Page 95 of Everything We Left Behind

“Have you always lived here?”

I opened my mouth to tell her no and hesitated. The brush, heavy with paint, hovered a mere inch above the canvas. My hand started shaking so I set the brush down.

Carla waited for me to say something. Other than Natalya, Imelda, and Thomas, no one else in Puerto Escondido knew about my past and the condition I suffered. Not even my sons. Thomas had warned me to not reveal my identity to anyone. For reasons I couldn’t explain—maybe it was because Carla had once been open with me about her relationship with her art—I wanted to share my story with her.

“Can I trust you?”

“What kind of question is that? Yes, you can. I’m your—” She stopped and motioned at herself. “I’m your friend.”

I looked at her for a long moment, considering, then nodded. “You are my friend, and I’m grateful for your companionship,” I said, then admitted, “I have lived elsewhere before. California, to be exact.”

A small gasp reached me. Carla’s fingers fluttered to the neckline of her blouse, fussing with the pearl-size button.

“I had an accident and can’t remember anything about living there or the people I knew. I can’t recall anything about myself. My real name is James.” I gave her the highlights of my condition.

The flush discoloring her neck and chest faded into a chalky white. She weaved slightly on her feet. I grabbed a stool and reached her in three paces. She settled on the seat and clutched my forearms. “Why wouldn’t you return to California? You don’t belong here.”

“James doesn’t, but I do. So do my sons.” I gently removed her hands, feeling overheated myself. Sweat dripped down my spine, plastering my shirt to damp skin. I strode to the far wall and adjusted the thermostat. “This is our home,” I said, arms out to encompass the room and the greater town around us as I walked back over to her.

“What about your family in California? Don’t you miss them? Surely you must miss your mother.” She whispered the last word.

“It’s hard to miss someone I don’t remember.”

Her mouth slightly parted before she averted her face. She stared out the window.

“As for my brothers,” I continued, pulling up a stool beside her, “I don’t trust them. I’m not sure I trust James.”

She turned back to me. “How can you trust anyone at all if you can’t trust yourself?”

“Because I don’t know the man I’m supposed to be.”

“I’m sure your mother misses you desperately and would want you to come home.”

“I’m not sure she knows I’m still alive. If she does, where is she?”

“You don’t want to go find out?”

“No,” I said too sharply. Every new thing I learned about my past moved me one step closer to reverting to my original identity. That was something I would never be ready to do.

I returned to my canvas and dropped dirty brushes into turpentine and tightened caps on paint tubes. White-hot pain shot across my forehead. I groaned. Squeezing my eyes shut, I dug my thumb and forefinger into the corners of my eyes.

I heard the scrape of a chair and the rustle of clothing.

“Your headaches are because of your fugue,” Carla said beside me.

I dropped my hand and looked at her. “I think so,” I said, even though I didn’t have a doctor’s confirmation. Perhaps the headaches were residual from Thomas’s hypnosis session.

She frowned. “They’re getting worse.”

“They were manageable for a while, but lately, yes. They’ve been worse, more frequent, and ...” My voice trailed off. I grabbed a brush and drummed the handle on the table.

“And what?” she encouraged.

“I have to tell Julian about me.”

“Why would you ever do that?”

“He needs to know what to do when I forget he’s my son, and what will happen if I don’t want to be his father.”

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