Until now.

  My fingers want to pull away at the paper. I want to force the tear open and see the door. And at the same time, I don’t. Nothing can make this go away. Something has shifted. I can't pretend I don't see this. But I can also stop myself from going any farther. Taking a step back out of the closet doesn't feel right. The force of the room behind me and the waiting, anticipating feeling that hangs over it stops me. It holds me in place in the doorway, staring at the torn wallpaper.

  Before I can even decide if I'll look any further, a bell chiming through the house stops me. My heart leaps up into my throat, and I can't force my breath out for a few seconds before I realize it's the doorbell. The doctor must have gotten here. I can't imagine how long I've been standing in the guest room, staring into the closet and wondering what might be behind a door someone – my husband – covered with wallpaper.

  Smoothing my hair back into place, I close the closet door and rush out of the bedroom. I open the front door and see a tall, gray-haired man standing in the tunnel-like hallway between the house and the second front door. He smiles at me.

  “Mrs. Whitman?”

  I nod.

  “Yes.”

  “My name is Dr. Baker. Your husband told me about the doors and hid a key for me outside. I hope that's alright with you.”

  I swallow deeply, forcing the feeling of the closet and the dip in the wallpaper down.

  "Of course," I say. "Please, come in."

  The doctor steps inside. I reach for his coat and hat. They don’t feel cold against my hands, and I wonder how long he stood in the hallway before ringing the doorbell. My cheeks burn. I know the construction of the house is bizarre and like nothing he’s ever seen. This man is the type who has seen far more than I ever have and has helped people in many ways. He’s likely never seen something like this, and I feel like he’s already forming thoughts about me.

  He looks around and takes a subtle sniff. There’s no coffee in the air. But there is the sweetness of sugar cookies. I usher him into the living room and rush to the kitchen to start the coffee. Coarse sugar falls like ice over the cookies, and I stack them high on a plate etched with a Christmas tree. Dr. Baker waits until I’ve settled the tray into place on the table in front of him, and then gestures to the chair where Charles sits to read the newspaper.

  “Please,” he says. “Sit.”

  There's something particularly disconcerting about being invited to sit down in your own living room. It immediately makes me feel like the doctor knows more about me than I realize. More about me than I do. I perch at the very edge of the seat cushion, crossing my ankles beneath the chair and smoothing my skirt down. The doctor takes his time pouring a cup of coffee and keeps his eyes trained on me as a long sip flows down his throat and readies him for our conversation.

  Maybe he's trying to figure out something else about me. He's watching my reaction, but I don't know what it's supposed to tell him. Finally, he sets the half-empty mug on the table and takes a small notebook and pen from the pocket inside his suit jacket.

  “May I call you Mary?” he asks.

  “Yes,” I tell him.

  He jots something down.

  “Tell me about yourself.”

  I almost laugh, but it feels inappropriate.

  “I don't know what to tell you.”

  He gives me an empathetic smile.

  “Charles tells me you've been having visions,” he leads. “Why don't you tell me about that?”

  “They come to me during the day,” I start. “I never know when or what I'll be doing. It can be anything and they just happen.”

  “What just happens?” he asks.

  “I'll see something, but I'm not really seeing it. It flashes in my mind and is almost real. Just not fully. Sometimes it's me running.”

  “Running from what?”

  I shake my head.

  “I don't know. I never know. There's something or someone chasing me, and I'm terrified. All I can think about is trying to get away.”

  “Do you?” he asks.

  “The vision always stops.” I shake my head. “I don't even know if I should be calling it a vision. That sounds so strange.”

  “What else would you call it?”

  “I would hope it's a memory,” I tell him.

  His eyebrows raise questioningly.

  “You hope you have a memory of running for your life from someone?”

  The condescending tone in his voice is slick, and I wish he wasn't here.

  “I hope I have a memory of anything,” I insist.

  His hand stops scribbling on his notebook, and gray eyes look into mine.

  “What else? What else do you see?”

  “A woman,” I tell him. “It felt like she should be there while I was filling out Christmas cards to send. Charles told me I was remembering my sister, but...”

  “But?”

  “I still couldn't remember her. Charles had never mentioned a sister to me before, and it sounded so out of place when he said it. I just don't understand. If that was my sister and I knew her enough to remember her sitting with me while I sent Christmas cards, shouldn't I remember?”

  “Do you remember your husband?”

  The question clenches my heart and my stomach, and I feel my spine stretch and harden like steel.

  “No,” I finally whisper.

  “Of everyone in your life, your husband is closest to you. He is closer than your parents or your siblings. He shares your life, is one flesh with you.”

  My face burns. My eyes drop to my lap, and I can see my legs shaking beneath my crinoline and skirt.

  “Yes,” I murmur.

  “But it doesn't bother you that you don't remember him?”

  My eyes snap up to his.

  “Of course, it bothers me. Every day. I try as hard as I can to remember my life before the accident, to remember him. He has taken such good care of me and continues to love me every day. He hasn't faltered even once. I don't even want to tell him about my dreams or my visions because I feel like I'm burdening him. He's so busy and works so hard. He shouldn't have to deal with me being this way, too.”

  “What do you remember about your childhood?”

  Everything inside me feels raw and unsteady from the bitterness that rolled out of me. His indifference and ability to smooth over it and move on only makes it worse. I don't want him here. I don't want to keep talking. But I know I have to. Charles has passed the currency of who I am and what is behind me on to this doctor. Of all of them who have worked with me, all the men in their white coats and concerned stares, maybe this will be the one who knows how to crack down the walls that hold me in.

  “Nothing,” I tell him.

  “Nothing?”

  He's expecting something. It's clear in his voice and the way he holds himself. It's clear in the tilt of the pen, with ink shivering on the piece of paper and waiting to form whatever he is recording. Just like I do with Charles, I offer him a little of what he wants. I repeat stories my husband has told me. I try to put myself into it and make the words sound like my own.

  “How about your husband? Your marriage? Are there pictures you can show me?”

  I take the silver frames from the mantle and offer them over, then pull an album from beneath the coffee table. Every page of this album has my fingerprints. Charles and I have gone over them what feels like a thousand times before. I tell the doctor the same things he told me. This is why we were recording. Our wedding. His cousins. The dog I had as a child.

  “What do you feel when you look at these pictures and tell those stories?” he asks.

  I draw in a breath and let it out slowly. Just like Charles.

  “Like I'm trying to live someone else's life.”

  "When did you start feeling like that?"

  "When I woke up."

  Chapter Nine

  LB Project – Pg. 80

  “Behind Blue Eyes”

  WATER. BRIGHT DAYLIGHT.

  View is half-water, half-daylight. Camera moves down to full water, then back up to show sunlight. Sound of BENJAMIN breathing starts faint, almost covered by the sound of the water moving, then gets louder until it is audible. Sudden gasp as camera drops sharply into the water.

  Indistinct Voice: (whispers)

  “It had to be you.”

  VIOLET

  (V.O.)

  “It was always her.”

  FADE OUT.

  Charles

  Charles hated the way the small boutique smelled. It was a combination of spicy potpourri and the heavy perfume born by the woman who owned the shop. Some of the smell seeped out around the door, so he started breathing it in before he even stepped inside. But this is the only place he could find exactly what he needed. The only place that met his standards. Everything had to be perfect, and this was the only place where it was.

  Bells jingled softly overhead when he opened the door. Charles resisted the urge to look up and see if they were silver, trotted out for the holiday season. Angela looked up from the glossy magazine spread open on the front counter. She gave him a smile that didn't quite reach her green eyes. Even from where he stood, he could see the red of her lipstick spreading into the fine lines and cracks around her mouth. Her contrast against the beautiful items that filled her shelves and hung on racks carefully arranged around the shop was a sharp imbalance.

  "Back again, Mr. Whitman?" she asked.

  It was her way of greeting him. Just another chip out of the image she could be. A reminder of why it was never her. It could have been. Years ago. Before Mary. Before anyone. It could have been Angela.

  But lipstick in fine lines and dismissal in her greeting left her here.

  "Good afternoon, Angela."

  "Are you looking for something specific today?"

  One hand flipped the magazine closed, and she moved around the counter toward him. Now that she walked toward him, she smiled like she wanted it to have been her. She'd never know it wouldn't be.

  "I'm planning a holiday party. Mrs. Whitman will need a dress."

  "Anything else?"

  There was a note in her voice, one he'd heard before. It said she didn't want to hear him mention his wife. Out of sight, out of mind. She wanted his attention, even if he wasn't willing to give it to her. Probably because of it.

  "Bring me your best holiday dresses, and I will look around for everything else."

  She gave a terse nod and walked away. Charles waited until Angela had disappeared into the back room before he started browsing through the shop. He picked up a few items and turned them over in his hands before placing them back on the shelf. Others he placed on the counter. He might not find everything he had in mind, but there was still time. It took several minutes for Angela to return with a rack of dresses. She ran her hand along all of them to straighten them on their hangers, then turned to Charles.

  "These just came in. They're different from the ones you saw the last time you were here." She reached for a bright blue sheath. "If she liked the one she wore last Christmas, this might be nice."

  He looked at the dress and imagined Mary in it.

  "I prefer that one," he said, pointing to an emerald green cocktail dress.

  Angela looked at the dress with a hint of disdain but said nothing. She carried the dress over to the counter and added up everything he'd selected.

  "Will I see you again before the holidays?" she asked, sweetness like her thick perfume now dripping from her voice.

  "If there's anything else I need."

  That evening, he carefully unpacked everything from the slim green-tinted paper bags in his workshop. Coming here would keep his work out of Mary’s sight. He didn’t want to ruin the surprise. A bright light above him and another lamp in the corner of the table, he spent hours painstakingly working on creating the perfect Christmas. With the party coming up soon, every detail mattered.

  He spent as long as he could in the workshop before reluctantly pulling himself away. Mary would worry if he was gone too late. As it was, she was already in her nightgown when he walked into the house. She appeared at the end of the hallway, peering around the corner uncertainly.

  “Charles?”

  There was no sleep in her voice, so he kissed her. Held her close.

  "I'm sorry I'm late, Darling. We're trying to set everything in place before the office closes for the holidays. You didn't have to wait up for me.”

  “I couldn't sleep,” she said. “There's a bowl from supper waiting for you in the kitchen.”

  "Thank you. Will you heat it up for me?"

  She nodded, and Charles headed for his study. When his briefcase was tucked away and the door locked, he walked toward the bedroom but paused in the middle of the hallway. Behind him, he could hear Mary in the kitchen, warming up whatever she'd cooked for him. He glanced back over his shoulder and then went into the bedroom to change clothes.

  "How was your session with the doctor this afternoon?" he asked as she settled the bowl of chicken and dumplings in front of him.

  Her hands curled around a cup of steaming tea as she sat across from him and nodded.

  "He was very nice."

  Charles took a bite of supper and gave Mary an encouraging nod.

  "But?"

  "I felt like he already knew about me and just wasn't telling me. Every time I said something, it was like he was testing me."

  "He wasn't testing you, Darling. But he did know about you," Charles said.

  "Why?"

  "Because I told him, of course. When I contacted him and asked if he would come to help you, I thought it was important to make him understand the extent of the situation. He has worked with many patients before, but never my wife."

  She smiled and glanced down, color touching her cheeks. That shyness was one of the reasons he stayed so devoted to her. It was sweet and frothy, delicate and innocent. Exactly what he wanted when he chose her.

  "What does he know?"

  "As much as I thought I needed to tell him. I told him about these nightmares of yours, and the images that are frightening you so much. He wanted to know how extensive your memory loss was after the accident and how much you had regained."

  "He asked if I remember being a child," Mary said. "I don't."

  "I know. But Dr. Baker reassured me that is very normal. Memory loss as profound as yours takes time to resolve. You're more likely to remember little bits from more recent years first, and then hopefully, your deeper memories will return."

  Mary shifted uncomfortably.

  "If you had already spoken to him and he knew all those things, why did he ask me?" she asked.

  "He had heard my perspective, but he needed to hear it from you. He'll be coming by to work with you more often, and he needs to know how open you will be with him."

  "Do I have something to hide?"

  Charles didn't like the way the question settled into the bowl in front of him, and he pushed it away, dropping his spoon through the surface to dissipate it.

  "You are doing something very brave, Mary. It isn't easy to talk about such personal things with a man who isn't your husband."

  The delightful color crept into her hairline and down along the sides of her neck.

  "And you are alright with it?" she asked.

  Charles reached across the table and took her hands in his. They were warm from the tea and soft from the thick cream she rubbed into them every night. It smelled like roses.

  "If it will bring you back to me, wholly and completely, I will be happy with whatever it takes." The faint shimmer of tears made her expression hazy, and he squeezed her hands. "Let's talk about something more exciting. Are you almost ready for the party?"

  "What are you finishing up at work?" she asked.

  His smile faltered, but he forced it to stay in place.

  "Work?" he asked. "Why are you suddenly interested in my work?"

  "You've been so late coming home," she said.

  "Darling, you can't think there's someone else."

  He wondered what images had been filling her mind when he was gone. Pink sweaters with snowflakes. Grass beneath her feet. The fear of water rising up over her eyes.

  Mary shook her head.

  "No. I only meant you have been working so hard and staying late so often. It must be interesting."

  Charles brushed his fingertips along the curve of her face. With the layer of makeup gone for the night, her skin felt smooth and damp. His thumb traveled over to her lips and felt hot breath quicken from between them.

  "It would be too intense for you," he murmured.

  "It isn't real," she said.

  The words made her lips move across his skin before she moved her face away.

  "It was," he told her. "It happened a long time ago."

  "What did?"

  "Not tonight. I want only good dreams in your beautiful little head tonight."

  Chapter Ten

  Nick

  The entire house sparkled.

  If there was one thing Liza never quite got a hold of, it was subtlety in Christmas decorating. Every year she vowed to make it the year she acted like an adult and made the house beautiful for the holidays. By the beginning of November, she would have chosen a theme and started coming up with grand schemes for how it would flow seamlessly from room to room and make their home look elegant and sophisticated. By Thanksgiving, her excitement would translate to buying boxes of ornaments and decorations. Halfway through December, rolls of wrapping paper that matched the tree and harkened back to the details throughout the home would line up like little soldiers along the wall.