The Stranger in the Mirror
Liv Constantine
Dedication
To Honey and Lynn, so much more than sisters-in-law. You are the best decisions our brothers ever made.
Epigraph
The past is never dead. It’s not even past.
—William Faulkner, Requiem for a Nun
Part I
??1??
Addison
I’d like to think I’m a good person, but I have no way of knowing for sure. I don’t remember my real name, where I’m from, or if I have any family. I must have friends somewhere, but the only ones I recognize are the ones I’ve made in the two years since the new me was born—every memory before that has been wiped away. I don’t remember how I got the crescent-shaped scar on my knee or why the smell of roses turns my stomach. The only thing I have is here and now, and even that feels tenuous. There are some things I do know. I like chocolate ice cream better than vanilla, and I love to watch the sunset paint the sky in vibrant orange and pink at dusk. And I love taking pictures. I think it’s because I feel more comfortable behind the camera and looking out. Looking inward is too painful when there’s nothing much to see.
We’re celebrating my engagement on this beautiful September day, and I’m surrounded by people who say they love me, but who is it really that they love? How can you truly know someone when their entire past is a mystery? Gabriel, my fiancé, is sitting next to me, looking at me in an adoring way that makes me feel warm all over. He’s one of those people whose eyes smile, and you can’t help but feel good when he’s around. He is the one who is helping me discover the parts of myself that feel authentic. I take pictures. Gabriel tells me that I’m an amazing talent. I don’t know if I’d go that far, but I love doing it. When I’m behind the camera, I’m me again. I know instinctively that this is something I’ve done and loved doing for a long time. It’s the thing that has saved me, given me a living, and led me to Gabriel. He’s actually giving me my first break—a show at his family’s gallery—in October. Soon, they’ll be my family too.
The clinking of a glass gets my attention. It’s Patrick, Gabriel’s best man.
“As you all know, this clown and I have been friends since we were six. I could stand here all day and tell you stories. But since both our sets of parents are present, I’ll spare you the gory details and just say that we’ve had our share of good times and laughs, and our share of trouble. I never thought he’d settle down, but the minute I saw him with Addison, I knew he was a goner.” Patrick lifts his glass toward us both. “To Addy and Gabriel. Long life!”
My eyes scan the restaurant and land on Darcy. Her glass is lifted, but her smile seems forced, and her eyes are sad.
We all raise our glasses and sip. Gabriel’s sister, Hailey, is my maid of honor, but she cannot regale the crowd with stories of our shared past because, like Gabriel, she’s only known me for six months. Despite the festive mood around me, darkness descends again, and I feel hollow. Gabriel seems to sense my mood shift and squeezes my hand under the table, then leans over and whispers, “You all right?”
I squeeze back and force a smile, nodding, willing the tears not to fall.
Then Gigi gets up and takes the microphone from Patrick.
“I may have only known Addison for a couple of years, but I couldn’t love her any more. When she came into our lives, it was the biggest blessing we could have asked for.” She looks at me. “You’re like a daughter to us, and Ed and I are so happy for you. To new beginnings.”
I know she’s trying to make it right for me, but it’s hard to toast to new beginnings when they’re all I have. I do it anyway, because I love her too, and because she and Ed try to be the parents that I don’t have. Ed will give me away at the wedding, and while I’m grateful to have him, I can’t help but worry that I have a father somewhere wondering what happened to me. That’s what makes it so impossible for me to fully embrace anyone with my whole heart. What if my parents are out there somewhere mourning for me, agonizing over what’s happened to me or thinking I’m dead? Or even worse, what if there is no one looking?
The doctors have told me that I have to be patient. That memory is a tricky thing. The more I try to force it, the more elusive it becomes. I have no real clues to my identity, no identification, no cell phone containing pictures or contacts. My body, on the other hand, shares some clues—the jagged scars that tell their own story—just not to me.