Distant Memory (3 page)

“They’re supposed to give you one when you check in,” he said. “Did you come in last night?”

She had no idea, but that seemed right. “Yes.”

“Let’s see. Here it is. I’ll have to make a photocopy of it. We have to keep a copy for our files.”

“Thank you.”

“Sure you don’t want more water?”

“I’m sure.”

Again he disappeared into the side room. When he returned he had an 8½-by-11-inch piece of paper with him. He handed it to her. She took it with a shaky hand. The paper was a reproduction of a small note. The receipt had the name of the motel and its address in block letters at the top. Underneath was a barely legible scrawl. She found the line that read
Name
. Next to it was printed
Nick Blanchard
. She was nonplussed. “Are you sure this is the right receipt?”

He looked at the original. “It’s the one for room one-ten. The night manager could have screwed things up again. That happens sometimes. It’s easy to write down the wrong room number or switch a couple of the numbers around. I’ve done it myself. If you tell me your name, I can go through the receipts and—”

“There’s no need for that,” she said quickly. She studied the paper again. The check-in time was listed as 11:30
P.M.
One night was paid in
advance.
That’s a relief. At least I won’t be reneging on a bill
. It also meant that she was out on the street.

“Did you want to check out now?” the clerk asked.

Nick Blanchard
. She mulled the name over, ignoring the question. Did she write that name? That seemed unlikely. The night clerk would have thought it strange. Did she arrive with someone else? A husband? A boyfriend? Who was Nick Blanchard?

“Lady, do you want to check out or not?”

“Sure she does,” came a new voice. She spun around and saw a man standing in the doorway. His eyes were fixed on her. “No one wants to stay in this dump two nights running.” He released the door and walked into the lobby. He held out his hand. “Hi, I’m Nick Blanchard.”

In silence, she took his hand.

I
went to your room, but you weren’t there,” Nick Blanchard said. He was tall with a medium build. His hair was dark brown and touched with gray at the sides. It was his face that struck her. It was heavily lined around the eyes, and two deep creases ran vertically along his cheeks. Smiling made the creases deeper. Yet his face was neither old nor harsh, but was simple and ruggedly attractive.

“I’m … um,” she began shakily, wondering what to say.

His dark eyes flashed as he offered another smile while holding up his index finger. “Hold on a minute,” he said smoothly. Reaching into his pocket, he removed a key identical to the one she had just surrendered to the clerk. In a fluid movement, he tossed the key to the earring-decorated employee. “Room one-eleven,” he said to the young man. “I’m ready to check out too. Do you need anything else from me?”

“No sir,” the clerk said. “I mean, I don’t think so. Let me check.” Once again he stepped back into the adjoining office and reemerged with a receipt. “It looks like you’re all paid up and you made no phone calls. So we’re square.”

“I made no phone calls because the phone doesn’t work,” Nick said bluntly.

“Oh. Sorry.”

“Where can we get some breakfast?” Nick asked.

“There’s a McDonald’s next door. They serve breakfast. There’s also a café two blocks down.” He motioned north with his thumb.

“Is it any good?”

“Not even close. You won’t catch me in there.”

“McDonald’s it is.” Turning to her again, he said, “I don’t know about you, but I really could use some coffee.”

Did she drink coffee? It sounded good. “I’m afraid that I don’t have—”

“My treat,” he said before she could finish. “I eat alone all the time, and I hate it. It will be nice to have some company for a change. Shall we?” He motioned to the door with a gallant gesture.

Uncertainty welled up in her like a geyser. This was absurd. She didn’t know him. At least, she didn’t think she did. Maybe he was responsible for her condition. Maybe he wasn’t a white knight coming to her rescue. But he had arranged for her room the night before and had even come looking for her this morning. Certainly an attacker would not do that, would he?

“I don’t bite,” he said softly. “I imagine you’re a little confused. I know I am. Let’s go somewhere where we can talk. It’s a public place. You’ll be safe.”

Unable to think of any alternative, she nodded slightly and started for the door without a word.

The fast-food restaurant was crowded with travelers, locals, and children. The small dining room was a cacophony of laughter and conversation. She was sitting at a cartoon yellow booth. Before her was a large cup of black coffee and an egg-and-biscuit sandwich. Blanchard sat opposite her, eating a pancake-and-egg breakfast from a thin plastic
foam platter. He ate quickly and with gusto. She raised the sandwich to her mouth and took a bite, then winced.

Nick noticed the expression of pain. “I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I should have realized that your lip would be sore. Let me get something you can eat with a fork.”

“No, that’s all right, Mr. Blanchard. I’m not really hungry.”

“Nick,” he said. “Call me Nick. Mr. Blanchard makes me think you’re speaking to my father.”

“You don’t like being called Mister?” she asked, hoping to direct the conversation away from her. She was still trying to make sense of - everything around her and was failing.

“Much too formal.”

“Okay,” she agreed. “Nick it is.”

“Now what about you? What’s your name?”

This was the question she feared. Perhaps blurting out the truth might be useful, but she was uncertain. Breakfast notwithstanding, Nick was still a stranger. For that matter, everyone was a stranger to her, including herself. “I didn’t tell you last night? I mean, when you arranged for the motel?” She was hoping he would fill in the blanks about how she had come to be in a motel just one room away from him.

“No. You didn’t say much at all. In fact, the only word that came out of your mouth was
no
. I could tell that you were hurt and disoriented. I offered to take you to a hospital or the police, but you went ballistic. Threatened to jump out of the truck if I tried. I figured that was the last thing you needed. And I couldn’t leave you on the side of the road. A lot of wackos drive the 14 and the 58.”

“Truck?” She had no memory of a truck.

“Yeah, my tractor-trailer rig.” He took a sip of coffee. “It’s parked in front of that lousy excuse for a motel. I suppose I should apologize for that too. There’s not much choice around here, and it was the first place I saw. At least you agreed to stay there.”

He’s a trucker
. “Do you pass through here often?”

“Sometimes,” he answered. “I’m an independent. I own my own rig and work for whomever I want.”

Whomever. Not whoever. He knows the difference. He has some education
. Her mind was desperately grasping for facts.

“Do you like it?” It was an inane question, but she knew of nothing else to say or do.

“Yes, and I think you’re stalling.”

She sat back, uncertain what to say.

“I don’t mean to be rude,” he said apologetically. “I have no right to ask you any questions. I just want to help, that’s all.”

A sense of guilt washed over her. He had been kind enough to pick her up and see that she had shelter for the night. He could have just passed her by, leaving her to wander on the road. That was what he’d said, wasn’t it? That he had found her on the roadside. “You found me on the roadside?”

“That’s right. You were just wandering along the highway like you were in a trance. Lucky for you it’s summer; in winter you would have frozen. Most people don’t realize how cold it can get up here.”

Why would she be walking along the side of a desert highway? “And I didn’t say anything to you?”

“Not a thing. You got in the truck easy enough. All I had to do was open the door and you crawled right in, although I could tell it hurt you to do so. That’s why I wanted to go to the highway patrol or to a hospital, but you made it clear that wasn’t going to happen.”

“I’m sorry if I’ve caused you trouble.”

He waved a dismissive hand. “What good is it being a knight errant if I can’t help the occasional damsel in distress?” He motioned courteously with one arm and, since he was seated in a booth, bowed as best he could. She smiled and then, touching her sore lip, said, “Ouch.” She scowled. She had grown tired of hurting.

Nick frowned. “Is the rest of you as sore as your lip?”

At first she hesitated, all the fears resurfacing in her mind. But she needed help; she needed a friend. Alone, penniless, lost, she had to have help even if it meant taking a risk. “Yes,” she said with a sigh. “I’m damaged but not broken.”

“You sound like you’re talking about a piece of furniture or something. What else hurts? If I’m not being too personal, that is.”

“Bruises, and my side hurts. My head aches some too.”

“Bruises?” He looked thoughtful for a moment. “May I ask where the bruises are?”

This was uncomfortable. Should she tell a total stranger about the marks on her body? She decided that she had nothing to lose. “Besides what you see on my face, there is a bruise on my shoulder and—”

“Which shoulder?”

“What difference does that make?” she asked, puzzled.

“Maybe nothing; maybe everything.”

“My left shoulder. And there is a long diagonal bruise from my left shoulder to my right hip.” She felt her face turn hot.

“Don’t be embarrassed,” he said softly. “What about the lower abdomen? Is it bruised too?”

She nodded.

“How is your chest? Is it sore?”

This time she didn’t answer. The questions were getting personal.

“I’m not a pervert. I’ll explain why I ask in a moment. Now how about it? Is your chest sore?”

“Yes, and my left side.”

“I wouldn’t doubt your right foot is pretty banged up too. Maybe the ankle.”

“How did you know?”

“I was in an auto accident once. Flipped my car several times. Your bruises mean that you were in a wreck of some kind.”

“I don’t get it.”

“It’s simple. Your split lip and chapped face came from the airbag.
That’s also why your chest is sore. Air bags save thousands of lives, but they leave their mark. The diagonal bruise on your chest is probably from the shoulder harness. That would also explain why your left side is sore. You were driving.”

“How can you know that?” she asked with disbelief.

“The direction of the bruise. You said it ran from your left shoulder to your right hip. That’s the direction of the driver’s shoulder strap. It would explain the bruise across the lap area. I’d bet money that you were in an auto accident. Probably rolled the car, hitting your shoulder on the side window as well as your head. That’s where the knot on your forehead came from. As far as your foot goes—well, that just proves that you were driving. Most likely you hit your foot on the brake pedal when the accident happened. You’re lucky, really. I had a friend whose foot was broken that way.” She reached up and touched the sensitive lump on her forehead.

“An auto accident. That might explain …” she trailed off.

“Explain what?”

She didn’t answer.

“Okay, then. Let me guess. You seem quite confused, and you’ve been hesitant to say anything about yourself or what has happened to you. You’re fearful, even paranoid. No offense intended.”

“None taken.”

“That’s good,” he leaned back and took a long sip of coffee, his eyes darting over her as if he could see into her very being, peering through each layer of emotional defense like an x-ray machine through flesh. “You don’t know who you are, do you?”

“That’s ridiculous,” she snapped defensively. “Who could forget something like that?”

“Accident victims for one. The traumatized for another.” His words were steady yet soft, devoid of any accusation. “Am I right?”

Tears began to brim in her eyes, and she lowered her head. This
nightmare was real. This was no dream from which to awake. She was sitting in a strange restaurant in a strange little desert town talking to a strange man who might be the only person she could trust.

Leaning forward, Nick reached out a hand and gently touched her arm. His hand was warm and smooth. It felt good, reassuring. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I just want to help.”

“I don’t know who I am,” she said in a soft but forced whisper. “I have no memory. I don’t remember a car accident. I don’t remember you picking me up on the road. I don’t remember going to the motel. My past, even my name, is a mystery to me.”

“No identification?”

She shook her head. “Not that I could find.”

“That makes sense,” he said flatly, leaning back in the booth.

“How does that make sense? It sure doesn’t make sense to me.”

“You’re a woman. Women often carry their identification in a purse, seldom on their person. Men are just the opposite. We tuck our wallets in our back pockets. If you were indeed in an accident and sufficiently stunned by it, it is quite possible that you wandered away from the wreck leaving your purse behind.”