The Memory of All That - Nancy Smith Gibson Page 0,1

an accident and I’m in shock. She tried to recall anything that happened before she felt the moisture on her face, but nothing came to her. The past before that moment was a blank.

Then another thought struck her so violently that she wrapped her arms around a small tree in order to remain standing. Not only do I not know where I am, I don’t know who I am. I don’t even know my name. She tightened her hold on the support. What can I do? I can’t just stand here in the cold rain. Where can I go?

Panic washed over her like an ocean wave, threatening to pull her under. She had nothing to hold to, no memories, no facts, nothing beyond what was in the here and now, but she had no idea where “here and now” was.

Across the street, a woman with her arms full of packages met a policeman walking the opposite direction. They stopped and chatted, and she thought, Maybe I should go say something to that policeman. Tell him I’m lost. Tell him I don’t know who I am. Ask for his help. But what could he do? Take me to a hospital? Take me to jail? Put my picture in the newspaper and ask if anyone knows me? Any of that would be so embarrassing. And my memory will come back any second now . . . any second.

Before she could act, the pair separated and went different ways.

Just as well, she thought as she started toward where they had stood. I would probably end up in a psychiatric ward somewhere. And I’m not crazy. I know I’m not. I just can’t remember who I am.

When she reached the sidewalk, an idea occurred to her, and she stopped to study the clothing she was wearing. Brown leather boots extended to just below her knees, and she was enfolded in a brown wool coat with a muted orange plaid pattern. It was fastened with large brown buttons and held closed with a belt of the same fabric.

Why am I wearing this awful coat? As quickly as that notion had come to her came another. How do I know I don’t like a brown and orange coat? It is ridiculous to know what clothes I don’t like and not know anything else.

There was a purse strap on her arm. Now I’ll find some answers. There’s sure to be a driver’s license or credit card or something else with my name and address on it in this handbag. All she found in the bag was some loose change, a tissue, and a small mirror.

At least I can see what I look like, she thought. Raising the mirror to her face, she saw a young woman—perhaps in her late twenties. She was attractive, with coffee-colored eyes. Dark brown hair curled out from beneath the ugliest scarf she had ever seen.

What is it with these clothes? she thought. How come I’m wearing stuff I don’t like?

She put the mirror back in the purse and snapped the old-fashioned clasp. Continuing along the sidewalk, she passed several shops and then paused in front of a café.

If I had enough money I could go inside and get a cup of coffee.

She only found forty-one cents in the purse, not enough for coffee, and she couldn’t imagine going in the café and asking if anyone in there knew who she was. She stuck her hands in the coat pockets and felt the rustle of paper. Eagerly, she pulled it from her pocket and smoothed it between her fingers. “Nicole’s Fashions” was written across the top. It was a receipt for a dress shop. It also read, “Two dresses. $178. Deliver to 1532 Springhill Drive.”

Finally! This must be where I live. 1532 Springhill Drive. How do I find it?

Another puzzle. She walked aimlessly past another couple of stores and glanced at the sign marking an intersection. Springhill Drive.

OK. So I’ll walk home. When I get to that address, it will be home, and I’ll remember it.

She crossed the thoroughfare and started walking up Springhill Drive.

Maybe I’ve had the flu. Yes, I think that’s it. I’ve had the flu and I’ve been really, really sick. I remember that! That’s what’s happened. That’s why I don’t remember anything else. When I see my house, it’ll all come back.

She walked for blocks. It was late afternoon, and though it was cloudy and overcast, she could tell it was growing later. Lights were on in the modest