You Don’t Know Me

United Transcontinental Flight 117 raced from a dawning sun. Descending, the aircraft surged, then throttled back. In first class, Matthew Thomas cracked a window shade to peer down at Chicago’s yellow-lit expressways. Matthew sighed. He was less than halfway to San Francisco.

Typically, his business trips began in the same way. From the driveway of their Mission Hill estate, a limousine would alert Cindy by flashing high beams in morning darkness. Hurrying to the stairs in nightgown and slippers, his wife would call to him, a coffee thermos ready when Matthew descended to kiss her cheek. His wife was a strawberry blonde, a natural beauty for whom he was eternally grateful. He imagined Cindy’s likely morning routine as he waved goodbye from the limo’s back seat. Since Terry and Michael, their teenage sons, were still asleep, she would make tea, then pad into the entertainment room, turn the sound low to doze through Good Morning Boston until 7 A.M. when she’d roust the boys for school.

Resting his temple against the cabin wall, O’Hare landing beacons streaked past his window. He began to dream of his first meeting with Cindy at university.

She wore a cotton sundress, strapped over freckled shoulders, and had leaned back to stretch out her legs on the lip of the concrete fountain. She smiled when he introduced himself and asked if he might sit next to her. Cindy moved her bare feet aside to leave a bit of room. In brilliant sunlight, a cooling breeze ruffled her skirt’s hem. In the background, streams of water soared high, then fell upon a bronze mermaid, life-sized, bras en couronne, gaze averted from the young collegians.

Captivated by her delightfully speckled arms, Matthew blathered so thoughtlessly, almost immediately she caught him in a foolish lie. Everyone knew the fountain and square, its surrounding limestone auditorium, art gallery, and museum were legacies of a family-owned pharmaceutical empire. His own family was quite comfortable, but he was not an heir of the university’s benefactor, a ridiculous implication with which he’d hoped to impress her. Caught in this falsehood, she glared as he paled with embarrassment. To have any chance with this woman, he knew the next few moments must included his abject apology and a promise never to lie to her again. Indeed, it was months before Cindy would trust his word on anything, and nearly as long thereafter until she would allow him to kiss special places he yearned to touch.

#

At university he studied science, but soon discovered a fascination with the historical and philosophical nature of scientific investigation; interests that dovetailed with the Thomas family business.

Thomas, Helmholtz and Thurmington, Inc., a prestigious Boston scientific publishing house, controlled by his Uncle George Thomas, had employed Matthew for the last twenty years. Rising to Corporate Acquisitions Editor, he traveled frequently throughout the Americas and Europe, in this case to an NSA Conference in San Francisco to interview a trio of Nobel prize-winning physicists. Their publishing proposal was a coup for the west coast office, but Matthew would have final say regarding publication. In terms of content, he was beyond his depth, but not woefully. Instead his hard-won business acumen encompassed the care and feeding of prominent authors. Understanding details of their work was seldom necessary, since competent science editors were thick on the ground, or so he was prepared to assure these Nobel Laureates.

In the time since university, after years of professional achievement and marital squabbles, he knew Cindy had made a better man of him, but still he was anxious not to lose her.

#

In late morning when his flight arrived in San Francisco, he retrieved his shoulder bag and disembarked. Weaving through the crowded airport, Matthew was an imposing figure, styled in gray by Brioni, shod in Italian leather. In a secluded corner of the VIP Lounge, he telephoned Cindy. As usual of late, the cellphone rang unanswered till the recorded prompt.

“I’m on the ground, Dear. See you soon.”

Distracted, he cruised through the airport and supposed there’d be another raft of ignored messages when he returned home.

#

At the Meridian Hotel in Union Square, a colossus in white gloves and charcoal tails delegated custody of his suitcase to a junior bellhop.

“Welcome back, Mr. Thomas.”

“Good to see you, Benjamin. Just two days this trip. I’ll check out Wednesday morning at six.”

“An airport limousine will be standing by, Sir.”

Benjamin, a most capable, long-term employee of the Meridian ushered him inside where he followed the bellhop along the hallway; past open doors leading to the hotel bar where stained glass windows were framed in acacia koa paneling. Between a manor fireplace and grand piano, bar staff served drinks to patrons sunk deep in lounge chairs. At the end of the hall, a reservations clerk smiled and extended an electronic key. “Glad to see you again, Mr. Thomas. Room five twenty-seven, as usual.”

His room overlooked Union Square where ancient palmettos and eucalyptus shaded pathways between beds of roses. Centered on the Square’s southern edge was a soaring obelisk, topped by a sculpture of a gowned woman caught in running stride. The figure balanced on one foot, a laurel in her right hand, left raised on high. He found this image reminiscent of his wife, posed for eternity. Yes, it was a marvelous view from his favorite room.

A formal meeting space was created by a rectangular oak credenza, arm chairs and a leather couch. He’d thought of bringing the Laureates here for discussions, but a sense of protectiveness strained against this idea.

He strolled past the wet bar and fridge, glanced left towards a jacuzzi with vintage bronze fixtures, paused outside the bedroom door. Shoulder resting against the frame, he recalled a woman lying on the waist high bed. It was Cindy, of course it was, and oh, how they pleased one another as he hovered above her. They must have stayed here some years ago, presumably for an event she wished to attend but which he could not now recall. Since then hundreds of strangers must have slept in room five twenty-seven. It was ridiculous how covetous he felt of this commonly shared space. He breathed slowly as the room enfolded him, filled him with such satisfaction he couldn’t imagine sleeping elsewhere, only here in Cindy’s arms.

#

High summer in San Francisco.

Matthew waved to Benjamin when he emerged from the hotel into a cloudless afternoon. Across Powell Street was Union Square. A trolley rumbled between himself and the park to climb the last steep hill before Chinatown. Now dressed casually in short sleeves, a fiery sun tightened his skin. He crossed at the Geary Street light to wander near the obelisk. Curving walls lined a concrete walkway that meandered past benches, strutting pigeons, and a glass-sided popcorn wagon. Several of San Francisco’s homeless sprawled on sheets of cardboard – some comatose with addiction, others bright-eyed, predatory. A thin, tattered man, about his own age, knelt on the sidewalk ahead. The derelict was clothed in military-styled fatigues and beside him was an old fashion miner’s lamp. A candle burned inside. He gazed up at Matthew, neither daunted nor obsequious, gave no hint of challenge or intimidation, but in his eyes was a spark of recognition.

Unsteady, the tramp struggled to his feet, lifted the lamp in broad daylight to peer at him, then stiffened into a salute. “Captain, Sir. Hard times since we were together. Could you help me?”

Matthew was stunned. “You don’t know me.”

He lurched from the vagrant so abruptly his pant leg snagged on thorns lining the path. Matthew fled beyond a bend in the wall, until shielded from surveillance, he paused and wondered why he didn’t remember the beggar. That panhandler believes he knows me. I’m not the man he thinks I am. He’s mistaken, addled.

No, he’s not mistaken. It’s a scam.

He laughed to himself. How many times must the bum accost someone to get it right, fifty times, a hundred, five hundred, until an authentic captain chanced by? Would an officer remember all the personnel he’d known over a life-time of service? Memory loss enhances the ruse’s success!

He debated with his conscience.

Yes, it’s a dodge. He only wants money.

You have money.

He set his jaw, resolved that the man deserved nothing.

How do you know that?

I can’t give money to everyone.

He’s only asking for himself.

Matthew opened his wallet, slipped out a couple fifties, then speculated how often suckers were born.

Maybe you’re a fool . . . maybe not.

When he returned, the man lurched to his feet and saluted again. “I knew it was you, Sir.”

Eyes wavering, Matthew tucked the fifties into the stranger’s jacket. “You’ll find him someday. Your Captain must have been a good man.”

“Thank you, Sir. I been searching for you, long time since.”

#

Clutching the railing, he negotiated the hotel’s front steps. Benjamin reached behind a valet kiosk to retrieve a manila envelope. In an upper corner was the TH&T logo, and centered below was Matthew’s name, hand-printed.

Unobtrusively, the doorman slipped his giant hand beneath Matthew’s elbow. “Mr. Thomas, are you feeling all right?”

“The sun. I’m a little dizzy. I’ll lay down before supper.”

Benjamin extended the envelope. “Ms. Montero left this for you.”

“Who?”

“Ms. Montero. She’s brought biographies of the scientists you’re here to meet.”

“Must be someone from the San Francisco office.” He breathed deep, ran his fingers across his brow. “Benjamin, could you tell the maître d’ I’m for seven?”

“Yes, Sir. Let’s get you to the elevator.”

#

* * *

#

Inside the hotel bar, a white-haired George Thomas flinched as the young Latina sitting opposite straightened suddenly to stare past him, then bent low to hide from view.

“It’s him,” she whispered. “Matt’s heading upstairs.”

George Thomas twisted, then promptly turned back to face her. He nodded in confirmation, smiled gently. “Benjamin has my nephew in hand, Ms. Montero.”

From the armchair, she peeked up again as the lift doors closed. “He’s inside now.” Wordlessly, both watched as an antique dial above the doors rotated to indicate the fifth floor. “Shouldn’t I go up now? He’s in suite five twenty-seven.”

“No, I think not. Let’s keep everything in public. It’ll be safer for you if we can.”

“Matt would never hurt me, Mr. Thomas.”

“That is our hope, of course. Probably you have nothing to fear, but once my nephew sees you, he may become agitated. I’d be responsible if anything went amiss.”

“I’ve agreed to this. I love him as much as anyone in the family.”

George Thomas sipped his Irish coffee, placed it on the low redwood table between them, a saucer’s width from her crossed knees. “Yes, I realize. That’s why I contacted you.”

He thought it was a shame to go through all this again. A decade ago, Matthew lost nearly two years to intensive therapy when his parents died. He denied it all, said his mother and father were off visiting relatives in New Rochelle, or on a river cruise in Europe, any blessed place but lying side by side in Maple Hills Cemetery. George scowled. Didn’t the boy know I missed my brother? But no, he took the luxury of falling apart while I saved our family business. I kept him employed though he was wallowing in delusions; practically useless to the company, to Cindy and the boys, to himself.

And now it’s all come round again.

He looked across the low table to Lena Montero, saw dark wavy hair loose to her shoulders, a scooped blouse framing lovely breasts. Dainty brown feet in strapped sandals, legs covered by a long sheer skirt to her ankles. He smiled gently but realized she was resisting his indulgence; perhaps afraid she’d been judged harshly by the family but determined to brazen it out. Lena had the appearance of a damned fine librarian, but she was a geophysicist. George Thomas was amazed by his nephew’s superb choice.

How old is Lena, he wondered? She won that TH&T Scholarship and Continuing Endowment in her Sophomore year at Berkeley, probably at twenty. Mentoring her fell to Matthew, who counseled her through Junior and Senior years, then enhanced her application to Stanford Graduate School by pulling in supporting references from half a dozen of the company’s noted authors. Now fourth year in grad school, completion of her doctoral thesis was in sight. She must be about twenty-six.

Cindy had told him that they started sleeping together when Lena was twenty-four. George coughed to hide a smile. It did them credit they could hold out that long.

#

Both stared at the elevators intently and wondered why Benjamin was taking so long to report. Lena Montero’s right leg began to bob nervously and George Thomas thought the young woman might soon bolt for Matthew’s room. To distract her, he asked, “Do you know this happened to him once before?”

“His wife told me.”

“Cindy told you! When?”

“I first met her at a prize winners presentation, and again two years later when Matt brought us all to Boston, my parents and me. We were considering MIT for graduate school, but it was winter and snowy, and well . . . I’m a California girl.”

“You most certainly are, Ms. Montero.”

“One evening we all went to the symphony. You came with us too, Mr. Thomas, you and your wife, but I suppose you don’t remember.”

“Lena, I’d be most pleased if you called me ‘George.’”

She smiled faintly. “It was Firebird and Rites of Spring.”

“Ah, yes.”

“After Matt left for work next morning, I told Cindy something, just blurted it out at breakfast. I was mortified afterwards.”

“What did you say?”

“I reminded her what he had done for me over the years, the company’s financial support, introductions to geophysicists across the Americas. We have no money. My parents grow avocadoes!”

“Matthew is particularly conscientious about mentoring.”

“I told Cindy I was thankful. Said he’d been wonderful to me.”

“Is that when his wife guessed about you two?”

“Yes, I suppose. But we hadn’t slept together. Not yet.”

“How did Cindy react when you praised him?”

“She told me how lost he was after his parents died in the house fire; about his delusions and how hard it was for Terry and Michael to hear him deny their grandparents death. Maybe she wanted me to know he wasn’t perfect, not the Knight Templar I thought he was.”

#

The uniformed behemoth that was Benjamin loomed above them. George pushed himself upright to shake Benjamin’s hand, then shifted an empty armchair closer to their table. “Please, surely management will allow you to sit with us for a few minutes.”

“Thank you, Mr. Thomas. Hello, Ms. Montero.”

She leaned to pat Benjamin’s arm. He took a deep breath. “I’ve bad news, for both of you.”

George leaned forward. “What’s happened?”

“Folks have been watching over him. I’ve got detectives to follow when he steps outside our door.”

“Please, tell us.” Lena said.

“He walked across to Union Square, ’bout an hour ago. Two plain clothes saw him talking to a beggar. We don’t know what they said, but Matthew was right shook up when he returned. And Ms. Montero, he doesn’t remember you.”

She shook her head in dismay. “So that’s why he hasn’t contacted me.”

Exasperated, George shrugged. “Lena, I’m sorry. Therapists thought this was a possibility, that Matthew might deny your very existence. But if he’s forgotten you . . .”

“If he’s forgotten me, he has no reason to feel guilty.”

Noticing her clenched jaw, George wondered how close he was to losing control of her meeting with his nephew. He must help her understand. “Last time, Matthew’s recovery took nearly two years. But now his denials are blanket, quite thoroughgoing, not mere evasions. He looks, but cannot see.”

“He will see me!”

“Our family’s depending on it. We hope your meeting will jolt him back to reality. It’s that, or still more years in therapy.”

“Please let me try. Cindy . . . Cindy would say I should try.”

#

* * *

#

Monday evening, The Meridian Patio, a roof-top restaurant that overlooked Union Square.

Lena peeked from the cloakroom as the maître d’hôtel showed Matt a wrought iron table for two. The sommelier arrived and chatted amiably. Behind Matt’s table, George and Benjamin were screened from view by a dwarf palmetto, but dining openly to one side were two undercover security officers.

Too nervous to return to Stanford for evening dress, Lena still wore her daytime blouse and long gossamer skirt. In bright sunlight, the skirt was diaphanous, but now at evening it was a model of decorum. In the afternoon, she’d found a salon in the city to coif her hair into an Audrey Hepburn bun, a style long out of fashion but one which Matt adored. The wine steward brought a liter of California rosé and poured a sample. Matt nodded his thanks.

At a cue from Uncle George, she took up her own wine glass and crossed the nearly empty patio. Almost certainly, Matt heard her sandals clicking on stone, but steadfastly, his eyes scanned the menu. She reached for the vacant chair with trembling fingers to sit across from him. “Matt, I’m so glad to see you again.”

Such a simple greeting, product of an afternoon’s consideration, revision, and practice. If he didn’t recall her name, perhaps he would not recognize her face. But her voice, surely he would remember that.

Looking up, his eyes widened in surprise. “I’m sorry. I don’t know . . . what did you say, Miss?”

His smile was no more than that of a gentle man at the close approach of a young woman. She looked into his face, but only for a moment. If there was no immediate acknowledgment, she’d vowed to behave normally, as if nothing had changed between them. When she reached to pour wine into her own glass, perturbed he looked away; possibly affronted by boldness from a stranger.

A stranger!

So be it. She conceded this would be difficult. She sipped, lowered her glass, then slid her right hand across to massage his left. Touch, her touch, that he would know. He breathed softly, eyelids fluttering, almost closed. Voice and touch, surely these were pathways to his memory.

“Matt, it’s been nearly six months. There’s so much I have to tell you. My thesis adviser, Professor Wallace, you know him, he wrote a monograph for TH&T. Anyway, he thinks our seismic equipment isn’t sensitive enough for long-range, offshore readings, and wants me to apply for a NSA Grant for enhancements, but that will delay . . .”

Lena rambled on, poured lilting intonations over him. She channeled her mother talking to Dad at bedtime. She looked warmly into his eyes. Gradually, he opened his palm as she kneaded away his tension. By now, Dad would be leaning to kiss her mother, to raise her up, to lead her to bed.

Look at me!

“Dear young woman, we’ve never met.” Reluctantly, he withdrew his hand, then slumped back against the chair. “If we had, I’d never forget.”

Her hopes fell. With a grim smile, he stood and signaled for the waiter. “Anything she wants for supper, charged to my room.”

He walked away, but after only a few steps, he came back to kneel at eye level. “I’m married, not looking for company. Please don’t follow me.”

Lena took one last chance. “Cindy knows we’re lovers.”

“No. You don’t know me.”

#

After he retreated upstairs, she met with George and Benjamin in the hotel bar. “Matt thinks I’m a prostitute.” She dabbed her eyes. “He didn’t even flinch when I mentioned Cindy.”

George shifted uncomfortably. “Then we’ve failed. I’ll consult the family. We’ll have to decide where to arrange treatment.”

Downcast, she asked, “How long before Matt returns to Boston?”

Benjamin reached for his tablet. “Early Wednesday morning, Ms. Montero.”

Rediscovering her determination, she steepled fingers before her lips. “Barely more than a day, but I’ll think of something. George, can you stay until Wednesday?”

“Of course, for as long as necessary.”

#

* * *

#

Tuesday, late afternoon.

Lena was standing at the company reception desk when Matthew Thomas emerged from the TH&T Board Room. She had conspired with a west coast production editor who stepped forward to introduce her.

“Hello, Mr. Thomas. Since Ms. Montero is taking you to supper tonight, might I suggest the Presidio Beach Sundowner. Their restaurant has a fine chowder and opened only last month.”

“Ms. Montero?” Matthew asked with arched eyebrows.

She smiled happily. “Please, call me Lena.”

“What do your think, Lena? Could you endure my boorish behavior for the price of supper?”

“I’ll do my best.”

In the hallway leading to the company parking lot, he cleared his throat and whispered, “I owe you a profound apology.”

#

As she drove towards Presidio Beach, he tried not to stare to his left. “I’m so very sorry about last night. I didn’t realize you work for the San Francisco office.”

“How was this afternoon’s meeting with the Laureates?”

“Rather disheartening. I dumped them onto senior management for tonight. I’ve had enough.”

“Why so glum?”

“They’re remarkably greedy. They think they’ve only to spread their genius upon paper to make themselves even richer.”

She grinned. “What did you tell them?”

“That we would accept their manuscript if it matched A Brief History of Time. That’s all I needed to say.”

“There was only one Steven Hawking.”

“My point precisely, Ms. Montero.”

#

After appetizers and bowls of chowder, Lena insisted on paying their bill, then suggested they hike a trail among the Pacific dunes. Matt left his suit coat and tie in the car, and as evening neared, they wandered past empty picnic tables. “You’re a copy editor for the office out here?”

“Matt, you must listen better. I’m a geophysicist at Stanford University. I edit copy for your publishing company so as not to feel like a kept woman. I pay my way whenever we go out.”

“And I recall not a jot of this affair you say we’re having?”

“Apparently not.”

The trail narrowed. From behind, she heard him say, “I’m afraid one of us is quite demented.”

At ocean side, she slipped off her sandals. “Might as well go barefoot. Our shoes will fill with sand.”

She stood on a low crest, the last dune before rolling waves. At a driftwood log, he paused to remove his Scarosso brogues, sat where her body was positioned against the sunset. He smiled fondly. “You look delightful.”

“Really! Do we have to go right back to the beginning, to act as if we’ve never . . .” He’d tied his shoe laces together and was about to remove his socks. “No, wait, Matt. There’s a mole, size of a shirt button on top of your right foot, close to the second and third toes.”

He scowled hard at her, said nothing for a dozen heartbeats. “How many on my left foot?”

She sighed, turned away. “None, Dear. No moles anywhere else.” She strolled partway over the dune’s crown, then paused to glance back. “But there’s a white scar, high on your left hip. When you were a little boy playing in Uncle George’s riding stable, you fell on a pitch fork.”

“You can’t know that! Someone told you.”

“Someone? Why, yes. Who might have told me, showed me the scar?”

They followed the beach trail in silence where it skimmed the tidal crest. A breeze from shore strengthen as the sun set.

“Let’s return now. It’ll be dark before we reach the parking lot.”

From behind, he mumbled, “All right.”

“Walk in front. Your eyes are drilling holes in my back.”

He took the lead. The only light was from a gibbous moon between drifting clouds. Up ahead were vacant benches beside the car park and he stopped to block the trail. “This isn’t a scam, is it? Not some ruse to blackmail me, to send risqué pictures to Cindy and Uncle George to ruin my life?”

“No. It’s not.”

Standing in darkness, he reached out, found her right hand and led her to a bench. “Since last night, I can think only of your caress and voice.”

She pressed his hand. “We love each other.”

“Something’s wrong. So wrong I’ve betrayed Cindy, but somehow forgotten you.”

“Betrayed? It didn’t happen quite like that. I, too, want what Cindy would always have.”

They sat side by side in a chill wind. “Please, tell me about us.”

She handed over her car keys. “There’s a blanket in the trunk.”

#

Wrapped tightly, they nestled to loop arms together.

“Matt, do you remember the company’s Sophomore Essay Contest?”

“I should. I chair the committee that evaluates four hundred entries a year!”

“I was first of a dozen students who won six years ago.”

“Tuition, room and board for a Junior year. It’s a nice award, Lena.”

“You and Cindy came out to present prizes to the West Coast recipients.”

“Really! You’ve known Cindy that long?”

“A few months later, you came to interview me for Endowment Funding, for ongoing support through graduate school. You visited my Mom and Dad.”

“Oh, yes. They have an avocado farm, north of Monterey. I remember the Monteros.”

“How can you know my parents, but not me?”

Confused, he paused. “But I remember more! Cindy and I took them to hear two pieces by Stravinsky. Not the Boston Symphony, it was that visiting orchestra from Toronto. Uncle George and Aunt Mildred came with us.”

“Matt, I was there, too! Cindy on your right, me on your left, beside my mom. Senior year I was looking for a grad school and thought about coming East.”

“Lena, I’m freezing.”

“Shall we go to the car?” She nuzzled his ear. “The seats fold down.”

“No, I don’t want to make love with you. Not yet.”

They searched for a spot sheltered from the wind and sat in the lee of a sea-grass mound. With her back snuggled against his chest, he folded the blanket around them both. She held its edges tight beneath her chin.

He spoke quietly beside her ear. “Were we lovers when your parents came to Boston?”

“No, but Momma knew it could happen. You should have heard her tirades against me becoming a home wrecker.”

“I love Cindy. I must have lied to you.”

“No, you didn’t lie. I knew how it was from the moment I saw you two together. That Senior year, you and I traveled to weigh possibilities, four-day weekends to geophysics institutes in Texas, Edmonton, Fairbanks, even to Bergen in Norway. And we’d always stay in adjoining rooms, a door locked between us.”

“Did I force . . .?”

“No, Matt. But every Department Head, every Graduate School Dean, presumed I was your pet, and eventually I began to wonder why I wasn’t. At night I started to unlock the door, even to jiggle the bolt so you couldn’t help but know. I bought the skimpiest nightgown I could find and opened that door myself to tell you goodnight. But still you wouldn’t join me.”

“Cindy, she’s everything. I can’t lose her.”

“I knew that, but I wanted you to love me, too. One night in my second grad year, we were in Atlanta, at Disease Control – you know, that was one lousy idea for a mentoring trip.”

“We have an author in Atlanta.”

“ . . . and I was so blue after tossing away my latest boyfriend . . . I left that negligée on the floor in my room, opened the door, and turned on the light. I just said ‘Hold me,’ and you did.”

#

When she turned, he lifted his hand to touch her face. They kissed gently.

“We love each other, don’t we?”

“Yes, Matt. We do.”

“My mind has lost you.”

“What do you mean?”

“I believe it must be true, everything you say, but none of it seems real.”

“That’s because you don’t remember me yet.”

“What’s happened, Lena? What else have I forgotten?”

“It’s terrible. The worst you can imagine.”

They turned to face each other, the blanket still wrapped around them. He began to cry. “Cindy must have found out about us. Did she leave me? Do the boys hate me?”

“No, Sweetheart. I read some of it on a Boston Herald news site, but Uncle George told me more. Terry was driving on an icy road; a ski trip to Sugarbush. As he overtook a semi from behind, its nearside tire exploded. The truck swerved into their path and Terry lost control. The car ploughed through a guard rail, then crashed into a tree. They’re all dead – Cindy, Michael, and Terry. Six months ago.”

She waited for the collapse that must come, but Matt was quiet now as he said, “I’ll tell Cindy about us. How we’ve found each other again.”

“Oh, my poor Darling. It’s all true. I swear it is.”

“Lena, I don’t remember their deaths either, but tomorrow I’ll take you home to Boston. We’ll go to Maple Hills together. Is that where they are, buried near my Mom and Dad?”

“Yes, Matt. I’ll help you find your way back.”