“After studying your condition in great detail,” she said in the direction of the pelican, “I think you have dissociative amnesia—likely a result of both psychological stress and physical trauma. A patient’s memories can return all at once or gradually. Most commonly, they come back in days, but it can take weeks or months. The prognosis is good but there’s no medicine for it other than relaxation, a peaceful environment, and psychotherapy.”
“Well. One out of three isn’t bad.”
“Here you have two out of three,” she corrected. “Relaxation and a peaceful environment.”
“One out of three. I’d have a peaceful environment except that you’re here.” He shot her his dimples.
She rolled her head toward him and held a hand horizontally a few inches in front of her chest. “This is my last nerve.” She positioned her other hand above it and poked down on her lower hand repeatedly. “And this is you.”
He chuckled, which turned into a wheeze.
“I’ve been reviewing case studies of people,” she said, “who turned up with amnesia in order to see how the police or FBI figured out their identities.”
“And?”
“If the police or FBI were here, they’d fingerprint you. They’d check DNA. They’d use facial recognition software.”
“But since they’re not here, what can we do?”
“Look at your clothing and belongings for clues, which I’ve already done. Look for tattoos. Do you have any distinctive tattoos?”
“You’ve seen most of my body.”
“Just your clavicles!”
“I don’t have any tattoos.”
“Some people with amnesia are able to bring up fragments of information. For example, parts of their Social Security number. Places. Images from their childhood. Has anything come to you?”
He could see how much she wanted him to give her something to work with. Clearly, she was not willing to sit on her hands and wait for his history to come back to him. He wished, for both their sakes, he had information to give. “Nothing has come to me yet. If anything does, I’ll tell you.”
The bun on top of her head unwound. Almost unconsciously, she piled it up again. As soon as she finished, it started to come undone again.
The sound of an approaching car reached him. “Is that Leigh?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Her brake pads are worn down.”
She gave him an inquiring look.
He shrugged.
A short time later, Leigh appeared. He started to rise to give her his seat, but Leigh placed a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t get up.”
“Take my chair.” Remy relocated to a cross-legged position on the deck as Leigh sat.
“Before I forget,” Leigh said to Remy, “Wendell called me today. He’s on island, staying at Harry’s.”
“Aw.” Remy’s expression softened. Clearly, she liked this Wendell a thousand times more than she liked him. “I’ll go by and check on him tomorrow.”
“Who’s Wendell?” he asked.
“Our elderly friend,” Leigh answered. “Wendell Reeves. He used to live here but had to start getting dialysis so he moved near the hospital in Rockland.” She rubbed her chapped hands together, looking between Remy and him. “Where are we on our search for Jonah’s identity?”
“We were just saying that we’re going to move forward as if he has amnesia,” Remy informed her.
“Okay. How?”
