his red notebook. “Thank you for the flowers,” he says. “They’re wonderful.”
I look at my poor-excuse-of-a-bouquet of tulips next to the monstrosities — from very rich people I gather. Rich people have rich friends. My measly bouquet pales in comparison, and I realize he’s being polite.
He studies me curiously. “Bridget hasn’t told me much, I’m afraid,” he says. “I’m afraid my memory…”
“I understand,” I tell him, sitting up straighter. This feels so odd, like I’m speaking to a complete stranger and I remember him. I can only imagine what he must be feeling.
He sits up a little taller, looking pained. “I’m sorry, I forget your—”
“It’s Mirella,” I remind him. “Mirella Keates.”
He may as well have just punched me in the heart. He doesn’t know me anymore. He has no clue that I collect brooches, that I love red-velvet cupcakes, that my toes are ticklish, that I love being kissed softly on the lobe of my ear.
I’m a stranger.
“Yes, are you a new friend of Bridget’s?”
I look up at Bridget who fixes me, her expression serious. Now I understand what she had been trying to tell me. “Uh…yes. The four of us…you and Bridget, and my husband and I met at a restaurant, about a year and a half ago.”
He smiles. “We’re good friends then?”
I look up at Bridget, and then again at Weston. There’s a little glimmer in his eyes. It’s nowhere what it was that night we met, but perhaps I could make him fall in love with me again. But perhaps not. He seems different somehow. And regardless, I would never ever want to do that. This is what I’ve dreamed of…an escape, a do-over, a chance to go back in time.
“We were never really too close,” I lie. “But my heart was set on coming to visit and making sure you were okay. What a horrible accident you were in.”
My words seem foreign, as if they’re not coming from my mouth. There’s a stranger in me speaking. A very polite stranger.
“Well,” he says. “The doctors tell me I’m recovering quite nicely.” He smiles again. He’s all bruised up and not so stylish in his hospital gown, but he’s as striking as ever. I notice the silver chain tucked into his collar and I wonder if an olive tree sits on his heart.
“Well, thank you so much for coming,” he says again.
I look down at my purse and dig into it for Claire’s picture. My hand trembles slightly as I hand him the folded piece of paper. “Here’s a drawing my daughter Claire made for you.”
He unfolds it gently and smiles as he studies it for the longest time, taking in all the details. “I assume we’re friends? Your daughter and I?”
I smile. “Yes, she’s very fond of you. You gave her a rather giant giraffe once.”
He laughs. “Oh, that explains the giraffe in the drawing. I was wondering. Thank her on my behalf, please. This is great.”
I look up at Bridget who is smiling too. “Yes, I will.”
He’s still looking down at the picture. “That’s you right there,” he says. “I recognize the smile.”
I smile proudly. No sense in hiding my smile — a little birdie once told me he loved it. “Yes.”
And after a beat, I ask him something I’m just dying to know. “So what is your last memory, Weston?”
He looks up from the picture with a quizzical expression. “It’s the strangest thing. My last vivid memory was my daughter Lizzie’s fourth birthday. It was Cinderella themed.”
That was so long ago. Five years ago. I can’t help but wonder why that memory?
“Bridget had gone all out. There was a live Cinderella, blue and white balloons everywhere, and a giant three-tiered cake. All our dearest friends were there. Lizzie was happy as a clam.”
And then, it hits me like a lightning bolt. It was before…it was before Jonathan was ever conceived.
“That’s a very nice last memory to have,” I finally manage.
A grin stretches across his face and it’s a genuine smile, a happy smile. I’ve rarely seen it before. “But it was quite a shock to see my children all grown up.”
“I’ve missed so many memories,” he tells me, and his smile fades a little. “They were only four and six, and now…” he says, wide-eyed. “They’re nine and eleven.”
I shoot him a thin smile, not sure what to add.
“I’ve missed so much,” he tells me, gazing down at his red notebook. “And it feels so strange not remembering. Like I’m in a dream-like state,” he