My UberX shows up—I got a random upgrade to a black shiny car with a driver who looks like Enrique Iglesias, except without the face mole. Speaking of which, how do I remember Enrique Iglesias’s face mole7 and not my own last name?
“Nice dress,” he says, handing me a bottle of water.
Enrique makes comfortable chitchat, and I settle in and automatically open Instagram. (It’s muscle memory.) And there I am.
@Mia4Realz…
Pictures of me with glitter on my face, me submerged in a milk bath. Is this super glam Insta feed for real? I mean, my profile name says it is.
Questions of why I’m in a milk bath aside—like, waaaaay aside—the rest of it looks pretty damn good. The bio isn’t helpful. @Mia4Realz. SoCal 4evah. GoldRush.
Four posts down I find my house. #homesweethome is an adorable pastel brick duplex on a palm-lined street. My only question now: do I live in the blue brick building or the pink? I assume pink.
“Driver, I’d like to change my destination.” I can scope out the museum anytime. Getting home is more important, and I could use a milk bath. Enrique without the mole doesn’t recognize the pink brick façade but he’s game to figure it out. “How about we check a few of my other Insta posts and triangulate?” I suggest.
It’s worth noting that I seem to be good at problem-solving. Even Enrique appears to be surprised by my use of triangulate in a sentence. I definitely graduated from something.
Based on a few pictures, a shot of me with a FedEx in the background (the Ocean Boulevard branch) right across from the music center, and a postcard-worthy snap of some palm trees, Enrique drives south on Ocean until he finds my front door. “How come you don’t know where you live?” he asks.
“Long story, and I don’t even know most of it. I lost my memory.” Should I be telling strangers this? Thankfully, Enrique doesn’t strike me as a serial killer.
“How?”
“Don’t know that either,” I say, though I’m ninety percent sure someone tried to kill me. I don’t even think I’m a drama queen. A drama queen would have already been way more dramatic about the memory loss.
“When’s your memory coming back?” he asks.
“Mind if I roll down the windows?” I shut my eyes and breathe in the fresh air. The temperature is perfect with a light breeze. Long Beach smells a little like pee, but mostly like ocean. Enrique plays some top forty pop stuff and I want to tell him it’s okay to play his own music. I mean, I know he’s not really Enrique Iglesias but…maybe he is? Maybe he had to become an Uber driver to make ends meet after the world forgot about him—just like it forgot about me. Maybe we can start a support group.
“I’m not sure when my memory will be back,” I say. I laugh like it’s funny. If anything, I might be repressing my feelings. Totally not a drama queen.
Enrique looks at me in the rearview, checking to see if I’m full-on nuts or just pleasantly unhinged (if that’s a thing).
I remember what Dr. Patel told me before he discharged me: “There’s often a psychological component to memory loss. You were probably suffering emotionally and psychologically at the time of the injury, which might explain why you’re having difficulties latching onto your sense of self.”
Dr. Patel’s diagnosis was amnesia as a form of identity crisis? Ugh. It made me hate California. If he’d offered me essential oils and a pamphlet for a meditation retreat in Big Sur, I would’ve lost it.
“Amnesia isn’t easy to treat or understand,” he’d explained. “Memories change over time. Some fade. Some become stronger. Everyone has different memories of the same event. Memory is just a story we tell ourselves, not an objective truth. That’s why your sense of self, which is dependent on memory, is something that fluctuates and changes.”
“So basically, you’re telling me that I need to make up a new story about my life,” I’d said.
“Well, not exactly, but…yes. At least until you remember the old story.”
Thank God for Instagram. I’d already written a story for myself, and damn if it wasn’t pretty.
Enrique pulls up to the pink door. Impulsively, I ask, “You want to come in?”
He gives me a suspicious look.
“No pressure,” I say in a thin, high voice. “I can walk in alone. I mean, it’s my house, right?” I laugh awkwardly as Enrique gives me the side-eye.
Uber asks me if I want to tip him and I say yes, if only so Enrique doesn’t think I’m a total psychopath. He could have easily ditched me but he got me home.
I pull the keys from my rhinestone-studded clutch and one of them fits perfectly in the keyhole. This is my home. Final stop on the crazy train. I’m so jittery I pause to talk myself up before turning the key, like I’m about to go on stage for a performance. This is my house, my refuge, not some rando from my contacts list who will hang up on me. I love this house and it is going to love me back. With a deep breath, I turn the latch and open the door.
It looks like the Property Brothers have been here. The floor plan is #openconcept with tons of #naturallight and let’s just say: I must love throw pillows. French doors open to a courtyard in the back, and there’s a freaking statue of a nymph or an angel in a fountain. #praisejesus.
Even better, there’s a guy at the kitchen table: a sexy black man in glasses and a Star Trek T-shirt featuring a big picture of Spock. The shirt says TREK YOURSELF. Is this guy my boyfriend? If so, where was he? I can’t give him a pass just because he’s extremely hot. He looks surprised to see me and like he’s not sure what to say. He must feel bad about not checking to see if I was still alive. I don’t care how good-looking he is, dude better have a damn good excuse…
“I’m sorry,” he says.
I want to say, you should be. But I’m not sure that’s a great way to start the next chapter of our relationship.
“I’m Max. JP didn’t say anyone else would have the key.” Ah. Soooo…not my boyfriend. He stands and walks toward me.
“I don’t know who JP is but I’m pretty sure I live here,” I say with complete confidence.
He eyes me skeptically. After taking in my cocktail dress and matted hair—I probably look like I just completed a walk of shame and murdered someone along the way—he says, “Then why did JP hire me to house-sit?”
God, I hope he doesn’t expect me to have an answer to that.
He repeats the question with added emphasis. “Why did JP hire me to house-sit if he knew his girlfriend was going to be home?” (I take the extremely sexy compliment back.) “And what is your name, by the way?”