(Blood and Bone, #1) Blood and Bone (3 page)

“What was the name?”

She stops laughing and gives me a funny look. “What?”

“The name of the girl he asked for.”

“Samantha.” She shrugs and carries on cleaning. “Blonde who worked here named Samantha Barnes.”

I drop the window cleaner.

“What? Is that yer porno name? Yer making films with that handsome wee devil, aren’t ya?”

I shake my head, trying to get a grip on my mind and the spinning room. “No.” I’m not answering her. The
no
is a dramatic statement. I close my eyes for a moment. “What did he look like?”

“Tall, dark hair, broad shoulders and chest, and blue eyes. He was quite good looking so I gave him my number. Told him if he could get rid of that bloody accent and talk like a gentleman, he could take me out, instead. The Irish always swear a lot.”

That is not Ronald at all. Two men in two days is far more than alarming. I can hear the joke in her tone, but my heart is racing and my mouth is dry. I force a husky laugh from my lips and nod. “You should have made him stay here.” Two Samanthas in two days? Two?
Is that possible?

Not even mentioning the fact we named our cats the same fucking name. The concrete room is calling me back there, to my sanctuary.

She laughs, still not taking it as seriously as I am. “Yeah, well, he looked like he was busy. Had on a suit and tie and a briefcase, thank you very much. He was very official looking. Quite clean, considering where he’s from. No tattoos or spiky hair.” She makes a disgusted face.

The world feels like it’s closing in around me, but I force myself to nod, swallowing hard. “You are so racist.”

“It’s not racism, it’s common sense. Maybe he’s from before . . . the accident, you know?”

I shudder but don’t want her to see. “Yeah. Maybe I have a rich Irish husband somewhere looking for me.” Oh God, what if I was somehow living a double life? Did I have a mean husband who wanted anal? Was I a stripper before I met Derek? No wonder I don’t want to remember now. The only problem with that, though, is it isn’t the story Derek has given me. Nothing is making any sense. How is it possible Derek doesn’t even know I have a twin?

“What more could a girl like you ask for? I guess he could be from Scotland. That would make him better—only a wee bit, though.”

I answer her with a look. She shakes her head, still chuckling and unaware of the crisis we are actually discussing. She glances at me sideways. “I’m only teasing ya! Derek is a fine man, nearly perfect. I mean, he is a Yank, after all, but he could be worse—he could be English. They’re all tossers with bad teeth.”

“You can’t hate everyone, crazy.” I laugh, desperate to not think about it all. “And maybe you should consider holding your Klan meetings elsewhere, psycho.” I can’t shake the uneasy feeling inside me at being mistaken for my twin, our having the cat, and the fact that she died the way I should have. I’ve seen the photos of my car after the wreck; I should have died.

“Your mind is a-wandering.”

I nod. “It is. What were we talking about?”

“You having a rich mystery husband.”

“I don’t need a rich husband. I like my life.” I narrow my gaze. “We were talking about you being racist.”

“Pshh, hating the English is natural. No self-respecting Scotswoman would dare say otherwise.”

I cock an eyebrow. “You dated an English guy three months ago. Henry, remember? He was sweet. You and Dennis had decided to take that break, and I made you date. You had fun.”

“Did you see the teeth on that mug?” She makes the finger teeth like I did and then scoffs. “Jane, in all honesty your life is pretty good. You have a fun job with me, a good man, and a very sleek town house in the city. Really, what more could you ask for? Derek is the best, and he’s a doctor. Who cares if you don’t remember stripping and doing anal?” She nudges me, and I can see this is going to be the joke we share for the next year.

Jane and the anal . . .

A grimace crosses my face. “Dear God. Okay, moving on.” I turn to finish wiping the windows. I want to continue thinking about Derek and my amazing life, but I can’t. I can’t help but watch every person who walks past our shop. The cool of the autumn breeze causes the passersby to keep their faces down, making it hard to see which one might match the stranger who came into the shop.

I don’t have an answer for any of it, but I feel sick, like my guts are twisting with guilt for some reason.

Angie hums as we finish dressing the plastic ladies and gents in the window. She always hums when we work, and the song is always the same with her, something her mother had sung when she was a girl. It’s her song.

I too have a song. I assume it’s from when I was a girl, like Angie’s. But for whatever reason, my song feels like a secret. Even Derek doesn’t know about it. I have never shared it with him. I wanted to, but I changed my mind just as I opened my mouth to tell him.

I don’t know why.

I can’t explain my idiosyncrasies or my desire to be private in all things. I don’t know the old me or why she was like that, but I am still her in so many ways. Muscle memory and habits are hard to break—I have proven that.

Except in the memory department.

I have one song and one ability that I clearly learned somewhere. That is all that is left in the great empty barrel my brain turned out to be.

A head of nothing but two small things.

A song with a strange high-pitched tone, like it’s mocking, and tying cherry stems with my tongue.

Beyond, of course, the things you learn as a child. I can count, tie my shoes, run, climb, eat, and speak. I can play hide-and-seek, hopscotch, and cards.

Things I think are unique to me but not learned—like I can lick my nose and flutter my lashes like I’m having a seizure. I laugh when people get hurt, and I cry when animals do. I like purple and green. My dark hair complements both colors perfectly. My blue eyes are slightly different colored: one is light blue and the other dark blue. I always find horses in cloud formations, and I love the History Channel and the smell of my cat when he’s played out on the deck during the rain. I hate running. I naturally always pick the most expensive item on display. I can’t play any sports, but I’m flexible.

I can shoot houseflies with rubber bands, sharpshooter style, and I can paint.

But there is nothing else.

Most days I don’t wish there was anything else. But every now and then I get an itch like I want to know something, and I hate it when I can’t reach it, or the emotion I assume is attached to it.

Like how I met Derek.

How did it happen?

How did I feel?

What did he look like the first time I saw him?

Was he crossing a room when the lights hit, glinting off him?

Did he give me the half look, where he lifts his face only a bit and smiles?

It’s my favorite look. I’ve never told him that, but it is. He glances up through his eyelashes and gives a sly grin. I always imagine some dirty thought is roaming his brain, but I know it’s probably more saintly. He’s imagining building houses in impoverished countries and saving orphans.

“Och, listen to me humming away again.” Angie nods at me, interrupting my thoughts. “How does that weird song go again? I tried singing it to me mum, but I forgot how it went.”

A smile creeps upon my lips. “It’s not weird. No weirder than that one you’re always singing.”

She positions the mannequin in the window properly and makes the plastic woman’s head nod. “Sing it.”

“Me or her?”

She flashes me a shitty grin. “Don’t be daft. If she could sing it, we would be rich. Like that movie, where the mannequin comes to life and dates that wanker.”

“I don’t remember that one.” I laugh. “Besides, you never know. Maybe I
am
rich.”

“And maybe I’m the long-lost granddaughter to the queen.” She scoffs and wraps a purple scarf over the throat of the mannequin. The way she does it, the way the scarf wraps so tightly, makes me stop. My eyes lock on the pale skin of the plastic girl and the tightly wound purple scarf. I can’t swallow—I swear I can feel the itchy fabric on my throat. I move my head a little, as if it will loosen the scarf for her.

“Crazy coma patient.” Angie waves her hand in front of my face. “You’re doing it again. Just sing.”

My lips open like I am a trained seal. “Listen, listen to the wind and stone. Listen, listen to the sounds of old. Listen, listen as my hopes are drowned. Listen, listen to the sounds that bullets make of blood and bone. Where will you run today? How will you ever get away?”

And there it is, one small section of a morbid song that, as far as the rest of the world is concerned, doesn’t exist.

Angie gives me a funny look. “Still makes no sense. You sure that’s the way it goes?”

My eyes lift to meet hers, but I am still stuck in the odd fog the lyrics give me, so my mouth remains closed. I nod and walk away, clutching the window cleaner and wondering if anything will ever make sense.

She is the only person I have ever sung the song to. She caught me singing it when I was working. I remembered it ages ago, but I never told Derek. I sort of hate the way he’s always pressing me about
my memories. It makes me feel like I should clam up more, like I did with the guy calling me Sam.

The idea of being pressed to remember makes me feel funny. I’m certainly the only amnesia patient who fears that she should avoid her previous life. The possibility of being an anal-loving stripper isn’t making me feel better about my past.

I wonder if I should even tell Derek about the men calling me Sam or the girl who looked exactly like me until she burned up, dying the way I nearly did.

Derek is so intense about the memories. He thinks I don’t notice that he presses my memories on a schedule, like a bus route. Mondays he does it in the morning. Tuesdays he comes and gets me for lunch and drops hints about it. Wednesday he doesn’t do it. Thursday it’s at dinnertime. Friday it’s after sex—we always have sex on Friday. Saturday and Sunday he likes to do it randomly. Every week is the same.

Not that it matters. I am Jane. I like being Jane. Jane Spears is an uncomplicated girl who works in a shop and dates a doctor. A girl could do a lot worse.

I stay a bit late to help close the shop. When we’re done we walk home, carrying bags of clothes from Angie’s closet. She went through it, weeding out the clothes that were a little too ambitious for her size.

She nods at me as our heels click along the cold cement. “You know, I need to try the six-month-coma diet. You don’t know for sure how old you are, and you’re still a size four. It’s like winning the woman lottery. You could have a bunch of little bratty kids running about while you’re here free as a bird. You know how many women would die to be able to say they don’t know how old they are?”

“I know how old I am.”

She scoffs. “You don’t. You only know what Derek has told you. It could be a pack of lies. Hell, I’d tell everyone that it
is
a pack of lies and that you’re twenty-five for the next decade.”

Her words mean nothing to her. They’re a joke. But they couldn’t have come at a worse time. For me they are a possibility I have never actually considered.

Could it be that Derek is lying to me about who I am? It is possible, though why would he? Why would he tell me I am a certain age and that my parents are dead? Why would he tell me I hate running and I love chicken Parmesan?

We pass through some steam, and something about it is familiar. The clicking of the heels on the cold concrete, the steam coming up from the manhole, and the way the cold wind pushes against my face, like it doesn’t want me to walk any farther—I have done this before.

At some point and in some place similar to here, I have walked in heels through steam and the resistant cold wind. It had to have been an important moment for me to feel the dread I do now.

To anyone else it would be a “whatever” moment. To me it is almost like remembering. It is muscle memory. My body recognizes the actions, not the story.

When we get to Angie’s building I realize she is midway through a story I have not heard a word of. Her pretty dark eyes are watery and sad. “So I said no and handed him his keys, and he hasn’t called or come back home. I think he is actually living with her, so soon.”

I stare at her, ashamed. She is my friend and I have not listened to something very terrible she wanted to share.

She must think I’m stunned silent from the shock, and she nods. “I know, right?” A single tear slips from her eye. “I know. I can’t believe my marriage is over, ten years. Ten fucking years, and what do I have to show for it? I moved here to this cold and dank hell for him.” She points at the clothes in the bag. “I can’t fit into any of the shit I like, and my cat is depressed ’cause he’s gone. She looks at me like I’ve chased him off.” I stand there like a moron until she sighs.
“The appropriate response is a hug, Jane.” She knows she has to tell me things like that sometimes.

Without a single hesitation, I step forward, taking her trembling body in my arms. She cries into my shoulder. It doesn’t feel like a natural thing for me. It feels forced, but for her I would force anything. She steps back, smiling. “You make all this stuff feel small, ya know that? You’re like my own personal dose of perspective. I feel bad about something, and you make it small just being here.”

“Please don’t say that,” I say, shaking my head. “It’s not small. Your marriage is over. Loss of love, loss of limb, and loss of life are all equal tragedies.” I don’t know where the words come from, but they sound right.

She smiles. “So it’s okay for me to be sad, even though you don’t know where you were three years ago?”

“More than okay.” I hug her again. The second time it feels more natural. We stand there in the cold wind, wrapped in each other for some time. I don’t know how long. I lose track of it as I literally feel my body expand to welcome her as my attachment grows with every piece of herself she shares. She is the only person I truly feel that with.

My arms tighten around her. She taps my back. “I can’t breathe. Easy there, Frankenbarbie.”