Page 8 of The Stranger in the Mirror

“Maybe—the Oliver on Second Street?” he said.

“I’ve been there. You have wonderful pieces.”

He looked right at me then, and I noticed how perfect his face was—the dark brown eyes and full lips. I felt my face flush and quickly looked down at the credit card machine.

“I must not have been there when you came,” he said. “I’m sure I would have remembered you.”

I shrugged, giving him an I-don’t-know look, too flustered to speak.

“Are you a photographer?” he asked.

To my utter horror, my face grew hot again. “Not really. I mean, not professionally. It’s just something I love to do.” I pointed to a wall of landscapes. “Those are some of mine.”

Gabriel walked over and stood there for a while, seeming to take in every picture, and then turning to me. “These are amazing, what you’ve captured.”

“They remind me of a fresh start. Going from one place to another. That’s what I see when I look through the camera lens.”

He looked at me a long minute, and I saw something in hisexpression change. “Are you doing anything for lunch today, Miss . . . what is your name?”

“Addison. Addison Hope. And I’m not doing anything for lunch.”

That was the start, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t scared to death at the beginning. Gabriel was the first man I’d dated since coming to Philadelphia. What was I supposed to tell him about myself? That I was a woman with no past, a woman who knew nothing at all about herself or her family? I was sure he’d think I was some kind of freak and run as fast as he could. But that isn’t at all how it happened. After our lunch that day, where I’d been able to steer clear of personal topics, we made plans to go to dinner on Saturday night. I knew I’d have to tell him then.

He took me to an old-world French restaurant with soft lighting and small tables. The candles on the table, the wine, the handsome man sitting across from me, all made for the most romantic night of my life, although I realize that I have no actual basis for comparison.

I can recall our conversation that evening almost word for word, and when I told him I remembered nothing about my life before the last two years, he looked completely confused.

“I’m not sure I understand,” he said. “You have no idea who you are?”

“Yes, exactly.”

“But your name. You remember your name.”

“No. Um... I made up a name,” I lied. “It’s Addison Hope.”

“I like it. And the last name. Hope. You’re struggling, but you have hope.” He reached across the table and squeezed my hand.

His hand felt strong and comforting. “I do. It’s hard, though. There are times I feel overwhelmed, like I’m all alone in the world, connected to nothing. I try to imagine what it must be liketo have a mother and father, siblings maybe, to belong to someone. And then I think maybe they’re out there somewhere, my family, wondering where I am and what happened to me. I’m not a whole person, and I’ll never be until I know my real identity.” I slid my hand out from under his.

“You’ll find out someday, I’m sure. I can’t imagine going through this, but whoever you are, really are, that’s in here.” He pointed to his heart and then leaned forward. “I know you’re a good person. I can just tell.”

“How can you know that?”

“I sense it. And you know what else? I think we were supposed to meet.”

I raised my eyebrows.

He took my hand again. “I felt a connection the minute I came into the store. I don’t usually go there, and I only did because my regular camera store had been broken into the night before and was closed. It was no accident that I walked in that day. It was meant to be.”

I shut my eyes and rubbed my temples. Thoughts spun around in my head until I felt like it would explode. What was happening here? As I steadied myself, my thoughts turned sober. “You know nothing about me, of the family I come from or what I might have done in the past. Who knows what I could have been? Maybe even a criminal. I’m not sure you could cope with that. It’s hard enough for me.”

“It doesn’t matter. What matters is who you are now. And who you are now is beautiful, intelligent, and kind. That’s all I need to know. Don’t run away from me. Let me be the someone you’re connected to.”

So I gave in to him and the whirlwind romance. We spent almost every day together after that. The first time I went over to hiscondo, which is in a restored nineteenth-century building in Fishtown, I couldn’t get over the peculiar name of his neighborhood. He explained it was named after the early settlers, who were fishermen, and I soon discovered a vibrant and hip area filled with bistros, great restaurants, and a terrific art and music scene. When we started spending more time in his home, I appreciated how he understood that I needed to take things slow. The idea of sex was terrifying at first. Would I even know what to do? And what about the scars I’d no longer be able to hide? But he was gentle and patient, and the first time it happened, all my fears were allayed. It felt so natural, and he made me feel safe and cherished.

After we became engaged, he asked me to move in with him, but I couldn’t, though I often spent the night instead of making the trip back to Gigi and Ed’s house in Northeast. I loved being with him in that idyllic space, with its warm red brick walls and wood-beamed ceilings, but I wasn’t ready to give up my own space, to leave the surrogate parents who meant so much to me. Gigi and Ed’s house was the only home I’d known, and they were the only security I had. It’s another reason that I now feel grateful that Blythe pushed for a year-long engagement. It will give me the time to adjust, to get myself ready to live with Gabriel and be with him every day and every night. To trust him enough to let him hear the screams that tear from my throat when the nightmares come, the ones with all the blood and dead bodies.

Are they nightmares, or memories? I’m trying to believe in a happy ending for myself, but in the back of my mind always lurks the fear of what I left behind in that other life. It’s like crossing a bridge and having no idea what you left on the other side of the river. What will happen when I remember what was I running from?

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