Chapter 2 - The Woman Who Didn't Know Her Name
By sunrise, Richard had hired four private investigators.
By breakfast, there were six.
Emma stood in the kitchen watching her father issue orders like a general preparing for war.
"Every shelter within fifty miles."
Richard paced.
"Soup kitchens. Recycling centers. Free clinics. Train stations."
One investigator nodded.
"We'll check city cameras."
"Check them twice."
"Richard," Emma said quietly.
He ignored her.
"Find out where people sell scrap metal. She had cans."
"Dad."
Richard stopped.
Emma approached him.
"What if it isn't her?"
The question hurt them both.
Richard looked at the photograph on the marble counter.
"Then I'll know."
"And if it is?"
His answer came immediately.
"I'm bringing her home."
Emma's eyes filled with uncertainty.
"What if she doesn't remember us?"
Richard looked at his daughter.
That possibility had kept him awake all night.
"Then I'll introduce myself."
Three neighborhoods away, the woman everyone was looking for woke beneath the awning behind a closed hardware store.
She called herself Anna.
At least, that was the name written on an old hospital bracelet she had once found among her belongings years ago.
She did not know whether it was really hers.
There were holes in her memory.
Huge ones.
Sometimes flashes appeared.
A man's laugh.
A white kitchen.
A baby crying.
Rain against a windshield.
Then pain.
Always pain.
Anna collected cans because cans required no references.
No identification.
No explanation.
She could earn enough for soup.
Sometimes enough for a motel room.
Lately, even walking had become difficult.
She coughed into a handkerchief.
When she pulled it away, there was blood.
She stared at it for a long moment.
Then folded it quickly.
"No," she whispered.
There was no money for a doctor.
So she pushed herself upright.
By noon, Richard's investigators had found three possible sightings.
All wrong.
By evening, Richard had personally visited two shelters.
Nothing.
On the second day, Samuel found him staring at the gate-camera footage again.
"Sir, you need sleep."
"She walked past my house."
"I know."
"My wife walked past my house."
Samuel had no answer.
Richard pointed at the screen.
"She looked sick."
"Yes."
"And I was inside arguing about quarterly projections."
"You didn't know."
"I should have."
Samuel hesitated.
"Twenty years ago, you searched until you nearly destroyed yourself."
Richard's jaw tightened.
"And apparently I stopped too soon."
On the fourth day, Emma accompanied him to a downtown mission.
A volunteer studied Claire's photograph.
"I've seen her."
Richard nearly grabbed the counter.
"When?"
"Couple weeks ago."
"What's her name?"
"Anna, I think."
Richard blinked.
"Anna?"
"That's what she calls herself."
"Where does she stay?"
The volunteer shook her head.
"She doesn't like shelters. Says enclosed places make her panic."
"Why?"
"She doesn't know."
Emma exchanged a look with her father.
Trauma.
Memory loss.
The pieces were beginning to fit.
"Is she sick?" Emma asked.
The volunteer's expression darkened.
"She looks worse every time I see her."
Richard leaned in.
"Where does she usually collect?"
"South side. Near the old elevated tracks."
They searched until midnight.
No Claire.
The next week became a cycle of hope and disappointment.
A woman outside a grocery store.
Not her.
Someone sleeping near a church.
Not her.
A recycling clerk remembered Claire but hadn't seen her in days.
Richard stopped attending meetings.
His company's directors whispered that he was losing perspective.
He didn't care.
Then his older sister, Evelyn, arrived unexpectedly.
She found Richard in his study surrounded by maps.
"I heard you're chasing a homeless woman across Boston."
Richard looked up coldly.
"I'm looking for Claire."
Evelyn froze almost imperceptibly.
Richard noticed.
"What?"
"Nothing."
"You made a face."
"I'm shocked, Richard."
"Samuel found her photograph."
He placed it on the desk.
Evelyn did not touch it.
"Old photographs get lost."
"At my gate?"
"Coincidences happen."
"I saw her on camera."
Richard stood.
"It was Claire."
Evelyn's lips tightened.
"Claire died."
"You don't know that."
"We buried an empty casket twenty years ago because there wasn't enough left to—"
"Don't."
Evelyn stopped.
Richard's voice dropped.
"Don't finish that sentence."
She softened.
"I'm trying to protect you."
"From what?"
"Destroying yourself again."
Richard stared at her.
There was something strange in her reaction.
Not grief.
Fear.
"Did you know something?"
Evelyn's eyes flashed.
"What could I know?"
Richard stepped closer.
"I don't know."
A long silence passed.
Then Evelyn picked up her handbag.
"You need sleep."
She left too quickly.
Richard watched the door long after she was gone.
That night, rain hammered Boston.
The investigators had nothing.
Richard couldn't breathe inside the mansion anymore.
He took a coat and left alone.
He walked for blocks without direction.
Past restaurants.
Closed shops.
A pharmacy.
Then, beneath the flickering sign of an abandoned laundromat, he saw a shopping cart.
Cans.
Newspapers.
Scrap metal.
Richard stopped.
A woman was crouched near the curb trying to pick up an aluminum can.
Her hand missed it.
She swayed.
Richard's heart slammed against his ribs.
"Claire?"
The woman slowly turned.
Rain streaked across her face.
She was frighteningly thin.
Her skin was pale.
Her lips had almost no color.
But her eyes—
Richard knew those eyes.
She stared at him.
Confused.
He stepped closer.
"Claire."
She backed away.
"I'm sorry. You have the wrong person."
Richard started crying.
He didn't even realize it.
"You used to hate thunderstorms."
The woman's expression changed.
A tiny flicker.
"You slept with the bathroom light on during storms because you said lightning couldn't find you in there."
She stared.
"How do you know that?"
Richard took another step.
"Because I'm your husband."
Her breath caught.
A memory flashed behind her eyes.
A younger man laughing.
A ring.
Rain.
A baby wrapped in red.
The woman dropped the can.
Richard reached toward her.
She whispered, "Richard?"
His entire body broke.
"Yes."
Claire's knees buckled.
Richard caught her before she hit the pavement.
She was burning with fever.
"Claire!"
Her eyes fluttered.
"I know your voice."
Then she went limp in his arms.
Richard lifted her.
For twenty years, he had dreamed about holding his wife again.
He had never imagined she would weigh almost nothing.
As he carried her toward the street, Claire's hand weakly closed around his coat.
And from somewhere deep inside a shattered memory, she whispered one word.
"Emma."
Richard stopped walking.
He looked down at her.
"My God."
Claire was unconscious again.
May you like
But Richard was smiling through tears.
Because she remembered their daughter.
