“She’s good for him.” I pour two cups of coffee, handing one to Mom before sitting down beside her.
“Will you please tell me more about this book you’re writing, Esme? I didn’t want to pester you too much, but I want to know what kind of story has you so entirely captivated.”
Taking a sip of my black coffee, I ready myself. I’m glad Mom is interested in my book, but I’m also anxious to share this story. Every time someone else puts their eyes on it, I have to remind myself that feedback and critique are positive things. I stand and move a few feet to sit at my computer where my manuscript is currently pulled up.
I start at the beginning.
“It’s a story about a vacation fling that turns into something rich and deep between a male character named Noah Ashton and a female character named Esme Prewitt. I used my name since I’m publishing under Lorraine E. Jenkins.” I laugh nervously, turning to my side to see my mom’s face since I’m about to mention Prewitt Publishing again and my family had such a strange reaction the first time. But her face is already as white as a ghost. I continue anyway. “I thought it was funny that Prewitt Publishing reached out because I used that name for the female character.”
“Can I read it, Esme?” Her words are choked, barely above a whisper, like she’s fighting for her life to hold back tears.
“Mom, what’s wrong?” I twist to my side to give her my full attention.
Her mouth opens and closes as she finds whatever words she wants to say. “I just…” She trails off before trying again, tucking her graying hair behind her ears. “I’m proud of you. For writing a story that you believe in and for already securing an agent.”
My chest warms though something still feels off. “Thanks, Mom.” I return her tight smile. “But it’s not a done deal yet.”
“It will be.” Mom’s voice is soft and sure, but her eyes are far away. “I need to go find your father, but send me a copy of what you have written when you get a moment.”
I nod, thankful she’s supporting me in this capacity. “I will. But, Mom,” she stands to leave, “is something else wrong?”
The sorrowful smile of someone who has just received the news that they have lost someone near and dear to their heart crosses her face as she gently shakes her head before exiting.
“What was that?” I ask myself aloud and then call Sam.
I know she knows something by that off-the-wall comment she made at El Mariachi about remembering someone, and I will get it out of her if it’s the last thing I do. Something is off.
She picks up after three rings. “Hey, Meme. What’s up?”
“Drop whatever you’re doing and get over here. I have five hours until I meet Bryan for dinner.”
There. Luring her with a steaming mug of gossip tea.
“Be there in twenty,” she shouts before hanging up, the sound of banging pans silencing.
***
Sam wouldn’t budge, but now I know, without a shadow of a doubt, that something is off.
She told me that out of respect for my parents, she wasn’t going to talk about what was going on. But she did say she’d talk to my family for me and tell them that she thinks it’s time I knew.
I asked her what I should know, but she only offered me that same sorrowful smile my mom did.
Now I’m sitting at a table at Gunnar’s Hamburger Joint, a place I enjoy now and apparently used to enjoy often with Bryan. I’m fifteen minutes early and still reeling over whatever it is I’m missing from my memory that my family has chosen to hide from me.
I don’t like the deceit, and quite frankly, I’m mad.
Yes, I lost the memories, but they are still my memories. I trusted each of them to tell me everything.Everything.
Whatever is missing is serious. I can tell by the sorrow etched on their faces. And does it have anything to do with Prewitt Publishing? Or just the name Prewitt in general?
Was my therapist right? Am I writing down a memory of some sort in the form of fiction? Am I narrating what happened in Bora Bora before the jet ski accident?
I can’t believe I’m asking myself this, but is Noah Ashley Ashton—
Ashton.
Ashton Ashley.
