Burying Water

  She shrugs. “He owns a company with a few business partners. They sell all kinds of cars . . . trucks . . . even boats and stuff . . . for companies and for the public. They have sales offices all over the world.”

  “And you think it’s all aboveboard?”

  She pauses. “It’s a publically traded company. They sell cars for insurance companies, dealerships, banks. It’s all on his website.”

  So she’s looked into it. I wonder if it was due to curiosity or doubt. I rephrase my question. “Do you think everything he’s involved in is aboveboard?”

  I get a look. A look that tells me she at least suspects that Viktor isn’t necessarily on the straight and narrow with everything.

  The gas station is seven miles up the road and we close the rest of the distance in silence. I make her wait in the car as I fill up a can I keep in my trunk.

  The rain has eased up by the time we get back to the BMW twenty minutes later. She rolls down the window as the engine purrs again, tapping the gas gauge. “Do you think this is enough to get me to the gas station? The needle hasn’t moved.”

  With my arm on the roof, I stick my head into the car to check it. “Yeah . . . It’ll climb up in a second. But I’ll follow you to the gas station and then home, just in case.”

  “Okay.” Her breath tickles the side of my neck.

  With only a second’s consideration, I do what I shouldn’t. I turn toward her parted lips. Her face is mere inches from mine, so close that I can see the red and gold flecks that give her eyes that unique color. So close that I barely have to lean in to kiss her.

  I know that she is Viktor Petrova’s wife.

  But I don’t care right now.

  Because I want her to know who I really am.

  Before I can change my mind, I lean in and let my mouth skate over hers, mimicking her own bold move from that night, a memory that I can’t shake. It takes everything in me to pull away. When I do, I see the recognition in her eyes.

  “Oh my God,” she whispers, and her fingers find their way to my mouth. Her mouth is still hanging open, her own chest heaving.

  This can’t happen.

  I slap the roof and sprint back to my car before I do something even more stupid than I already have.

  The garage door closes softly behind her.

  I should acknowledge her, say something. Not just stand there like an idiot, staring. But I can’t help it. She’s changed into a sweatshirt and track pants and washed all her makeup off. She looks like any other ordinary twenty-two-year-old, like a girl my sister might hang out with.

  Or a girl I might want to wake up next to every morning.

  Is this her attempt to make herself look less attractive? If so . . . it’s not working. I finally manage, “You look comfortable.”

  “You don’t.” With hesitation, she practically tiptoes over to hand me the plain white T-shirt dangling from her fingertips.

  I give her a pointed stare as I catch it. “I’m going to ruin that in sixty seconds.” I haven’t worn anything but black, gray, or navy blue in years.

  “That’s okay. He won’t miss it, I promise.” She pauses. “Besides, white will look good on you.”

  I’d already peeled off my soaked sweatshirt. I reach up over my head to pull my T-shirt off. And then I stall. She’s watching me. Common sense tells me that undressing in front of Viktor Petrova’s young, hot wife in his garage—especially after what just happened out on the road—would be really stupid, not to mention disrespectful. Even though I’m shivering.

  And the dickhead would deserve it for the way he treats her.

  And I’ve already kissed her, so worrying about disrespecting him really should be the least of my worries.

  Still . . . she’s vulnerable and confused.

  I drop my arms back to my sides.

  “I should let you get back to work.” The girl who babbled on about small towns and starry nights is gone with one simple kiss, leaving this one behind, who has crossed and uncrossed her arms three times since stepping out here.

  She’s nervous. I don’t want her to be nervous around me.

  She turns and takes five steps before her feet falter. “How long have you known?”

  “Since the day you came into the shop with that damaged muffler.”

  “Hmmm . . . I hit that speed bump really hard, didn’t I?”

  That makes me laugh. On impulse, I scrawl my cell phone number on a sheet from Viktor’s notebook and hold it out for her. “Here. In case you’re ever stuck again.”

  “Do you think that’s a good idea?”

  “Probably not.” Definitely not. “It’s just a friend’s cell number, Alex. Use it whenever you need to. For anything.” She can read whatever she wants into that last part.

  She quietly accepts the paper. Not until she’s on the steps does she speak again. “When I saw you that first night at The Cellar . . .” Her words drift off. “I imagined that it was you on the side of the road. I hoped it was you.”

  I’m left standing in the middle of the garage, staring at a closed metal door.

  My heart racing.

  Placing Viktor’s long list of parts on the table, I get in my car and take off for home, before I do something crazy.

  SIXTEEN

  JANE DOE

  now

  “It’s most likely a memory. Or a hint of a memory. It could mean that the man who hurt me was also someone I once trusted. Maybe I loved him. Or . . .” I hesitate. “Maybe I was involved with two men, and one of them didn’t take too well to it.” When Dr. Weimer suggested that to me, I shook my head vehemently.

  Would I have done something like that?

  Meredith remains quiet, waiting for our left turn out of the hospital driveway, as I fill her in on the details of my appointment with Dr. Weimer. I suppose some people might not feel comfortable reciting the private conversation they had with their psychologist. The ideas they tossed back and forth about what a certain dream could mean.

  I don’t balk at telling Meredith, though. Maybe it’s because she—the one who pieced my shattered body back together—now knows more about me than anyone else. Or maybe I’ve just come to value her opinion that much.

  “I might not ever remember more than that.” But I also might fall asleep one night and find myself trapped in a nightmare, reliving every painful second of my attack. A scary thought to have when you’re closing your eyes at night.

  “Only time will tell, I guess.” She smiles warily at me as she pulls into the midday Bend traffic.

  “Thank you for carting me back and forth like this. I know you must be tired.” Meredith came home at seven this morning from a thirty-hour stretch at the hospital.

  “It’s really no problem. It’s not like I was awake for my entire shift. I had a few hours off to sleep yesterday evening.”

  “Still, you and Sheriff Gabe, you keep treating me like . . .” Like I’m their child. Whose child am I? Is my mother even alive? I have to think not; otherwise she’d be looking for me.

  Wouldn’t she?

  “You’re good parents.”

  Meredith chuckles softly. “Tell that to my kids.” The smile fades. “People think learning how to restart hearts and set bones and reattach blood vessels is hard, but let me tell you, it’s nothing next to learning how to be a parent. And I’ve spent many years feeling like a horrible one. I can’t tell you how many times I wished I was around more for my son.”

  “He’s gotten into some trouble?”

  A grimace touches her lips. “He made some bad choices, that’s all. Nothing you need to worry about.” She reaches out to tap the journal in my lap. “Chicken.”

  We pass a giant waving chicken—someone dressed in a costume—standing outside a fast-food restaurant. “Scary.”

  She chuckles. “Yes. That one certainly is. Both of my kids used to scream at anything in a costume when they were young.”

  “Well, I actually already used that word.” I flip to the page where I tes
ted myself one night after dinner with Ginny and read out loud. “Chicken equals dry. Potatoes equals dry.”

  Meredith’s chuckles turn to full-fledged laughter and she glances at the page. “Beans equals knuckles?” That one didn’t make much sense to me. The confusion on Meredith’s face tells me it doesn’t make much sense to her either. “What did Dr. Weimer say about that?”

  “ ‘That’s very interesting,’ ” I say, mocking the British woman’s lovely accent.

  Several minutes of silence hang between us before Meredith suddenly says, “Baby.”

  Baby . . . baby . . . “Impossible.”

  “No.” Meredith’s stern gaze alternates between the road and my face. “I can tell you for certain, Jane, because I checked all the scans. You lost the baby due to the overall trauma to your body. It is not impossible for you to become pregnant again, when you’re ready.”

  I quietly scribble the words down as Meredith drives along Highway 20 toward home, rambling on about my uterus and how protected those organs are, even in situations of rape. The truth is, the thought of me not being able to have children again never even crossed my mind. So why would that word be the first one to hit me? Why not “want,” or “love” or “hold” or “protect”? Those are the emotionally loaded words coming to me now when I imagine cradling a baby, but they’re so different from that first, instinctual response.

  Why do I think a baby is impossible?

  “Why don’t we go to town together?”

  Ginny’s answering glare should be enough, but she tacks on a “What the hell for?” just in case I didn’t get the message.

  “I don’t know. Something to do.”

  “I’ve got something to do.” She drops her attention to her quilt, as if to prove a point. I can already see that this one—with blended shades of pink and purple forming a contrasting sky next to the snowy ground—will be entirely different from the one lying across my bed. Except for the giant black tree in the center. Ginny’s signature.

  I can see how someone might think she wants to just sit out here all day long. Ginny does. Literally. From the crisp early mornings to the twilight hours, she sits here, talking to herself and her dog, making quilts.

  No wonder she’s batty.

  “Take the keys, go on into town,” she says.

  “I need my license.”

  “You don’t need a damn license to drive around these parts. Just stay on the road and stop when the sign says ‘stop.’ Two lefts and two rights and you’re there. Even a girl with amnesia can’t get lost.”

  “I can’t. Sheriff’s orders,” I admit with a sigh.

  “What’s he going to do, arrest you?” She snorts. “Gabe’s always been a stickler for the rules, even when he was a little boy. He used to hang out by the stables in his cowboy hat and tattle to my father if I didn’t spend enough time cleaning out each stall. I think the brat came out of his mother’s womb wearing a badge.”

  I smile and try a different tactic. “You could see your quilt in the store window.”

  “I remember what it looks like just fine. I made it.”

  “Okay, well . . .” I drum my fingers across my knee. “Don’t you want to see how the town has changed in the last ten years?”

  “It hasn’t changed. That’s the problem. Still a bunch of whispering, gossiping fools who want to declare me unstable so they can steal my land.”

  “Have you always been so jaded?” I blurt out. I haven’t spent much time in town yet, so maybe she’s right, but . . . still!

  “I guess you’d better get that license, fast. Or you’ll be stuck here . . . with me.” Shrewd eyes lift to offer me a look that says she’s not any more excited about that prospect than I am right now. “Why don’t you follow the stream and go down to the lake. Take the horses with you. That limpy leg of yours could use it.” I’m halfway down the stairs when she calls out, “Just don’t be fallin’ into any gopher holes out there. Jane.”

  Ugh. That was so intentional.

  My leg is throbbing by the time I reach the lake, but it was worth it. The cold blue water serves as a reflection pool, duplicating the picturesque backdrop of trees and mountains. I simply stand there, mesmerized.

  “Come on,” I say to the horses, waving a carrot in the air. Both are big fans. Their steps speed up at the sight of the treat. “Good boys.” I pick my way through the longer grass to reach a sandy clearing by the water’s edge. Though I haven’t seen any, the last thing I need to do is step into an animal hole and break another bone.

  Evidence of Amber out here with her friends sits in a circle in the sand—a man-made stone pit with a pile of ash nestled within. It’s small. If it gets as dry as she says it does during the summer, then I guess nothing larger than this would be safe.

  I crouch to test the shallow edge of the water with my fingertips. Ice cold, just like the stream. A person would die of hypothermia, diving in here right now. How much warmer does it get? Making a seat for myself on a nearby boulder, I look out over the water, trying to imagine myself growing up here. But it’s hard. I have no experiences to draw from.

  If this brain of mine doesn’t want anything to do with the girl I was—as Ginny puts it—then I guess I’ll have to let go and move on, make new memories. I need to meet new people, get a job. Maybe jump in this lake this summer. And camp under these stars. I tip my head back and take in the vast sky, closing my eyes to absorb the sun’s rays that kiss my skin. We’ve hit a spring heat wave and, though the nights are still in the low 30s, the temperature has reached highs of close to 80 degrees.

  I need a new name.

  “I don’t know why it’s so hard,” I say to both horses. “Ginny’s right. Just pick a name and that’ll be my name!” Rubbing Felix the Brown’s muzzle, my gaze wanders over the lake again. “But that’s the final straw, then.” A new name is the official reset button. I’m abandoning the girl I was, everything about her, including hope that I’ll find her again.

  Leaning down, I skim the pebbles for a few small stones. I toss one stone, a second, a third, listening to the faint plunking sounds as they hit the water.

  The water.

  The idea blooms inside my mind, growing, sending a ripple of excitement through me.

  It’s been there all along.

  “What’s that smile for?”

  I hold out the temporary ID.

  Ginny scowls. “Don’t be testing my patience now. Hand it on over.”

  I do, and then ball my fists under my armpits and hold my breath as she squints at the temporary driver’s license that the nice man from the DMV issued me this morning. Sheriff Gabe had my identification papers finalized with the judge last week. Then he used his position to cut whatever red tape was required to get me a driver’s license test. I earned a perfect score. The petite, dark-haired woman said that she would have thought I’d been driving for years.

  I know when Ginny reaches the line that shows my new name because her scowl fades. “Water Fitzgerald?”

  “I hope you don’t mind, but I figured if we’re going with the whole cousin story, then it might make sense.” That’s the official explanation that Meredith and I came up with. Second cousin, once removed, from Pittsburgh. I got hurt in a car wreck. It may keep the gossips at bay.

  “Hmm . . . Smart thinking,” she offers in an unusually soft tone. I wait for her to make some snide comment about my choice of first name. When she doesn’t, I exhale in relief.

  “So, if you don’t mind, I’d like to take the truck out for a drive. I won’t go far, I promise.” I pat my phone in my fleecy pocket. “And I have my phone on me, just in case.” I’ve left Ginny’s ranch several times with Meredith and Sheriff Gabe, but now I’m desperate to wrap my hands around the old yellow truck’s steering wheel and just drive off, with no destination in mind.

  Ginny makes an unintelligible noise in response and then turns her focus back to her quilt, her slippered foot pushing off on the wooden floor to get the bench swinging again.


  I don’t wait another second. I walk as fast as I can and climb into the big truck. I’ve driven it up and down the driveway for mail a few times, so I’m ready to hear its struggle as I turn the key. Finally the diesel engine relents, kicking in with a slight rattling sound.

  With a wave toward Ginny, I ease it into drive and give it gas.

  She watches me roll by, her quilt resting on her lap, a slight smile on her lips.

  SEVENTEEN

  Jesse

  then

  “Jesse?” There’s something about the way she says my name. It gets my blood pumping hard through my veins in an instant.

  “Uh . . .” I roll my head to check on Boone, stretched out on the other side of the sectional, remote in hand. “Hey. What’s up?”

  “Were you planning on coming over to work on the car tonight?”

  I check the digital numbers on the cable box. Nine thirty. I’ve done exactly what I planned on doing all day today. Sweet fuck all, while nursing a hangover. I went out to shoot some pool with a couple of buddies last night. I ended up drinking too much and comparing every woman who approached me to Alex. They all fell short. Needless to say, I came home alone. “No plans on it.” It’ll take Viktor a week or two—at least—to “appropriate” the parts, I’m sure. I pause. “Why?”

  “Oh, I was just going to tell you not to bother. The power’s out with the storm.”

  “Really?” This is the worst November I’ve seen in Portland yet. I’m surprised we haven’t lost our power too. “It’ll be back up soon, though, right?” Back in Sisters, when there’s a good storm and it knocks our power out, it can be down for an entire night. But Viktor and Alex live in a rich neighborhood. I’m sure the rich get priority service, even with the electric companies.

  “It was out for hours the last two times.”

  “So . . . what are you gonna do until then? Too early to go to bed, I guess?” There’s not much else to do in a power outage except sleep and . . . well, I’m assuming Viktor isn’t there.

  “I’ve checked into a hotel. I can’t sleep when the power goes out and I’m in the house alone.”