MirrorWorld

17.

Allenby, head dipped toward the kitchen table, appears to be in the midst of an argument with herself. She whispers occasionally. Shakes her head. Subtly gestures. It’s like my question, which I think is a fairly simple one, has triggered some kind of mental glitch.

She suddenly takes a deep breath, shakes her hands through her gray Muppet hair, and groans. “Fine. If that’s what it takes. That’s the road we’ll go down first.”

“Are you talking to me now?” I ask.

“No. Yes. Ugh!” She pauses to collect herself. Folds her hands on the table. Puts on a smile and looks me in the eyes. “Where did you hear that name?”

“The woman,” I say. “Shiloh.”

“You spoke to her?” I didn’t think Allenby was capable of looking more stunned, but her face is quite pliable. “And she spoke to you? What did she say?”

I decide to skip her accusations about me being a liar and keep this conversation on track. “She told me to find Simon.”

Allenby’s expression freezes. “Find… him?”

I nod. “Is he someone important?”

“He was,” she says.

“Was?”

Allenby crumples in on herself. She folds her arms on the table and puts her fluffy head down. When she lifts her head again, she’s got tears in her eyes. “This isn’t going to be easy for either of us.”

I knew Allenby before I lost my memory. There’s no doubt of that now, unless she’s lying, but I’m not getting that vibe. She seems truly upset. Not upset… disturbed. “We were friends?”

Allenby thumps her head against her arms three times and then sits back up. “More than friends.”

This makes me flinch. “We weren’t…?”

Allenby laughs hard, releasing some of her pent-up tension. “Heavens, no!” After a moment of silence, she asks. “Shall I just come out with it all? I want it to be your choice. Do keep in mind that you, the man who feels no fear, decided to forget all of this.”

“Why?”

“You might not feel fear, but you sure as hell feel pain—perhaps more poignantly than most, and some pain can conquer even the strongest of us.”

“That’s why I have no memory?”

She nods. “At your request. The operation was performed here. Not that I was present for it, mind you. For all your fearless bravado, do you know how you told me? How you asked to keep your secrets and let you be? An e-mail. A God-damned e-mail.”

Her complaints about my past actions flow through the colander of my mind. But some of the message gets stuck. “Here? Was I a prisoner?”

“Not remotely.”

I shake my head. It doesn’t feel right.

“Some part of you remembers,” she says. “That you trust me.” She points to the cupboard. “Where the glasses are kept.” She waves her hand in the air, dismissing the topic. “We’ll come back to that later.”

“So,” I say, “who are you?”

“I am… was a friend of your mother’s.”

“I can’t remember my mother.”

“You knew what you were giving up.” She looks at me with hard eyes.

I have nothing to say to this. I can’t remember the me she’s talking about.

“We met at university,” she says. “Your mother and I. We became like sisters, and then we were when I married her brother.”

“You’re… you’re my aunt?”

Tears slip from her eyes, and she reaches a hand out across the table. I’m not sure why, but I take it.

She works hard to control her voice. “I’m nearly the only family you have left.”

“Nearly the only family?” I ask, and then something twists in my gut. Some strange discomfort, like I’ve eaten something rotten. My mind may not remember, but my body does, just like it remembered where to look for a glass. The sensation moves through my torso and neck, squeezing my brain until the realization snaps into focus.

The missed detail.

“The toothbrush.”

“What?”

“In the bathroom,” I say. “There’s a pink toothbrush.”

She rolls her eyes and mutters, “Incompetents.” Allenby squeezes my hand. She looks around the room like she’s afraid someone could be listening. But then, believing her own claims of privacy, continues. “There’s no going back from this. Not again.”

“I understand.”

“I’m going to tell you your name.”

I nod. “Please do.”

“You’re not Crazy. With or without a capital C.” She pauses, unsure. Whispers, “Bollocks,” and then says, “Your name… is Josef… Shiloh.”

“Shiloh.” I release her hand and stand. My first name holds little interest. But the last name… “Shiloh.” An unfamiliar rush of emotions makes me feel uncomfortable. Is this what fear feels like? I lean on the table for balance. “The pink toothbrush. It belongs to…”

She nods. “Your wife.”

I all but fall back into my seat. “Wife…”

“Part of you remembered her, too. You might not remember her, but you never stopped wanting to save her, did you?”

Despite my lack of memory, I know she’s right. “What’s her name?”

“Maya.”

“Maya,” I say, trying out the name, but it doesn’t sound familiar at all. Hell, my own name, Josef Shiloh, doesn’t feel right. To me, I’m still Crazy.

Or maybe that’s just the selfish man Allenby spoke of. My whole persona might be a fabrication. An escape. But from what? Running requires fear. What could I be afraid of?

The answer comes to me as a question.

“Who is Simon?”

Allenby looks freshly wounded by the question. This is where the story gets ugly. Where the pain begins. I can feel the invisible energy of it rolling off of her in waves. She lifts her head, twisting her mouth, and then speaks two words that radically alter the way I see the world.