A Five-Minute Life

“Jim Whelan,” I said.

I have a feeling about you, Jim Whelan.

I silently willed Thea to remember, for recognition to light up her eyes. For her smile to turn familiar and warm as she recalled our conversation yesterday.

She held out her hand. “Nice to meet you, Jim Whelan. I’m Thea Hughes.”

Chapter 3

Jim

She’d introduced herself to me three times now.

Three of hundreds to come, if not thousands. Her brain was damaged. She’s not going to magically remember you.

It was hard to believe her amnesia was so severe, when she sat there looking this vibrant and sharp. I recalled Alonzo’s instruction to redirect her after a reset and glanced down at her work. She’d drawn a pyramid. On closer inspection, she’d built one out of words. Strings of words written in ballpoint pen, colored over with Magic Markers.

“That’s really good,” I said. More than good.

“Thank you,” Thea said, frowning at the paper. “It’s okay but there’s something missing. It feels…”

“Small.”

She glanced up at me with a wry twist to her lips. “Are you an art critic, Jim Whelan?”

“N-N-No, I just meant—”

“I’m teasing,” she said with a sigh and turned back to her drawing. “It is small. I wish I had a canvas as big as a wall. And paint to last me for months.”

“That’s exactly what I meant,” I said, still standing over her awkwardly. “Your talent is bigger than paper and pens. Grand Canyon-big.”

I hoped the cue from yesterday would spark her, but Thea blushed and grinned playfully at me. “I take it back. You can critique my art any time you want.”

The moment caught and held, and again, I saw the depths of Thea Hughes. Miles instead of minutes.

“Jim?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re staring at me.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s okay. I don’t mind being stared at by you. You have kind eyes.”

Déjà vu to the fucking extreme.

I felt my skin burn hot and redirected my own damn self away from her. I craned a little lower to read one of the word chains comprising a slope of her pyramid.

Carried buried bury born torn mourn moan loan alone lone lonely lonely lonely

“What do these mean?” I asked, tapping a finger over the words. “If you don’t mind…?”

Thea cocked her head at the words as if they were foreign to her. “I don’t know. I wrote them before the accident. Two years ago.”

“You drew this two years ago?” I felt I was on shaky ground, testing the limits of her understanding and possibly setting her off.

She nodded. “I must have. But now that I’m back, I can finish it.”