Her Memory Loss

ROXANNE 

"There's nothing to thank you for. I never asked you to come into the picture," I threw at him, filled with justified anger. 

"Really?" He raised a brow, his eyes sizing me up.

"Yes, really." I retorted, "I can handle my business quite well. What I do not need is the brother of my ex-husband who is obviously a playboy to add me to his list of 'fucked girls'..."

"You have no proof I'm a playboy. In fact, you barely know me." He cut in with a kind of calm and reason that made me sound paranoid and stupid. "However, I get your point. You do not want me to step in, fine. You're an adult. So you can sit down, we'll have conversations like two civil adults. I won't exceed my boundaries and try to kiss you again. First thing in the morning, I'll be driving you back home and it'll be the end of that. Are we good now?"

"Yes." I nodded, telling myself that whatever strange feelings humming inside was nothing to write home about.

He rose from his seat to go open the drawer attached to the TV unit, and took a pack of cigar and a lighter. 

He returned to his sofa, unbuttoned his shirt and shrugged out of it. I forced my eyes away from all that ripped muscles and daring tattoos. 

I lowered myself back on the sofa, watching him light his cigar and draw in smoke like it was second nature to him. 

Opting for small talks to clear the a slight tension, I asked, "so why aren't you close with your brother? I mean, I never met you until that day at the party and they never spoke of you."

His broad shoulders bounced in a shrug, "we're all busy. I have my business to run, he has his to tend to."

"But for five years? No Easter visits. No calls on Thanksgiving. Come on, I didn't even see you during Christmas or New Year's celebration. Ethan doesn't even know he has an uncle." I probed, seriously curious.

"It's... complicated. But we're good." His tone was a bit dismissive, indicating he didn't want to go further on the subject. Then he turned the tables, "now about you, first off, why did you pretend you know the girl?"

By 'the girl', I could tell who he was referring to. "Because I do know her. I mean, at first, I didn't recognize her but when she pressed on and explained, that jolted my memory."

"Ah." He stared at me, his eyes letting me know he didn't believe me, "your memory's that bad that you also don't remember whether or not you have a sister?"

I swallowed, a bit nervous. Then annoyance rose, fading nerves into the back. 

Why should I be nervous? I didn't want to talk about my personal life with him.

"Can we just move on?" The unwillingness to talk more on the issue evident in my tone. 

"What was the name of the high school you attended with Rochelle?" He drew in on his cigar, a small, smoky fog filling the room as he exhaled through his lips. 

"None of your business." My brows pinched, annoyance growing. 

"Your sister's name?" 

I didn't bother with a response this time. I grabbed the bottle, refilled my glass and drank deeply. Almost desperately.

"Do you, by any chance, have amnesia and are ashamed to talk about it?" 

My hands stilled on the glass, trembling a bit. I didn't like to talk about my memory loss. It usually brought about a kind of headache that hurt my chest too. 

It made me feel as though I was missing something very important in my past. And if I tried too hard to remember, I'd get frustrated. 

"N-no." My voice didn't come out as steady as I wanted it, and it riled me. 

"I can always find out the truth about you, Roxanne." He said in a casual tone, even deliberate. Eyes serious and observant. "Telling me the truth will..."

"Will do what, exactly?" It was a straggle to keep emotions tamed. "It's not like the truth will make me remember now, will it?"

I stood to pace, realizing too late I'd confirmed what he already knew — my amnesia.

Too many emotions clogged my throat as tears burned the back of it. The ache was beginning to come on.

"I love my mother. God knows how much," I couldn't help the unsteadiness in my voice...and to an extent, I didn't care anymore. "I really do. I mean, she's the best. But sometimes, I have a feeling there's something she's keeping from me. I know, I'm not supposed to think that and it makes me feel guilty like I don't trust my own mother, but..." My voice trailed off.

Still, he watched and listened and smoked. Not interrupting. 

I stopped to face him. "Imagine how deeply shocked I was to hear someone else tell me about a sister I didn't even know I had...or have, if she's alive. I never saw a picture of any girl in that house."

"Any girl?" He finally spoke, meeting my gaze, cigar stuck between his fingers, red embers twinkling.

"Yes." I sat back down, heaving a sigh.

"Not even yours? As a baby or toddler? In your preteens? First birthday? As a teenager? Mothers love to keep those kind of memories."

"Oh," I drew in a breath, "when I asked, she said she and my dad lost everything to flood in their old house. Maybe that was what happened to pictures of this sister I have no idea exists or existed, but why didn't she tell me about her?" On a second thought, I continued, "although she didn't also tell me about my dad until I asked."

"Hm." Came his response, his eyes staring at my face but there was a thoughtful look in the striking green of them. "When did you have this accident? It was an accident, right?"

I nodded, "yes, it was. It happened six years ago, so I was told. And I woke up a year later from coma."

"How old are you now?"

"Twenty five."

He gave a single nod, "alright. It could be nothing, but I suggest you call Rochelle and talk to her. And your mother too."

I bit my lower lip, my expression crumpled slightly in a worry, "I...I can't talk to my mother about it."

"Why?" His brows pinched a little. 

"The past usually hurts her to talk about. I don't like to see her on that despaired state."

He shrugged, "alright, then. If you're that curious, talk to Rochelle. If not, let it be and move on."