped forward and wrapped her arms around Saige. “I’m here for you if you ever need to talk, cry on a shoulder…or eat a full tub of ice cream.”
Saige tried to smile but it came out more of a wince. “I don’t have memories.”
Tamsyn stepped away. “What do you mean?” She frowned.
“I don’t remember anything.”
“That’s probably for the best.” Tamsyn wet some paper towels. “Here, you need to sort your face out, even if you’re going to clock out now.”
“I’m not leaving mid-shift.”
She could have said more, but she didn’t. She didn’t want to get into it with anyone…she hadn’t for years. Her family tried to get her to talk about her memories—her lack of memories. They’d filled in details, trying to lodge something loose in her memory. She was so sick of talking about it that she got used to changing the subject, and her family eventually got the hint.
“Are you sure you’re okay to go back to work? You still look pretty shaken.”
She felt shaken and her nerves made her nauseated. Her hands trembled as she raised them to her face. Maybe Tamsyn was right…maybe she needed to clock out early. “I’m going home.”
“Let me see if Lou will let us both leave.”
“She won’t. I’ll be fine, Tamsyn. I just need away from here for now.”
Tamsyn didn’t look convinced.
“Please don’t take this the wrong way, but I just need my own space.”
“Okay.” Her roommate watched her closely for a few minutes and then nodded slightly before finally leaving the room.
Saige sighed in relief when her friend left her alone to collect her thoughts. Her first thought was to call her father because she knew that as soon as he saw the news, he’d be worried about her.
The image on the screen of the man would forever be engrained on her brain. As far as she was aware, she’d gone eight years without knowing what he looked like. She’d been afraid that once she saw him the horror of her time with him would suddenly hit her, so she’d never gone looking. Now though, nothing was there. Her memory was just as blank as it had been for the past eight years...and that scared her.
As Saige had looked closely, there had been something familiar about the man, but as soon as she tried to remember what teased her memory, her head throbbed.
She couldn’t stay at work; she had to get back to her apartment. She needed to be surrounded by her things, feel the comfort that they brought.
* * *
3:00pm
* * *
Saige closed the door behind her and pressed her back against it as she tried to draw energy into her body. She had none. She was exhausted and had only worked a half-shift. Moving slowly toward the table by the door, she placed her purse down and sighed with relief. She was home.
She took a few steps farther into her living room and dropped into the oversized chair—her comfy chair that everyone else hated. The battered brown leather didn’t match anything in the elegant apartment, but for some reason, she had insisted that it went with her when she moved. The chair had always been in the boathouse, so she guessed it held happy memories that she wished she could remember.
And that was the biggest problem. She didn’t remember anything. Not the attack. Not the rescue. Not the years just prior to her attack. Memories erased from her life as easily as her attacker had tried to erase her.
Sometimes she would try to remember, but all it did was leave her with a terrible headache. The doctors had told her not to push it. Months would go by before it started again—wondering what she wanted to remember—so she’d try to regain her memories, only to be left with the usual headache. It was an unhappy cycle.
Her father thought it was a godsend that she couldn’t remember what had happened while she’d been held against her will, but what they couldn’t understand was that she had nearly two and a half years stolen from her mind. Those years were just gone.
The summer before she was taken—gone.
The days of being tortured—gone.
Two years afterwards—gone.
