“What is all this?” I ask, reaching for the shoebox first.
He places his hand over mine, preventing me from exploring any of this on my own just yet.
“Your name,” he says, drawing in a long breath, “is Kate Emberlin.”
I squint at him. “No. Kate Emberlin is your wife.”
The spot beneath his left cheekbone divots. “You are my wife.”
I’m at an extraordinary loss for words, racking my brain for any type of memory involving a wedding, vows, a kiss, a consummating night together.
But I get nothing.
The kiss we shared the other night felt as brand-new and unfamiliar as it should have, as my mind recalls no other with him. I know my memory has been shoddy at best lately, but I think I’d remember if I were married, in love, if I took vows with another person.
“I know,” he begins to say. “I know this is going to sound impossible. I know this isn’t going to make sense. But I have it all here. We’re going to sit here together. We’re going to go over everything. And we’re going to find a way to fix this. Again.”
Again?
“Kate, you have what’s called dissociative identity disorder.” He takes a paper from the top of the stack and slides it my way.
Examining the document, I find a marriage license for a Kate Conway and Niall Emberlin. According to this, we’ve been married three years next month.
How can someone erase over three years of their life?
“This doesn’t tell me anything,” I say.
He lifts a finger before removing the lid from the top of the shoebox. A second later, he produces a driver’s license.
The woman in the photo is undeniably me.
The name next to the photo is Kate Emberlin.
Next he digs out a birth certificate. The form states that I was born April 3, that my parents were Mark and Tricia Conway of Pleasant Hill, Iowa.
The date rings no bell.
As far as I’m concerned, Mark and Tricia are complete strangers, and I was born October 2.
“How do I know these aren’t fakes?” I ask. Niall has never given me a reason to distrust him, but given the absurdity of this claim, I have to ask every question, examine this with skepticism.
His shoulders sag as he pinches the bridge of his nose. When he glances across the table at me again, he looks like a man on the verge of losing all hope.
“Here.” He hands me a manila envelope. “All of your medical records are in there. I want you to read everything. Every last page.”
I unwind the cord on the back, opening the envelope and pouring out a thick stack of paperwork. My heart sinks when I read the name along the top of the first form.
Montblanc Psychiatric Hospital.
The name is as foreign to me as everything else in my presence, but I oblige and begin foraging through the documents, all of which are psychiatric inpatient medical records for a Kate Emberlin.
Niall’s knee bounces off and on as I read, and his hands form a peak that covers the center of his face.
The clock in the hall ticks.
Tension settles between us, thick and ripe.
I start with the initial evaluation, a five-page typed document signed by a psychiatrist by the name of J. B. Corcoran.
Patient presents today as a twenty-seven-year-old female of Caucasian descent. She was referred by her family physician for an evaluation due to concerns of hallucinations and unstable emotional and cognitive status as reported by her husband, Niall . . .
Patient believes her name to be Brienne Dougray, whom her husband reports is a former personal assistant with whom she developed an intense fixation during a brief period of time in the last year . . .
Patient has no history of previous issues with identity disorders, and patient’s husband reports no known drug or alcohol abuse . . .
Patient was arrested for stalking; however, the victim agreed to drop charges in lieu of a voluntary committal to Montblanc Psychiatric Hospital . . .
I cup my hand over my mouth, scanning through the remainder of the documents. But I might as well be reading about a stranger.
I don’t know this woman, this Kate Emberlin.
I have no recollection of stalking anyone, of obsessing over an employee, of voluntarily committing myself to an inpatient psychiatric center.
My lower lip trembles, and Niall places his hand on mine.
“I don’t understand,” I say. “I grew up in this house, Niall. As Brienne. My grandparents were the Dougrays. I remember them. I remember my childhood. And my friends. I remember the last time I spoke to each of them. I remember our girls’ trips . . .”
He squeezes my hand to quiet me. “False memories.”
I refuse to believe that something so real could be a false memory.
“It’s all there, in your records,” he adds.
“I remember my grandmother’s perfume,” I say. “And the other night? At Baru 46? I saw one of my old friends, and she was clearly uncomfortable when she saw me. If I remember her and she remembers me . . . how is that a false memory?”
“Which friend?”
“Amber,” I say.
“I’ve never heard of that friend before.” His admission is delivered with tenderness, but it doesn’t make it sting any less. “When you were Brienne the last time, you used to harass her friends. They almost got restraining orders against you until Brienne intervened. You’re really quite lucky in that aspect.”
If what he’s saying is true, it might make sense that none of them will speak to me anymore—I was nothing more to them than a crazy woman trying to infiltrate their group.
I rifle through the medical records, searching for the section on false memories. Sure enough, it’s all outlined in great detail.
“I know you’re scared, Kate.” His voice attempts to soothe, failing. And despite the fact that he’s looking straight at me, it feels like he’s speaking to someone who isn’t here. “I know this is a lot to process. And I know you must have a million questions. But I’m here for you. We’re going to get through this. I’m not going to leave your side. We’ll fix this. Together.”
Looking at him through damp lashes, I try to form some semblance of a sentence, but it’s a near impossible task.
I don’t want to believe any of this.
But Niall wouldn’t lie. He’s only ever had my best interests at heart. He’s proven that time and again.
“I love you,” he says, leaning in to press a hard if not desperate kiss against my mouth.
I don’t kiss him back. I’m too numb. Too shell-shocked. Too baked in unadulterated disbelief that runs so deep it becomes me.
How can I be Kate when I remember every last detail of Brienne’s life? Birthday parties. Vacations. Her first kiss with the red-haired boy across the street. An entire lifetime of vivid memories. Eyes closed, I think of my grandparents who raised me, the ones who left me this enormous house and a heart full of memories. I can still smell my grandmother’s lilac perfume if I try hard enough. I can still hear my grandfather’s voice, warm yet perpetually hoarse from his love affair with cigars.
“I’m not Kate,” I manage to say, my voice a bare whisper that floats between us.
Niall leans away. His fist clenches against the tabletop, and he scoots back in his chair, the feet grinding against the wood below. He moves to the window, seemingly lost in thought for a moment, and then he paces the room.