The psychologist had provided a great deal of information about amnesia. The causes of it. The mechanics of it. The reassurance that his memories would likely come back soon, especially now that Jeremiah’s brain had retrieved one memory. They’d worked on EMDR therapy the remainder of the session, which hadn’t loosened up any more memories. Even so, Jeremiah had booked follow-up appointments when the psychologist suggested he try more EMDR, cognitive therapy, and neurofeedback.
During hypnotherapy, he’d experienced a vision similar to the one he’d experienced with Maureen on Islehaven, except today’s vision had taken place in a different setting. This time, he’d been climbing a mountain at night, pushing branches to the side as he’d searched for Alexis. Like before, he’d had the overpowering sense that he’d made a terrible mistake. Urgency had driven him to move as fast as he possibly could but, once again, his limbs had been weighted and slow.
After hypnosis he’d woken to the same sense of dread. Why did his dreams of her come with so much guilt?
Today had confirmed that he was a shell of a person because of the amnesia. Inadequate. At a huge disadvantage with Remy.
She wasn’t impressed with any of the things that impressed most people. But at least if he’d met her when he’d been 1.0, he’d have brought his whole self to the table. He’d probably have been mentally sharper. More appealing to her. More able to see how to soften her toward him. More willing to thank Remy for all she’d done for him and let her go.
As it was, just the thought of letting her go caused his heart to rebel. He was too selfish to stand to the side and let her return to Islehaven without a fight.
Islehaven valued her. But he valued her far, far more.
Remy sat back in astonishment, blinking at the screen of the library computer.
The Groomsport librarian had spent close to an hour giving Remy a mini class in the library resources that might aid her search for Marisol Soto. Remy had been putting her fledgling knowledge to use for most of the afternoon and now, right here in front of her, she’d found mention of a Marisol Soto on the Newspapers.com site the library subscribed to.
Sitting up straighter, she clicked the link.
A digitized article from a small-town newspaper appeared. Remy read it quickly. The article featured a non-profit used clothing store called Threads that provided jobs and housing to formerly homeless people.
“This organization does so much good for our community,” says Marisol Soto, a volunteer who assists with training and stocking shelves. “It’s rewarding to be involved.”
That was the only mention of Marisol in the article.
Still!Marisol Soto. Right there in black and white.
Remy collected her things, strode several yards onto the grassy park outside the library, and called Wendell’s landline.
“Wendell speaking.”
“I just found a Marisol Soto quoted in an article at the library. The article’s only two years old.”
“Oh?”
“She volunteers at a non-profit in Belfast called Threads. Belfast, Wendell! The town where the two of you met.”
“My, my,” he marveled. “Truly?”
“Yes!”
“What should we do?”
“We should drive to Belfast first thing in the morning and visit Threads.”
ChapterFourteen
If Wendell had gotten his way, he and Remy would have arrived at Threads at 5:00 a.m. in advance of their 9:00 a.m. opening.
As it was, Remy was the person with the car keys and thus the person with the power. She refused to leave until 8:00. Then made a stop at the diner so they could grab breakfast. They arrived at Threads, which occupied an unassuming slot in a strip mall, at 9:20.
Remy peeked across at Wendell once they’d both exited the car. He smoothed his best sweater—the one with a pattern of small nautical flags—and took a deep breath. He appeared pale and more wobbly than usual.
“Ready?” she asked, hoping against hope it had been a good idea to bring him here, that it had been a good idea to try to find Marisol in the first place. Should Marisol no longer volunteer here, surely someone at Threads would remember her and be able to provide additional information about where and how to contact her.
“Never more ready,” Wendell said. He held the door for her, and they made their way to a large cash register and the grizzled, middle-aged man working behind it. “Anything I can do for you?” he asked.
Wendell blanched and didn’t seem capable of speech.
