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"Dammit! Nothing. I swear I have searched every database I can think of. Nothing in the papers, either."
"It's okay." I tried to reassure her, but it wasn't okay. It was confirming how alone I really was.
"You know what? We are going about this the wrong way. Give me a sec." She stood up and went into the house. Less than a minute later, I heard her chattering on the phone. When she hung up, she came back to report.
"I just spoke with my thesis mentor. She's one of the best psychiatrists in the area, and I'm not just saying that. I told her about you, and she said she would love to meet you if you were willing. Her name is Dr. Paige Caldwell."
"Wait." I brushed past her and searched through the pants in my bag. I pulled out the paper Dr. Surai gave me. Printed on it was Dr. Caldwell's name. I handed it to Nichole. "That's who my doctor wanted me to see."
"Great, then I'll set it up for today. We are going to get to the bottom of all of this, and even if in the end you find out you have no one, you will always have me. And don't write off the Reilly boys just yet." She winked.
She managed to muster a smile from me. I was looking at potentially a new best friend, and it made me feel that much less afraid of what was embedded in the hidden caves of my mind.
"Is that all you have?" She gestured to my pathetic bag.
"Yeah, Grady bought it for me. I don't have any money." I shrugged.
"Okay, well, that's not going to be enough. We're the same size, so you can borrow whatever you want. We'll have to get you your own wardrobe at some point."
"Maybe I need to get a job?"
"Yeah, maybe, but let's give you some time before you do that."
We had a few hours before my appointment with Dr. Caldwell, and Nichole had a sudden burst of inspiration to start researching her thesis, so I went for a walk. She lived on a charming little street lined with bungalows. It was so quiet I could even hear the ocean.
A low layer of coastal fog was still hanging around, keeping the air crisp and fresh. I loved this weather. One day, warm winds, and the next, the threat of rain. It was like the way my mind worked—all over the place—but the mood swings of the weather were definitely more pleasant than my own.
As I walked down the sidewalk, I came across a bush of forget-me-not flowers. The brilliance of the blues contrasted magnificently with the yellow centers of the blooms. I bent down and took a small bundle in my hand as the words Brandt spoke haunted me again.
Don't forget about me.
What was it about that phrase that gave me the heebie-jeebies? I mean, aside from the obvious memory loss, there was something about it, but I couldn't place it. And then, suddenly, I had a vision where I was holding a bouquet of forget-me-not flowers standing in a cemetery full of gravestones, the sun beating down on my shoulders. I stood next to a fresh grave holding the flowers as the words repeated in my head.
Don't forget me.
I was alone.
I was scared.
I was dead inside.
"Are you okay, dear?"
The owner of the house where my memory emerged stood on the other side of a white picket fence. She could have been my grandmother, with her red cheeks, fair skin, grey hair and compassionate face.
"I'm sorry. I wasn't going to take them. They just reminded me of something," I said, letting go of the bush and standing up.
"Me, too, honey. Before my husband died, he planted them. He said they would ensure I was never without him. So I would never forget him."
"That's so sweet. They're beautiful. What a great way to remember someone."
"He was a wonderful man. Do you live nearby?"
"Oh, no. I'm just staying with a friend down the road for a little bit."
She opened the gate and stepped outside. She was wearing an apron and pulled out a pair of pruning shears. She cut the bundle I was holding and gave it to me. "So you can remember, dear."
She had no idea how profound her gesture was. "Thank you."
