I’m coping with memory loss while still trying to write novels and put bread on the table—but in truth, my daily life consists of struggling to recover lost pieces of my life.
At any rate, it’s a frustrating business made more exasperating by having to deal with an overly solicitous private nurse that Albert Deans, my literary agent insists that I need.
What I really need is to get my life back and Helen Moore, my wet nurse, is just getting in the way, chauffeuring me around and deciding where it’s ‘safe’ for me to go.
Hence, as you may have guessed, I tend to make impulsive choices that get me into trouble—and that’s the reason why I’m taking shelter on the verandah of The Institute for the Blind after being caught in a sudden downpour.
Although my daily routine is annoying lately, today I’ve been given a respite.
Fate has sent me a beautiful girl for me to rescue and she’s now standing beside me, shivering from the cold while wearing my coat.
I could use her need for warmth as an excuse to put my arms around her, but I wisely elect to go a safer route.
“I think the raise should ease up in about ten minutes,” I lie, “—long enough to find shelter in a coffee shop and drink something warm.”
“Th-that…would be wonderful,” she stammers through chattering teeth. I notice her lips are slightly blue and she’s shaking.
At that moment I spot a cab coming up the splashing street, and wave him over. “C’mon,” I tell her, “no sense in shivering out here any longer—let me treat you to that warm drink.”
She nods gratefully, much to my relief, but it’s the light in her eyes that touches me and warms me like a sudden burst of sunshine.
“I’ve got an idea,” she says, “let’s go to the Museum—it has a coffee shop, and it’s nearby.”
I relay directions to the driver, and while we’re weaving through traffic, she explains, “I work in the museum. I’ll be able to change into some warm clothes and join you in the café when I’m ready.”
“Sounds like a plan,” I smile.
Ten minutes later, she’s in a warm sweater sitting across the table from me as we stare through the windows at the storm outside.
“So, what do you do here?” I ask.
She’s bent forward at the waist, dark hair veiling her eyes, inhaling the aroma from the mug of coffee she’s cradling in her hands.
I snap a mental photograph: Lady in half-light.
So mysterious, I muse.
At length, the spell is broken and she speaks.
“I’m an archivist. I help acquire and preserve important documents and other valuable items for permanent storage or display.”
“Sounds impressive,” I smile.
“I suppose,” she shrugs.
She lifts her eyes to me, tilts her head backwards and shakes out her long hair, still be-jeweled with droplets.
A scene unfolds before my eyes—Jessica in the rain—a character from my novel. Days of memories come floating back, including details of where I mislaid some lost notes.
“Whoa! That’s incredible,” I gasp.
A wave of concern sweeps over her features.
“Are you okay, Jase? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“No ghosts—just shades of the past.”
“I don’t get it,” she says, looking bewildered.
I try to explain.
“About six months ago I was in an auto accident and experienced some memory loss—it’s been coming back slowly, but when you shook out your hair just now, a whole flood of things came rushing back—a lot of it connected with the novel I’m writing.”
“Hmm, so you’re a writer.”
“I am.”
“Then, I must be your Muse.”
“You are,” I told her and I felt it deep in my heart.
“I sensed an affinity.”
It was the start of our relationship.