“Your mind is a-wandering.”
I nod. “It is. What were we talking about?”
“You having a rich mystery husband.”
“I don’t need a rich husband. I like my life.” I narrow my gaze. “We were talking about you being racist.”
“Pshh, hating the English is natural. No self-respecting Scotswoman would dare say otherwise.”
I cock an eyebrow. “You dated an English guy three months ago. Henry, remember? He was sweet. You and Dennis had decided to take that break, and I made you date. You had fun.”
“Did you see the teeth on that mug?” She makes the finger teeth like I did and then scoffs. “Jane, in all honesty your life is pretty good. You have a fun job with me, a good man, and a very sleek town house in the city. Really, what more could you ask for? Derek is the best, and he’s a doctor. Who cares if you don’t remember stripping and doing anal?” She nudges me, and I can see this is going to be the joke we share for the next year.
Jane and the anal . . .
A grimace crosses my face. “Dear God. Okay, moving on.” I turn to finish wiping the windows. I want to continue thinking about Derek and my amazing life, but I can’t. I can’t help but watch every person who walks past our shop. The cool of the autumn breeze causes the passersby to keep their faces down, making it hard to see which one might match the stranger who came into the shop.
I don’t have an answer for any of it, but I feel sick, like my guts are twisting with guilt for some reason.
Angie hums as we finish dressing the plastic ladies and gents in the window. She always hums when we work, and the song is always the same with her, something her mother had sung when she was a girl. It’s her song.
I too have a song. I assume it’s from when I was a girl, like Angie’s. But for whatever reason, my song feels like a secret. Even Derek doesn’t know about it. I have never shared it with him. I wanted to, but I changed my mind just as I opened my mouth to tell him.
I don’t know why.
I can’t explain my idiosyncrasies or my desire to be private in all things. I don’t know the old me or why she was like that, but I am still her in so many ways. Muscle memory and habits are hard to break—I have proven that.
Except in the memory department.
I have one song and one ability that I clearly learned somewhere. That is all that is left in the great empty barrel my brain turned out to be.
A head of nothing but two small things.
A song with a strange high-pitched tone, like it’s mocking, and tying cherry stems with my tongue.
Beyond, of course, the things you learn as a child. I can count, tie my shoes, run, climb, eat, and speak. I can play hide-and-seek, hopscotch, and cards.
Things I think are unique to me but not learned—like I can lick my nose and flutter my lashes like I’m having a seizure. I laugh when people get hurt, and I cry when animals do. I like purple and green. My dark hair complements both colors perfectly. My blue eyes are slightly different colored: one is light blue and the other dark blue. I always find horses in cloud formations, and I love the History Channel and the smell of my cat when he’s played out on the deck during the rain. I hate running. I naturally always pick the most expensive item on display. I can’t play any sports, but I’m flexible.
I can shoot houseflies with rubber bands, sharpshooter style, and I can paint.
But there is nothing else.
Most days I don’t wish there was anything else. But every now and then I get an itch like I want to know something, and I hate it when I can’t reach it, or the emotion I assume is attached to it.
Like how I met Derek.
How did it happen?
How did I feel?
What did he look like the first time I saw him?
Was he crossing a room when the lights hit, glinting off him?
Did he give me the half look, where he lifts his face only a bit and smiles?
It’s my favorite look. I’ve never told him that, but it is. He glances up through his eyelashes and gives a sly grin. I always imagine some dirty thought is roaming his brain, but I know it’s probably more saintly. He’s imagining building houses in impoverished countries and saving orphans.
“Och, listen to me humming away again.” Angie nods at me, interrupting my thoughts. “How does that weird song go again? I tried singing it to me mum, but I forgot how it went.”
A smile creeps upon my lips. “It’s not weird. No weirder than that one you’re always singing.”
She positions the mannequin in the window properly and makes the plastic woman’s head nod. “Sing it.”
“Me or her?”
She flashes me a shitty grin. “Don’t be daft. If she could sing it, we would be rich. Like that movie, where the mannequin comes to life and dates that wanker.”