A task that kept him at the office late. That took up many of his conversations with everyone who would listen.

  She left just before Liza did. Just before the accident. Just before the project was put on an indefinite delay.

  Then suddenly, none of the work mattered. Everything was being reimagined, and it didn’t really matter that no one had heard from Vanessa and Nick hadn’t found a replacement for her because the character was different. But no one knew how. The story was still being told, and until it was fully out of Boss’s mind, they couldn’t move forward.

  Outside of Boss’s thoughts, the LB Project lay dormant for weeks. They waded through red tape and made concessions just to salvage what they could. Other smaller projects grew, but it was always in the back of the team’s awareness that any second, they’d be right back where they had been. Immersed in a story that edged too close to reality while still being impossibly far from the truth. An unexplainable mix of loyalty and morbid curiosity kept the team there.

  They were all ready for it to be over.

  Chapter Five

  Mary

  I finally have the living room decorated except for the tree. It looks even emptier now that the mantle is glistening with silver picture frames and bells tucked in among greenery, and each place where the windows should be has a wreath. These windows are different from the one in the kitchen. Right after the accident, when roaming through my own home felt like discovering each room and the details inside them for the first time, I asked Charles about them. He was as tender and supportive as he could be. He tried so hard to understand what I was going through. But how do you explain to someone what it's like to open your eyes, not remembering when you closed them? To wake up in a life you know is yours, but feels as strange and uncomfortable as wearing someone else's clothes?

  It made my mouth tingle and ache to call him Charles in those first weeks. It was like my lips didn't know how to form the sound, and my throat tried to hold it back. I forced it through because I knew I had to. Eventually, it would feel right. Eventually, I would know him again. I would know the man who was so understanding of the crippling fears that define me that he replaced most of the windows in our home with rippling glass. Instead of smooth sheets like water that let you easily look through and see the world beyond the walls, these panes protect me. They let in just enough light to bolster the bulbs in the twin brass lamps sitting on end tables on either side of the couch. But the world beyond it is hazy and uncertain.

  I can't be afraid of what I can't see. At least that's what Charles tells me. But the kitchen window, a large expanse that takes up the entire space above the sink, is different. The only one on this side of the house, it didn't get the wavy glass to give me light on my face when I wash the dishes.

  "This is the window that bothered you the most when we first moved in," he told me, when I touched my fingertips to the piece of wood set into place in front of the window.

  "Why?" I asked. "I don't understand why this window would be any different than any of the others in the house."

  "It looks out over a lake," Charles told me. "It's just a small lake, a pond really. For many of the families who live in this neighborhood, it's one of the most appealing features. They moved here with images of summer picnics and evening walks. But for you... I can still see the look on your face when I brought you into this kitchen, and you saw that window. You looked out at the water beyond, and the neighbors gathered there, and you were so afraid."

  "What was I afraid of?"

  It felt so odd asking questions like that. It still does. Every day when I have to ask him something about me, to try to discover myself in his mind, I feel out of touch.

  "When you were just a little girl, you almost drowned at a summer picnic with your family. Your parents were busy with your brother, and you wandered to the edge of a lake without anyone noticing you were there."

  He hesitated then. The look in his eyes told me he didn't want to continue. The rest of the story was too much for me, and he didn’t want to put it in my mind if I’d finally been freed from it. At the same time, he didn’t want to have to think about it, either. But I insisted. Him holding on to pieces of me I’d lost was unfair and stood directly in the way of me knowing myself again. I knew he wanted me back as much as I wanted myself. In those earliest days and weeks, I wasn't even his wife. Everything about me he'd fallen in love with was gone, and he had to carry on with the hope I still existed somewhere deep within myself.

  Those little bits and pieces became currency. He gives me a few and in return, I use them to close the distance between my past and who I am now. I prepare his favorite meals and keep the house. Charles tells me stories of when we were courting and details about the family who lives too far away to have come to see me after my accident. I wear the dresses he likes and dance with him to the radio at night. Charles sings to me in his smooth, warm voice and reminds me of all the other times I've heard these songs.

  But the story of the kitchen window had a higher cost. He wouldn’t offer it to me easily. I spent days cajoling it out of him, trying to convince him those details were meant to be shared with me. They were already there, somewhere. Everything that happened to me before the accident was there. It was just locked behind the walls my brain built that day. The doctors had already told us it was possible to reclaim those years of my life. Sharing stories and reminding me of even the smallest details could make my memories break loose again. This could be the one. That story could be what I needed to make the walls come down and be who I was before.

  It finally worked.

  Sometimes I wish it hadn’t.

  “That day, when you were at the lake with your family, it was very crowded. You walked to the edge of the water just to put your toes in. Your mother told me you always loved the water, but she never wanted to let you in too far because she was afraid you would get hurt. She always kept you close and made sure someone was with you if you wanted to go in. That day they didn’t pay attention when you asked to go play in the water, and so you went on your own. You had waded out a few feet when an animal in the water frightened a crowd of swimmers. They ran back up onto the beach, not noticing you were there. It forced you down into the water, and several people stepped on you. You were pushed out into the lake and dragged down by the animal.”

  “What kind of animal?”

  “They never found out. When your family noticed you were missing and saw the thrashing in the water, your father went in after you. He didn’t see the animal, but he said it could only be a very large fish or maybe an alligator. When he finally brought you to the surface, you had been bitten severely and were barely alive. You spent several weeks in the hospital recovering. Though your body recovered, your mind never truly did. That was when your agoraphobia started. You didn’t want to leave the house. You didn’t trust groups.”

  “How did we meet?”

  My heart pounded harder with every one of his words. I kept my eyes locked on my husband, waiting for the movement of his lips and the flicker of his eyes to match something in my mind.

  “Your parents insisted you would get better. They brought you out of the house as much as possible and encouraged you to do as many things as you could. We met when our families picnicked in the same place.”

  I nodded, trying to taste the summer-warm watermelon or feel the blanket beneath me when I looked into his eyes for the first time.

  “You sealed the kitchen window because of the lake? Because I didn’t like to see the people?”

  Charles drew in a breath. It was one of the first things I’d learned about him. He took deep breaths to fill in space he didn’t want to fill with words. It’s like he thought if he could take enough time to draw it in that I’d forget what I’d asked him. Maybe he thought he was drawing the thoughts out of me and locking them into himself to hold with all the other fragments of me. It didn’t deter me. I wanted to know. I needed to.

  “No,” he finally told me, resigned that I wasn’t going to leave it alone. “When we first moved into this house, the kitchen window was like the rest of them. I had the glass replaced just like your father had in your room at home. You said it made you more comfortable. It stayed that way until six months ago.”

  “Six months ago?”

  It twisted my already muddled mind.

  “The summer has always been the favorite time for families to go to the lake. It was challenging for you, but you’d been getting stronger and were determined to get past your fear. We haven’t had any children yet, and you wanted to get through these difficulties before you became a mother. I was so proud of you.” His eyes got misty. “Every day you’d stand at the window and watch as much as you could and listen to the sound of the families for as long as you could. In the two weeks before, you’d been able to stand there for an hour. Then one afternoon, you heard screaming. You called to me. I ran in as fast as I could, but it was too late.”

  Bright white light flashed behind my eyes and the back of my throat burned with the remembered smell of anesthetic and medication.

  “The accident.”

  I thought I said it out loud, but I realized it came from between my lips as a whisper barely louder than a breath.

  Charles nodded.

  “A gang of teenagers had come to the lake for some mischief. They frightened away the children and were wreaking havoc. You heard them, but you didn’t see the rock they threw. It broke through the glass and hit your head. When I came home from being with you in the hospital, I couldn’t bear to look at it or to repair the broken glass. I just sealed it up.”

  I remember the way those words felt sinking into me and moving through me like boiling water. They coiled in my stomach and burrowed in the back of my mind. They made the tiny hairs along the back of my neck stand up and the palms of my hands sweat.

  It wasn’t out of fear or trauma. Not a single word of the story sounded familiar.

  They still don’t, even now, as I walk into the kitchen and sit at the pink Formica table in front of a stack of Christmas cards. The list of recipients Charles gave me is a scatter of letters and numbers without meaning. I see no faces in the names, no images of homes, or rooms or front walkways in the addresses. But I carefully copy each to the front of an envelope and select a card from the stack. The paper feels as thick and dry as the thoughts I’m scouring for anything that’s spontaneous and tangible. I unfold the crease and write inside like I know who will read them, like they will be able to see my face and sense my sincerity when they look at the words.

  Christmas 1955

  Jim and Sally,

  Wishing you and yours a Merry Christmas and Happy New Year.

  Charles and Mary

  Christmas 1955

  Valerie,

  Season’s Greetings. Have a joyous holiday.

  Charles and Mary

  Christmas 1955

  David and family,

  May the warmth of the season be with you during the holidays and the new year bring you…

  My pen stops. Black ink pools at the metal tip and filters out through the fibers of the paper like the spindly legs of an insect. What do I want the new year to bring them? I don’t know what they might need, or what this year lacked for them. I don’t even know what ‘family’ means. A husband, wife, and children? A single father? Several generations under one roof?

  …what you hope for.

  Charles and Mary

  I reach for another card, and an image flashes in front of my eyes. A surge of emotion fills me, and the room suddenly feels empty. It shouldn’t just be me here. I shouldn’t be sitting at this table by myself filling out these cards. There’s someone missing.

  Squeezing my eyes closed, I concentrate for a few seconds only on the way my breath feels coming in and out of my body and wait for the tiny pinpricks of colored light to stop bursting behind my eyes. Then I focus on the feeling, on the image I’d imagined only for a brief second. I try to bring it back so I can solidify it and know what’s there.

  A woman sitting across from me. Laughing, her hair bouncing over her shoulders as she tosses her head back and gives in. A pink sweater with sparkling sequins in the form of snowflakes in a curve from her shoulders down over her chest. Her bright eyes glitter when she looks at me, blue like ice, but holding all the warmth I should feel when writing these cards. A narrow silver band on one finger stands out against the slight golden tint of her skin when she reaches for another card to write.

  I blink, and she’s gone. I close my eyes tightly and hope the bright bursts of color will bring her back. They don’t.

  I’m left with nothing but Nat King Cole’s voice leaving a trail along my skin and cool water on my fingertips as I touch a stamp to the sponge and put it in place.

  Chapter Six

  LB Project – Pg. 67

  “Behind Blue Eyes”

  OPEN FIELD, TALL GRASS, A FEW WEEDS AND WILDFLOWERS – TWILIGHT

  VIOLET walks into view. She appears determined, like she knows exactly where she is going and what she’s doing. She pauses for a few seconds, looking around, then continues through the field.

  Violet: (V.O.)

  People never really forget. The memories are there; they just can’t find them.

  But no matter what’s lost, if you look long enough, you’ll find it.

  Camera sweeps down to VIOLET’s hand. She’s holding something blue, but the dim light makes it hard to identify. POV changes to show what VIOLET is seeing. It’s getting darker, and the grass fades into the blackness ahead. The outline of trees is visible against the dark blue sky.

  Female Voice: (whispered)

  “I’m still here. Still waiting.”

  Charles

  The house smelled like chicken and popcorn when Charles stepped through the second front door that night. Outside, the light had faded to almost nothing, and the rosebushes looked skeletal against the white fence behind them. He remembered them in the spring when the flowers looked brighter, and the longer stretches of light warmed the manicured mulch beneath them. They looked sparser than he thought they would. Next year he would fill in with more bushes. White and light pink blooms. By then, Mary might be ready to enjoy them.

  But not until after the new bushes went in.

  “Darling?” he called out, remembering how much he startled her when he came home for lunch. “Where are you?”

  “In the living room,” Mary answered.

  He hung his coat and hat and brought his briefcase down the hallway to this study. Tucking it away next to his desk, he locked the door behind him and went to greet his wife. She looked up from where she was perched on the couch beside a large bowl of popcorn. Another bowl on the other side of her brimmed with cranberries. The needle in her hand glinted in the flashing light coming from the television, where a cartoon holiday special filled the room with music. He knew she didn’t care what was happening in the show. She just wanted the sound.

  “Isn’t this a lovely picture,” he said as he paused in the doorway. She looked up at him and gave a modest smile. “It could be a Christmas card.”

  He sat down beside her and touched his lips to her cheek. She leaned slightly into the kiss. He gave her another, and she turned her mouth, so he caught the corner of her lips. One day he’d be greeted with a drink missing one sip and the taste of olives on her lips like before. The perfect, taste-tested drink. The perfect kiss for him to taste. It would come back. Maybe after she saw the roses. He could wait. He already had.

  Mary held up the strand of popcorn and cranberries she had created.

  “Almost finished,” she said. “We can add it to the tree.”

  Charles smiled wider.

  “Just the touch it needs.”

  Her long fingers slipped another piece of popcorn into place, then nestled a plump red berry against it. She looked up at him.

  “I wrote the cards,” she said.

  “Good. I’ll take them with me and put them in the mail tomorrow. They should arrive just in time for Christmas.”

  Mary nodded.

  “While I was writing them, I had another vision.”

  His face dropped, and worry clenched his stomach.

  “What happened, Darling? Are you alright?”

  He moved closer to her across the cushions, but she didn’t tremble or flinch.

  “I’m fine. It wasn’t frightening. It was… a woman.”

  “A woman?”

  “It was like I could see her sitting at the table with me. It… it felt like she should be there writing the Christmas cards with me.”

  “Who was it?” Charles asked.

  Mary shook her head, and some of the tightness loosened in his throat.

  “I don’t know,” she admitted. “She seemed so familiar, but I couldn’t place her.” Her shoulders dropped with a heavy sigh. “I wanted so much for it to be a memory.”

  “What did she look like?”

  “Pretty. Thick blonde hair. She was wearing a pink sweater with snowflakes.”

  Charles smiled.

  “That’s your sister,” he said. “Vivian.”

  “My sister?” Mary asked.

  Charles nodded enthusiastically.

  “Yes. She is older than you, and the two of you used to love preparing for Christmas together.” He leaned in for a kiss against her temple and then stood. “It’s wonderful that you remember her.”

  “But I didn’t. I could just see her in my mind.”

  “That’s a start. Even the littlest glimpses are a step in the right direction. You’ll have to be sure to tell the doctor.”