Haunted Honeymoon (18 page)

“Very manly man,” I said, looking around at the leather furniture, dark paneling, and built-in bookshelves. “Whose house is this?”

“Mine.”

“Yeah, right.” House sitter was my guess. I flopped onto the sofa and said, “You’d think whoever owns this place could afford to buy a few novels. The
Merck Veterinary Manual
doesn’t exactly sound like a dynamic read.”

“You’d change your mind if you read the section on acute respiratory diseases in chickens,” Oswald said, and his lips went up at one corner in a crooked smile that I found enchanting. “Let’s go over any other symptoms.”

“Maybe you should take me to the nearest free clinic.”

Oswald went around the desk and brought out a black leather medical case with
OKG
monogrammed in gold.

“Who’s OKG?” I asked.

“Oswald Kevin Grant, MD. Me, Doctor,” he said, and I smiled because it was kind of funny.

“You’re
really
a doctor?”

“I take care of the animals here. Do you have a headache?” he asked. “Any dizziness?”

“No to the headache, but I’ve always suffered from the occasional bouts of ditziness,” I said as he took a stethoscope from his bag.

“Chest or neck pain? Nausea? Cold hands or tingling?” He took my hand, sending a buzz through me.

“That!” I said. “When you touch me, I get this zizz sensation, but it’s nice. It doesn’t itch.”

“I didn’t ask if it itched.”

“Well, I know things aren’t
supposed
to itch. It feels … good.”

“That’s not new with you.”

“Of course it is. It’s not normal, is it?”

“
You’re
not normal.” He slipped the stethoscope under the torn collar of my sweatshirt and listened, his long-fingered hands tantalizingly close to my girly parts.

I’d finally meet a fabulous man with impressive veterinary skills and I was dressed like an extra in
Flashdance
. “Oswald?”

“Yes?”

“Did we, you know …”

“Let’s concentrate on your health now, why don’t we?”

It would have been easy to lean forward and kiss him.

He asked, “How’s your vision?”

I blinked and looked at the bindings on the bookshelves. I could read even the smallest print clearly. “Hard to tell with my contacts in, but it seems terrific.”

“You don’t wear contacts, Milagro.”

I licked my finger and touched my eyeball to feel around for the lens. I poked a few more times until Oswald pulled my hand away.

“Did I get Lasik?” I asked.

Instead of answering, he went to the desk and began tapping away at a computer. “I’ve never dealt with memory loss.”

“Can you tell when a chicken has memory loss? Regardless, I’m sure I’ll remember every fascinating detail of my exciting life in a few minutes and you won’t have to bother Mercedes.”

Although I tried to relax and let my brain recover, I was distracted by Oswald. He had wonderful cheekbones, a clear, pale complexion, and a most intriguing, wide mouth. His chestnut brown hair was brushed back off his broad brow.

“I think you probably have transient global amnesia,” he
said. “It doesn’t happen often, and lasts about six hours on average.”

“Six hours is a piece of cake,” I said. “I once took mushrooms as research for a story about a shaman and I was hallucinating all weekend, which was altogether too long. So it’s like that?”

“Except that you’re not hallucinating and you might regain your lost time. If you were anyone else I’d recommend an EEG and a CT, but your body heals itself.”

“No offense, but I really think you better stick to diagnosing animals. However, I’m willing to wait six hours.” That meant that I could recover in time for weekend clubbing once I got back to the City. “You want to tell me how I got here?”

“I told you, you drove, but you can’t drive back since you’ve had a period of unconsciousness. I hope Mercedes can pick you up, because you can’t stay here.”

I was glad I didn’t kiss him. “Oswald, you’re a little full of yourself, aren’t you? As you may recall, I was trying to
leave
here, not stay. I have a busy social calendar filled with people far more scintillating than some random veterinary assistant.”

“Yes, I know. There’s always a party somewhere.” He picked up his phone and made a call. In a second, he said, “Hi, Mercedes. It’s Oswald. Sorry to call you this early.” He paused. “She got here about an hour ago, and she can’t stay under any circumstances.”

He had a real attitude and I was relieved to learn that I hadn’t spent the night with him.

“She fell and hit her head and may have some memory loss. Of course, there’s the strong possibility that she’s faking it.”

“I’m not faking it,” I said loudly so Mercedes could hear me.

Oswald said, “She says that the last thing she remembers is getting ready to go to that party for Sebastian Beckett-Witherspoon.”

“My dear friend Sebastian!” I shouted.

Oswald shook his head and continued talking on the phone: “She’s even lying about that jerk. Anyway, there are two kinds of amnesia. One is caused by a head injury and the other’s more serious, caused by severe emotional distress, but disasters bounce off her like water off a duck, so—”

He stopped talking to listen to Mercedes, and I gazed out the window at a wisteria that was about to bloom. It must be wonderful to have so much space for gardening.

“What? Are you sure?” Oswald said and gave me a worried look. He listened longer, and I was sure she was telling him off for being so rude because he looked upset.

“Yes, of course,” he said. “I’ll do whatever is best for her.”

He held the phone to me and said in a kinder tone, “Mercedes wants to talk to you.”

His eyes glistened and he turned away. Mercedes could be stern, but he was a big baby.

I grabbed the phone and said, “Hey, sweetie pie, come get me!”

She said, “Are you faking this? Just say yes, and I won’t tell Oswald.”

“No, and I’m deeply crushed by your accusation,
mujer
. What kind of nitwit would fake amnesia? It’s not as if I have a habit of crazy antics. I’m a serious and sincere woman.” I glanced toward Oswald to see if he was convinced of my value as a human being and a potential girlfriend.

Mercedes said, “Milagro, I need you to stay where you are until you get better. Oswald will take care of you.”

“I know you don’t think that I work, but I have to go do a shift at the nursery. They’re getting in a shipment of dahlia tubers and need me to do the bin display. There is, after all, the matter of paying my rent.”

“I’ll take care of those things. Stay there, promise me.”

“You are making a big deal out of it. I feel perfectly fine. What day is it?”

“It’s Saturday.”

“Saturday! That means I’ve lost two whole days! The nursery may have fired me and that doesn’t even begin to explain how or when I got Lasik.”

“This is not the time to worry about those things. Now, if you really aren’t faking this, Milagro—”

“Why doesn’t anyone believe me?”

“Okay, I believe you. You need to stay there until you get your memory back. Oswald and his family will take care of you.”

“I can call Nancy to come get me, or take the bus back to the City.”

“No, you can’t, Milagro. Try to listen to me for a minute. You’re safe there. That’s why you went to the ranch, because you needed a safe place to stay.”

“You’re leaving me in the hands of a veterinary tech?”

“He’s a real doctor, Milagro,” she said. “If you need to call me, use this line until we figure things out. Don’t call any of your friends or leave the ranch.”

“But—”

“Milagro, this is absolutely critical. Promise me. Either you stay where you are and do as Oswald says, or our friendship is over.”

Mercedes didn’t bullshit, and she was so serious that I said, “Okay. I’ll wait to get my memory back. But I think you’re overreacting. Where
am
I exactly?”

She told me that I was just north of Nancy’s favorite, overpriced wine country town. Well, I’d never had the opportunity to relax in the country before.

I handed the phone back to Oswald and he said good-bye to Mercedes and hung up. His expression was dolorous, I guess because he’d wanted to get rid of me.

“So I just came here this morning? You don’t know where I was?”

“You were with Mercedes last night.”

That was reassuring. I knew that nothing too crazy could have happened if Mercedes was with me. I yawned. “I could sleep like the dead.”

“You can nap in your … we have a room with its own bath, if you don’t mind.”

“Why would I mind?”

Oswald led me to a room on a short hallway off the kitchen. It had a lumpy full-sized bed, an old wooden desk, and a bookshelf with paperbacks.

“You’re sticking the Mexican girl in the maid’s room,” I said.

“You like this room because it faces out to the garden,” he said, and, indeed, the view out the window of the garden was charming except for a dead mock-orange.

“You need to pull out that bush,” I said. “This climate is far too cold for it anyway.”

I peered into a white-tiled bathroom with a claw-foot tub and said, “Sweet.”

Then I caught sight of someone’s awful reflection in the mirror. Her cheeks were sunken, her eyes dull and hollow, her skin sallow, and her hair was several inches longer than mine. I stared until I realized the person in the mirror was me.

Oswald came close and said, “Milagro.”

I turned to him and cried, “What day of the month is it? What year?”

When he told me, I turned to the wall and said, “No, no.”

Oswald’s arms were around me, and he pulled me to him while I said, “No, no.”

“It’s temporary. You’ll get your memory back. I’m calling a professional to help.” His lips grazed my forehead in a gentle kiss. “You’ll get better soon. You always do. Come rest now.”

He helped me to the bed and pulled off my stupid shoes. Then he covered me with a comforter and stayed sitting beside me. I kept saying, “No, no,” and crying while he rubbed my back and said, “It will be all right, Mil.”

“What happened to me?” I asked. “Why do I look this way?”

“You’re stressed out. Go to sleep. You’ll be well again soon, I promise.”

I stared at him, waiting for recognition to come. “Oswald, how do I know you?”

He hesitated for a few seconds, and then he said, “You were the gardener here.”

eleven
Countrycide

When I awoke, I looked at the clock by the bed. It was almost four o’clock in the afternoon, and I still didn’t remember this place or Oswald. He’d said that this kind of amnesia lasted an
average
of six hours. I’d paid enough attention in my math course at F.U. to know that the median was more important than the average.

Something terrible had happened to me to make me look like I did. Or maybe not. Maybe it was just a wild week, or I’d finally gotten the flu or had contracted a slight case of Mad Cow. I hoped it wasn’t the latter because I could hear my mother Regina’s comments now.

I got up and put on the ill-fitting pointy booties. Had I lost all my fantastic fashion sense in the intervening two years? What else had happened in my life?

In the bathroom, I found a hairbrush, a new toothbrush, and toothpaste. I forced myself to look in the mirror. Oswald was quite dishy, and I looked hideous.

I tilted my head forward until it touched the cool glass of the mirror.
Don’t panic
, I thought.

I went to the window and looked out. The garden had so
many of my signature touches, including Kathleen hybrid musk roses, that I should have known it was mine immediately. Oh, I’d made an herb knot just like I’d always wanted to! This was the bright side.

I walked to the kitchen and called, “Hellooo?”

There was a glass pitcher on the table with red liquid. Just looking at it made my stomach spasm with want. I got a tumbler, served myself, and took a sip. It was a tasty fruit juice, heavy on the raspberries. I gulped it down and had another glass.

I wandered through the house to the study.

Oswald was on the phone and when he saw me, he said, “I’ll get back to you when I learn more. Yes. Bye.”

“Hey, Oswald.”

“Hello,” he said, rather flirt-deficient.

“I haven’t remembered anything yet. What exactly is the range of time for this kind of memory loss?”

He hesitated for worrisome seconds. “At first I thought that you had transient global amnesia, but it’s possible that you have dissociative amnesia as a result of emotional trauma.”

“I’m badly dressed, but not traumatized. Why have you abandoned the injury theory so quickly?” I felt the back of my head again. “I could have internal hemorrhaging, or maybe a weevil is eating its way through my brain.”

“If you had taken any serious courses in college, you wouldn’t be bringing up brain-eating weevil theories.”

“Spoken like someone who couldn’t get past the first chapter of Henry James’s
The Art of the Novel
,” I snipped. “What happened to your bedside manner?”

“I’m sorry, Mil. I’m under some pressure today, and I’m having a problem handling this.”

“Apology accepted. So what’s stressing you out?”

“Besides your condition? My grandfather is visiting. He’s out
sightseeing now,” he said. “But don’t worry about that. I got in touch with a psychiatrist through a, um, professional association. She was visiting her folks in Seattle and hopped on the first flight down. She’ll be here soon.”

“That’s swell, but I’m sure I’ll be fine before happy hour at the closest watering hole. I certainly don’t need therapy. I’m an exceptionally well-balanced individual.”

Oswald raised his eyebrows.

“I am
so
well-balanced,” I said. “How traumatized could I be, anyway? Was I devastated by rejection letters from agents, or did I get evicted from my subterranean hovel, which wouldn’t matter since I suspect that there are rats in the walls?”

“No, you didn’t get evicted,” Oswald said. “You own a loft.”

“What!”

“You bought it with a legal settlement you got.”