“Are you hungry?” he asked.
“Not really. Maybe a little something,” she mumbled, her voice trailing off as her eyes scanned the menu.
The waitress reappeared, her pen ready to jot down their order as she smiled her practiced smile.
“I’ll have the huevos rancheros,” he said.
“I want a strawberry milk shake, order of bacon, and coffee,” Josie said, closing her menu and not looking up as the waitress left.
“This Canadian food company did a survey and found out that forty-three percent of people would rather have bacon than sex.”
“Canadian bacon or regular bacon?” she asked.
“It didn’t say.”
“Well,” Josie said, “it would really make a difference.”
Tristan took a cautious sip of his coffee while they waited for the waitress to return with hers.
“Are you saying that standard breakfast bacon may be better than sex, but Canadian bacon is lacking?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying,” Josie answered.
“Would you equate it with any kind of sexual act, or is it just not that good?”
“I might have Canadian bacon instead of giving a hand job.”
“But you get no pleasure from that,” he said.
“Exactly.” Josie gave a shrug of her shoulders.
“Maybe the Canadians don’t know what they’re doing,” Tristan said.
“Hardly. Their bacon-making skills are, as you put it, lacking.”
Tristan nodded in agreement. When the waitress returned, Josie dumped sugar into her coffee, stirring counterclockwise. She turned to the wall and traced an outline of intricate text permanently etched there.
“More of your work?” Tristan asked.
“I’ll never tell. You might report me.”
“So…” Tristan started, for once having no plan to finish his sentence.
“So?”
“I haven’t seen you in almost nine years. Why don’t you remember me? Why were you reported dead? How did you end up here?”
Josie looked around at the air above his head, as if the questions hung there and she was deciding which one to pluck down and begin with.
“You’re from New Orleans?” she asked.
“Yes,” Tristan answered.
“Look, I’m not really supposed to talk about it. Legal issues, blah blah blah. My safety, blah blah blah. What the hell do I care? I can’t even give you details, because I don’t have them.”
He gestured for her to continue, letting his eyes roam over her face, traveling from her sepia eyes down the gentle slope of her nose and finally resting on her lips. When she began to speak, Tristan found himself captivated by her story.
“My father and I left Louisiana when he took a new job in Brooklyn. We moved into an apartment. We only lived there for about six weeks. No one knows what went down, but it was a few days before the landlady noticed we were missing. Three days later, my father’s body turned up in the harbor. A few days after that, a witness saw me stumble into a subway station, where I collapsed. I woke up in a hospital two days later, surrounded by FBI agents, with no memory of who I was or where I’d been.”
Tristan noticed that she wasn’t telling a story; she was simply reciting the words. They were void of emotion, as if she’d memorized an official report of the happenings.
“You had amnesia.”
The waitress appeared, refilling their coffee cups and moving on, clearly uninterested in the conversation.
“Have. I have amnesia. Retrograde dissociative amnesia,” she clarified, repeating the clinical term she’d heard so many times before. “I have no idea what happened in New York or anything before that. Doctors say I probably never will.”
Tristan dissected the words in his head, working out her diagnosis.
“So ‘retrograde’ meaning all preexisting memories are lost, but you’re able to remember everything since.” Josie nodded. “‘Dissociative’ means it was likely caused by psychological events, as opposed to injury.”
She shrugged, suddenly avoiding his gaze. They both reached for the sugar, their fingers intertwining around the glass container. Tristan pulled back, gesturing for her to go first. Josie poured her sugar before sliding it over to him.
“Are you some kind of doctor pretending to be a bartender?” Josie asked.
“No. I read a lot,” he answered, realizing that statement explained nothing. “I happen to remember everything I read. I have a really good memory.”
“Huh,” she said, shrugging. “We’re like opposites.”
He nodded, saddened by the defeated nature of her statement. Tristan had a feeling that the amnesia was her mind’s way of dealing with something terrible, some kind of horrific event that refused to be processed. She had no memories from their shared childhood. She couldn’t recall the happiest time of her life, her family, her friends, not even him. Meanwhile, he remembered everything, with agonizing clarity.
“‘August 25,’” Tristan began. Josie’s eyes snapped up to his when he spoke the words as if they were right in front of him. “‘A body found in the Hudson River near Weehawken, New Jersey, has been identified as Earl Delaune, 41, a recent transplant from New Orleans to Brooklyn. Delaune was reported missing three days ago by his landlord. State Police say a fisherman found the body in the river, but the location of Delaune’s death has yet to be determined. The victim’s daughter, McKenzi Delaune, 14, remains missing.
“‘August 31, New York City Police identified the body of a fourteen-year-old girl found dead in Central Park yesterday morning. Authorities are withholding the identity of the Brooklyn girl, but it is suspected to be McKenzi Delaune, a teen reported missing nine days ago. NYPD said they were having difficulty locating any of the girl’s remaining family. There were no obvious signs of trauma and, for now, police aren’t commenting on suspects or motive.’”
Josie blinked rapidly, suddenly realizing that she’d been holding her breath, her attention seized by Tristan’s words.
“The local paper reported both of you had been murdered but didn’t give any details. You didn’t have family there, so the school held a memorial service. We took turns telling stories about you and had your picture hung in the hall,” Tristan finished.
Josie spied the waitress coming and was relieved by the distraction. Unfolding her napkin, she scrubbed at the black on her stained fingers, silently cursing the charcoal and lead. No matter how hard she tried, the dark dust clung to the beds and underneath each nail, making her look like she’d been playing in dirt. Never mind the slash of green paint across her forearm that would have to be removed later. The plates slid in front of them before the waitress disappeared again, promptly returning with Josie’s milk shake.
“I hated that fucking picture,” Tristan said.
“Why?”
“They used your freshman yearbook photo.”
“And?” she asked, frustrated.
“We got into a fight right before photos that day. You weren’t even smiling. It was like having this sad ghost haunting me every time I walked past the office.”
Josie bit into the bacon and moaned in delight. She may have been a little overenthusiastic as a result of their earlier conversation.
“What were we fighting about?” she asked.
Tristan smiled at her, a smile so genuine she wanted to return it. He set his fork back down and sipped his coffee.
“I was mad because I found a drawing in your room of another guy.”
“So, you were jealous?”
Tristan nodded.
“I ripped it up,” he said.
“Oh, I bet I got pissed.”
“Yeah. That’s an understatement. You didn’t talk to me for three days, a record for us.”
“Damn, guess I cut you off too?” she asked.