When you can’t remember who you are, and one day you just happen to wake up in a scratchy bed that smells like antiseptic, it doesn’t take you too long before you realize that you don’t have a lot of options. There’s the obvious first choice—leave—but unless you have some other place to go, it’s really not a good idea. Deep down inside, you probably know that whatever medical facility you are in is actually trying to help you; especially if you’re worried about your personal safety. The second choice you have is to stay where you are and hope that one day, you’ll find out why you’re in a green room wearing a very unflattering (for lack of a better description) piece of paper.

When this happened to me, I really did want to leave whatever hospital had “rescued” me. I spent hours plotting and planning, right up to the part where I would be free to find out “who” I was and “where” I came from. Some days were better than others; on the days my mind was clear from whatever drugs they were giving me, I would try to figure out a way to steal my poor nurse’s uniform. Sometimes through the vents, I could hear the nurses and doctors talking about bussing in from the suburbs. In my heart of hearts, I convinced myself that these buses were magical, that riding one would recover some mundane clue that would point me in the direction of my family or friends. I believed that the smallest thing—a kind word, a familiar face—would unlock one of my memories. Unable to get on that accursed bus, I would spend hours analyzing bits and pieces of my personality. As the days melted into one another, I grew more and more impatient, pacing endlessly in my room until my food was served. Every night that I was able to sleep, I would dream of a man that would whisk me away from the prison my mind was somehow responsible for.

In between wishing and whining, I met William.

That day (of all the days I spent in the hospital) is the one I recall the most because the world was crying. Streams of water ran down the outside of my private room’s windows; I’d take my finger and trace their path as the drops of rain fell to their death on the sidewalk below, one for each endless day I was stuck in that place.

I had been standing there, counting the days that I could remember, when someone called me by a name I didn’t know. “Sophie,” a man’s voice had said. “Do you want to leave?” Thoughts rushed into my mind how I must have looked ridiculous to him, making fingerprints on the glass in a patient’s shift, but I turned around to him anyway with my eyes closed, trembling. It wasn’t until after I said “yes” that I had opened them, hoping that the man I just said “yes” to wasn’t ugly or unkind or worse. The man had introduced himself to me as my boyfriend, William Sands, and told me (as you might a child) that my name was Sophia Miller, but everyone else called me “Sophie.”

From the moment I rushed into his arms I believed that we were perfect for each other. William was tall and scraggily, his head and face completely shaved except for the small goatee he wore. His eyes were clear as if he knew who he was, where he had come from, and what he would do in life. It was his confidence–more than anything else–that I was helplessly drawn to. This one man was the answer to my dreams, the key to my memories. The thought never entered my mind to ask him if he was telling me the truth because back then, my world was very simple.

It’s been four or five years now since William “rescued” me from the hospital. I now call it “the Stay” because I don’t really remember much before that, apparently some of the potions they had given me took their toll on my mind. From what William told me, I know my name is Sophia Miller, that I had parents at some point (who may or may not have abandoned me), and that I was raised by my grandmother; a tough, wily woman who never looked a day over 40. Beyond that, my thoughts are often shrouded in smoke. The closer I get to a memory about who I was, the further it seems.

Unfortunately, the memories about my identity weren’t the only ones affected by whatever illness I had. For whatever reason, I had forgotten all the little things you take for granted; this is how you use a microwave, this is how you program your computer, this is how you send an email. Much of the major stuff–-like knowing how to read or ride a bike–-I’ve remembered. Through it all there is William; he’s either guiding me on what I don’t know about the world or he’s stopping me from pushing myself to hard. I guess it’s because I am somehow his damsel in distress. I can never really put my finger on why he’s so careful with me some days, but it makes sense. Maybe that’s why he freaks out when I tell him my favorite color used to be silver or that I enjoy cooking my steak rare.

Since those first, awkward days we’ve both moved on with our lives and have even set a date to be married. There’s a part of me that has always wanted to fill in my mind’s empty spaces. It’s almost like trying to choose a new book off the shelf to digest, so you read the back cover and are excited about the story. It isn’t until after you’ve sat down with it for an hour or two, before you realize you’ve not only read the story before—you’ve read it twice.

I keep hoping that one day I’ll wake up and suddenly all the pieces will fall neatly into place, creating a mosaic of my past that my future husband, William, would be proud to remember. It’s funny but in the magazines I read, there’s a lot of talk about “what makes a good wife.” The columnists often blather on a lot about how horrible it is to marry someone and find out afterward they don’t love you, but don’t really talk about what you’re supposed to do about it. I think the worst thing in the world is to marry someone who loves you, but you have no idea who “you” are.

It’s hard not to think about my (what’s the word?) amnesia, especially since William keeps me pretty cooped up in his house; which some people might think was pretty strange considering we’re engaged. There are quite a few other things that might seem odd about us, for one thing we don’t sleep in the same room, we don’t give kisses, and we rarely cuddle. I guess I’m okay with it, because it is kind of romantic. One day in the not-too-distant-future I’ll be Sophie Sands instead of Sophie Miller, and we’ll have all the time in the world.

Although I’m grateful for everything William has done for me, I am pretty lonely. There’s not a lot of people around, and I wish William would get over the idea that I’m “not ready.” To pass the time, I write things down in a journal William bought for me or I talk to our cat, Archimedes, wondering when I’ll be able to meet someone else, maybe another young woman like me.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m extremely thankful I’m not drugged and lying in some hospital bed. It’s just that… I never really feel “welcome” here, in an old house that has more memories than I do. When I’m sitting down to our candlelit dinners, I often swear I’ve seen things moving in the shadows, reaching out to me. It’s not uncommon for Archimedes to growl at no one in particular when I’m quietly reading my magazines. It’s not just the weird feelings, it’s the noises that freak me out. Strange claws scratching at the windows or loud *THUNK* noises in the kitchen have made me feel a little edgy. Who am I supposed to tell? William, who would send me back to that hospital in an instance “for my own good”? The police who I may (or may not) be running away from?

I would rather die than go back to that hospital.

Anyway, William–never “Bill” or “Willy” or “Will–already had his breakfast this morning, just like he does at the same time every other morning. I’m supposed to start my own morning ritual, but I really don’t feel like racing out of bed to deal with “Mr. Insurance Giant USA.” I suppose there are worse jobs than transferring phone calls all day, but right now I’d settle for any job that helps me earn my keep. Other than cleaning.

I let myself shrink down underneath my warm covers and decide to call in sick to work, knowing that they really aren’t going to miss me. When I got out of the asylum, I was happily surprised to find out that William and I already lived together, so most of my “stuff” was already at his place (even though I couldn’t believe I’d actually own anything “pink”). A place to stay wasn’t ever going to be enough to keep me happy though, because I needed to pull my weight. Day after day, I would ask William to help me find some low-level job to show my gratitude and help pay the bills that he’s always complaining about.

Job hunting was never really an option for me based on what I “knew” about the world; in the end, I wasn’t qualified for most jobs. Again, I relied on William to point me in the right direction until finally, after two years of applying and getting rejected, William got me a work-from-home job for one of the world’s largest insurance companies, InsLife. My job is pretty simple, really. Someone calls in, asks for a number, and I’m supposed to say “One moment, please.” Then I punch the phone’s buttons to transfer them to whoever it is they need to talk to. There are times I wish I understood what my customers were asking for, because they never talk to me, they just ask for the numbers. I suppose that even if I did, I don’t think I’d be of much use. InsLife probably eats people for lunch. The implications of working for a cannibalistic major corporation frightens me a little bit, especially since they sent me the phone that I’m supposed to be working on. Ye gods, I hope that I’m not coordinating body parts shipments or…

Yeah, I’m definitely calling in sick today.

After three phone calls and two bagels, I finally hop in the bathroom to take a long, hot shower and try to figure out what I’m going to do with my day. William was probably off studying at his favorite coffee shop; I think he’s going to school to be some kind of doctor. Usually, we avoid the “what-do-you-want-to-do-when-you-grow-up” conversations; he gets pretty frustrated when I start asking too many questions. Maybe it’s too early for him to grow up; I know it is for me. I mean, I can hardly believe I’m getting married.

In between soap and shampoo I realize I never grabbed a towel, so I quickly rinse and jump out, dripping wet. I hunt around for something to dry off with but can’t find a clean towel anywhere. Swearing underneath my breath, I run down to the basement and grab some dirty ones out of the pile, trying not to gross myself out too much. Here’s hoping they’re not moldy because that would be pretty gross.

“Sophie?” I hear William ask in a small voice.

I try not to laugh; I must look absolutely ridiculous standing there stark naked in a smelly basement, inspecting a bunch of damp towels. ‘Course, he doesn’t look any better hunched over an old desk with piles of books, dusty shelves, and strange-looking vials all around him.

“Wow, that scholar look isn’t really—”

“What are you doing down here? I thought you were working,” he whines. “Good Ferrous, would you put some clothes on?”

Giggling, I try to give him a hard time as I root around for some clothes, performing the “smell test” to ensure they were worthy. “Yeah, and I thought you were studying but it looks like you’re taking a break?”

“I am studying,” he says defensively. “Why don’t you head back upstairs and do what you’re supposed to do?”

There’s something about the tone in his voice that tells me we’re going to fight, and for what? Because I caught him studying in the basement? Unless…

“Are you watching porn?” I ask him, feeling bolder than usual. I’m a bit tired of his “do this-do that” attitude.

“What?” William grumbles. I can tell he’s frustrated with me because the tops of his ears are turning pink; I wonder how long it will take before I really piss him off.

“You heard me, are you watching porn?”

“Why the hell would you ask that?”

Apparently? Not long.

“Sophie, You know I’m studying, because I always study. Can’t you see the books, the slides and the computer right in front of me? What do you think this is? Magic?”

What. An. Ass. “You know William, I might believe you if, for once, you’d just open up your notebooks and show me what you’re working on.”

I’m not sure what forces me to ask him the question, but in my mind it’s a good one. All those years of studying and I’ve never once heard him say he’s studying for a test or that he got an “A” in some -ology class.

“What? No! You’re crazy, Sophie. What’s gotten into you?”

“Show me what you’re working on,” I demand. What’s so bad about his studies that he can’t even let me see what’s under the microscope?

“No.”

At this point I’m pretty pissed off; arguing just to argue is one thing, but arguing because you’re a complete and total jackass is another. I take everything I have with me, my dignity and my pride, and I march barefoot over to his desk. Yes, my feet are really cold, and I’d much rather be wearing clothes that a bunch of damp towels, but I’d rather ride this out than walk away mad.

Standing there, right in front of him, I half-expect William will stop being a jerk and do something extraordinarily cute like tell me he’s sorry or offer to make it up to me, but he doesn’t do any of those normal things that boyfriends (let alone fiancés) are supposed to do.

“Don’t come any closer, Sophie!” he yells as he frantically tries to cover up his books, papers, and slides. “You do and I swear you’ll regret it.”

“Look William, I may not have my memories but I still deserve to be treated with respect,” I bite back.

“You won’t like what you see, Sophie. I know you,” he tries to convince me. “Remember when I told you that you would hate cell phones but you just had to try one? You haven’t used one since.”

“Are you still arguing with me, William? You tell me every day you’re going to go and ‘study,’ that you have another test for whatever the hell kind of doctor you want to be. Instead I find you in the basement with a pile of books, a laptop dinosaur and a 50 cent microscope?”

“How do you know how old my computer is?” he asks, his voice dull and flat.

“The magazines, silly. Do you think I don’t pay attention to the pictures?”

I can tell he’s hiding something, but I’m not sure what. I’ve never seen him this…afraid? For a split second I thought I saw something flash on the shelf behind him.

“It’s a…ball. Just a black, crystal ball,” he says, as if he’s identifying a speck of dust or a pencil.

“Pretty.” Too pretty, I wonder who gave him a thing like that.

“Yes, it’s a nice, fat paperweight, now will you go upstairs? You’re going to catch cold.”

Even though he sounds like I really hurt his feelings, I’m not sure I care anymore. There’s no way I’m going to let this go without one of us walking away the winner. Either he shows me his research, or I’ll get that stupid paperweight and walk away victorious–for once.

“Give it to me.”

He picks the ball off the shelf and rolls it around in his hands, muttering something to himself about “options” and “trouble.” I try to take a closer look at it sparkling, but I’m too far away to get a good look.

A pang of fear hits me in my stomach. Maybe challenging the one person who’s loved me, cared for me, and rehabilitated me isn’t such a good idea. Maybe I should just turn around, walk upstairs and make us both a nice breakfast. Over orange juice we’ll have a good laugh about all the things we said to each other; by the time we get to the cinnamon rolls he’ll forgive me.

“You know what?” William whispers, turning the ball over and over again in his hands. I wait for him to finish his sentence, afraid he’ll break up with me or worse–tell me to get out of his house or worse. After a few, slow minutes he turns, and gives me “the look.” It’s the kind of cold stare that sums up your entire relationship—where you’ve been, where you’re headed.

“Catch.”

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