Sitting in the window seat at the home of Ms. Gertrude Parker, Belle slowly counted to ten to ease her frustration. She looked out at the beautiful spring day. A clear blue sky beckoned and suddenly a red robin landed on a hibiscus bush outside the window. The sight calmed her even more. She took note of lilies blooming, the lush live oaks, the brilliant new green of the St. Augustine grass that Wendell, the gardener, tended.
It had been over a year, that was as close as the authorities could figure the timeline, since she’d been rescued from a cult in the Texas Hill Country. Over a year since the doctors had found the bullet in her head. She had no name, no memory. She’d spent four months in the hospital and she’d now been with Ms. Gertie for almost eight. The authorities were unsure how long she’d been in Austin before the cult had found her. The cult members had found her walking the streets of Austin and had taken her in, named her Jezebel, made her a slave and beat her regularly. She was saved from that nightmare by a Texas Ranger, and another ranger helped her to face her fears and live again. Her Texas Ranger. That’s how she thought of Caleb McCain.
The FBI, the Texas Rangers, doctors and therapists tried to piece together what had happened to her. Seeing that she cringed when anyone called her Jezebel, Caleb insisted they rename her Belle and had the hospital records changed to Belle Doe. That was the first time she became aware of him. He cared. The others were doing a job, but Caleb actually cared about her. He was the first person she’d come to trust after her nightmare ended, and he’d been there for her ever since.
As she slowly began to recover from the physical violence, she was faced with being moved from the hospital to a mental institution until her memory returned. The doctors didn’t have a choice and had to abide by hospital rules. With no memory she knew the institution would be as bad as the cult—only in a different way.
Caleb spoke with the doctors and they agreed it would be best for Belle to live outside the hospital and establish the necessary framework for a normal, healthy lifestyle so she could function in the present. This would, hopefully, facilitate her memory’s return. But they didn’t have the resources to find someone to take her in. It was Caleb who went the extra mile.
He’d found her a job as a companion to Ms. Gertrude Parker, a widow who hadn’t remarried after the love of her life died in WWII. Living with Ms. Gertie had been a blessing. She was truly an angel in disguise and she and Belle had formed a bond that would never be broken. Dr. Oliver had said that the relationships Belle formed now would build a strong foundation of trust and deep roots, which would help strengthen an inner connection within herself. But the doctor also warned that once her memory returned, those foundations wouldn’t be as strong. Her old life, the person she used to be, would take precedence.
Belle lived cautiously, taking each day as it came, and was grateful for the kind people who now filled her world. Gertie was a wealthy eccentric of undeterminate age, but Belle guessed she was somewhere in her eighties. The woman had wrecked four cars in one year; her lawyer deemed it unsafe for her to drive. Ms. Gertie had resisted her loss of independence, firing chauffeur after chauffeur. Gertie was a cousin of Caleb’s stepfather and when Caleb heard about the problem, he thought Belle would be a perfect companion and helper.
And Belle desperately needed a home. Caleb had arranged for her to get a driver’s license and Gertie hired her at their first meeting. Now she had a home and she’d found a measure of peace in Ms. Gertie’s colorful world.
Gertrude’s Victorian home had been in her family for years. It was equipped with a pool and tennis courts, and filled with priceless antiques and artworks. She lived in the big house with two cats, Prissy and Prudy, and a Jack Russell terrier named Harry. Belle was sure she’d never lived in such opulence before. Despite the comforts of her present life, everything felt foreign to her, and she lived with this unsettled feeling every day.
She ran her hands through her long dark hair, then reached for the colorful band and tied it into a ponytail, then looped it again to make a knot so it wouldn’t bounce around. The action was natural, as if she’d done it many times before. This was an implicit memory, behavioral knowledge without conscious recall, as Dr. Oliver called it, just as Belle knew how to read and write but she couldn’t remember how she’d learned those skills.
From what she’d learned about her condition, parts of her memory should have returned by now. After a year, there was less chance of it returning at all. She feared she’d be in this limbo forever.
Sighing, she glanced at her watch—just after twelve. Gertie was resting as she did every day unless she had an appointment. This was the time Belle used to practice the exercises the doctors had taught her to help regain her memory.
Taking a deep breath, she asked out loud, “What’s my name?”
There was no answer, just a numbness of her mind and her spirit.
The sky darkened to almost black and Belle watched a thunderstorm roll in, chasing away the spring day. Crazy Texas weather. She didn’t know much, but she knew about the unpredictable weather in Texas, another implicit memory. Thunder echoed loudly and lightning zigzagged across the sky. Wendell, who’d been fertilizing the yard, hurried to the garages just as the skies opened up.
The rain made a drumming noise against the windows and lightning zipped across the grass with dangerous flashes of lights and spine-tingling sounds. Belle knew she should move, but something was happening in her mind. She could feel it.
In her sessions with Dr. Oliver she’d learned a current event or experience could trigger long-forgotten memories. Sounds, smells or other stimuli such as the weather had the capabilities of sparking her mind. And the memories could return bit by bit or all at once or not at all.
Thunder rumbled through her as continual flashes of the lightning streaked the sky. She shivered, watching the storm and waiting for a miracle. Rain poured down the windows in trails and she was mesmerized by the movement. She could almost feel it reaching into her—washing away. Washing away. She grabbed her head as it began to throb. Thunder blasted like a gun and memories, beautiful forgotten memories, floated to the surface.
“Tell Daddy your name.” The words were clear almost as if her mother was standing beside her.
“I scared. Don’t like rain. It’s too noisy.”
“There’s nothing to be afraid of. Mommy and Daddy are right here. Tell Daddy your name.”
“Don’t know.”
“Yes, you do. We practiced all day. Tell Daddy your name.”
“My name is Joscelyn Marie.” She said it proudly and loudly.
“Yes. Yes, it is. Now what’s your last name?”
“Beckett. My name is Joscelyn Marie Beckett.”
Her mother clapped. “Isn’t that wonderful for a two-year-old?”
Belle could feel her father’s arms as he held her and she could smell Old Spice, his favorite cologne. “My girl is getting big. What does Daddy call you?”
“Josie Marie. Josie Marie. Josie Marie.”
The storm ended and so did the memories. “No. No. No,” she cried. “Please let me remember more. Please.” But the blankness returned and all she was left with was a name. A name! After all this time, she knew her name.
Josie Marie Beckett.
She jumped from the
