After minutes pass, I realize he’s completely absorbed in what he’s doing. He’s not paying any attention to me. In fact, it’s almost like I’m not here.
Finally, I can’t stand it any longer. I swallow and then I say, “Who are you?”
The way he raises his eyebrow indicates that he’s shocked. How I know this, I don’t know, but he tilts his head to make eye contact with me. His cold eyes assess me, but I can’t read him. He’s more like a closed door than anyone else I know here, and that’s saying something. “You’re talking, Anna.” I nod, wondering if maybe I shouldn’t have said a word, but I have a feeling this man could tell me so much. He slides his phone into his pocket, eyeing me like a prowling tiger behind glass.
Why does he feel like an enemy? Shouldn’t someone personally visiting me be a friend—or, at least, not a foe?
I repeat my question. “Who are you?”
I expect him to tell me he’s my lawyer. And then, like any good attorney, he should advise me about what the heck is going on—tell me who I am, what I did, and why I’m here.
But, instead, his next words knock me flat and take my breath away.
“I’m your husband.”
14
If the world could be pulled out from under a person like a rug, I would be experiencing that sensation right this moment.
Did I hear that right?
My husband?
Setting aside the relationship developing between Joe and me, I’m floored, because I haven’t remembered a thing about this man. Nothing.
I have too many questions and, once my brain gets back in gear, I have to ask them. “You’re my husband,” I begin, saying each word deliberately. “How long have we been married?”
The way he blinks once, his jaw clamped tight, makes me imagine him in a courtroom or across a highly polished table playing hardball with the opposition. “Seven years, give or take.”
“Why am I here?”
If it is possible, his eyes grow even colder, and I wonder what that means. “You tried to commit suicide.”
This is yet another revelation that leaves me reeling, feeling like the world is being pulled out from under me. Of all the things I would have guessed about myself (not including my marital status), I wouldn’t have pictured myself trying to end my own life. “I did?”
As he gives me a curt nod, I turn my hands over to examine my wrists. There is no evidence of attempted suicide there, but his sharp words interrupt my inspection. “You overdosed on pills. They had to pump them out of your stomach.”
We sit there quietly for several moments. Finally, I ask, “Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why did I try to take my life?”
For the first time, his voice shows signs of being irritated rather than distant or bored. “I don’t know, Anna. The doctors seem to think you’d been dealing with depression.”
Wouldn’t he have known that as my husband? It all seems so strange, so foreign. I am having a hard time fitting this new information into what little identity I have. It’s like I’m putting together a puzzle with pieces from different boxes.
I almost don’t want to know more.
But I must. We’ve been sitting here for minutes now, silent. While this man—my spouse—has been willing to answer my questions, he hasn’t volunteered a single thing to me. Maybe he felt hurt or betrayed that I tried killing myself, leaving him alone.
It would definitely explain his coldness.
But thinking about thatt leads me to more questions. “I’m sorry. I can’t even remember your name.”
“Donald. Don.”
“Clawson?”
“Yes. You remember that much.”
“No, that’s just what they call me, so I figured it out.”
A bigger, perhaps more frightening question, but I must know. “Do we have children?”
He nods. “Two. Emma and Oliver.”
Oh. Now I have more questions than I can articulate.
He’s reaching into a pocket and pulls out a black leather wallet. Then he slides out a tiny picture from a translucent pocket and hands it to me across the table.
There is so much here that has me feeling shaky again. That’s me, all right, but there’s nothing familiar about the photo.
No, that’s not true.
Emma and Oliver.
They are sweet little children. The little girl, if I had to guess, looks to be about three years old and Oliver is a chubby little baby, sitting up and smiling. Maybe a year old? As I examine the children this man tells me are my babies, I’m hit with something.
Hard.
Emma. There is something familiar about her. Emma is the little girl in the dream I was having on the morning I woke up. Really woke up. She’s the child with dark brown hair and dimply cheeks. In this photo, she’s looking like a proud little princess, sitting on her daddy’s lap but holding her brother’s hand. The baby is sitting on my lap.
And about me. I look familiar but…different. In this picture, my hair is darker than it is now, but shiny. Longer, ending at my chin. I have makeup on in the picture and I almost think I look pretty there.
This man, Don, has the same stoic expression in the photo that he does here. Staring at his face in the picture, I try to determine his age, because I know he has to be quite a bit older than I am. I’ve guessed that I’m maybe thirty, but I think he’s probably fifty or more. He’s quite handsome, so I could possibly see the attraction, but he’s cold.
So cold.
How did I have two children with this man? I feel no love for him, and he certainly doesn’t seem to care about me, not even in the photo.
I remind myself again, though, that he must have felt betrayed.
My eyes drift back to the children once more and then my image. We appear to be well-to-do. I don’t know a lot about menswear, but the jewelry I’m wearing in the picture, not to mention the royal blue suit and the children’s tailored clothing tell me we—or, rather—Don has a lot of money.
My brain starts to come up with theories, but I am not drugged in the photo, or do I look like I’ve been posed unwillingly. That is most definitely me, and I appear to be very happy. That smile is genuine, no doubt about it. And I don’t think it’s photoshopped, either.
Once again, I marvel at the things I know somehow and still the memories remain elusive.
“Are you…an attorney?”
“Yes.”
Oh, shit. So my brain does still have something in there. This knowledge gives me a little peace of mind.
“How did we meet?”
“I was your father’s estate attorney. When he died, he left everything to you.”
“Do I…have any siblings?”
He shakes his head. “You were an only child.”
“What about my mother?”
“She passed away when you were younger.”
My brain is scrambled. “And I tried to commit suicide?”
He nods, his lips pursed. To stop myself from staring, I return my eyes to the picture and examine his face there. I try to imagine myself feeling passionate about this man like I did Joe last night.
I just can’t.
And that makes me feel really bad.