What I need is evidence. And if there’s one thing a librarian can do, it’s research.
Throwing the covers back, I hobble out of bed, get my crutches and then turn on all the lights. In the garage, I find what I’m looking for: my files. I take several—the Pacific Northwest, Washington, and North American rainforests. Clutching the manila folders to my side, I return to the desk in my living room.
Beneath a light bright enough to dispel shadows and sharp enough to illuminate the truth, I begin laying out my materials, organizing them into piles. Then I turn on my laptop and search the Web.
It doesn’t take long to identify the core problem.
All I know about my dream life is that it took place in a rainforest in Washington State. According to a Googled statistic, the Olympic National Forest is roughly the size of Massachusetts.
And I am trying to find one—imaginary—lakeside town that probably has a population of less than one thousand people.
Oh, and let’s not forget that I don’t know the name of the town, or the lake, or Daniel and Bobby’s last name.
A woman less impressionable might say that if fate exists, it doesn’t want me to find my way back.
Still, I trudge ahead, unwilling—unable, maybe—to give up. I make my own map, underline possible towns and lakes and call information for each city I can find. There is no listing for a Comfort Fishing Lodge. Then I call realtors. There are two fishing lodges for sale in the area; I’ve gotten e-mail photos of both. Neither is the one I remember.
Finally, nearly eight hours after I begin my search, I shut my laptop and lay my head on top of it, closing my eyes. By now, the walls of my living room are studded with pieces of paper—maps, photographs, articles. The place looks like a task force command center.
And none of it helps.
I don’t know exactly how long I remain there. At some point, I hear a car drive up.
I glance up, and see Stacey’s van pull into the driveway.
I grab my crutches and head for the entry.
At her first knock, I open the door.
She is on my porch, holding a casserole pan in gloved hands.
It’s Mom’s chicken divan recipe. Chicken, cheese, mayonnaise, and broccoli. “I guess you forgot about them restarting my heart. ”
Stacey pales. “Oh. I didn’t . . . ”
“I’m just kidding. It looks great. Thanks. ” I wobble around and make my way back to the living room.
Stacey veers into the kitchen, probably puts the casserole in the oven, and then joins me. In the living room, she comes to a dead stop. Her gaze moves from wall to wall, where papers hang in grape-like bunches.
“Welcome to Obsessionville,” I say. There’s no point in trying to explain. I make my halting way to the sofa and sit down, planting my casted foot on the coffee table. “I’m searching for the town. ”
“The one you never went to. ”
“That’s the one. ”
Stacey sits in the chair opposite me. “I’m worried about you. Thom says . . . ”
“Let’s not start a conversation like that. It’s your turn to care about what he says. ”
“You’ve been home almost seven days and you haven’t let anyone visit except me. And now . . . ” She lifts her hand to indicate the walls. “This. ”
“Bertie and Rayla have both stopped by. ”
Stacey gives me “The Look. ” “Bertie called me because you said you were too tired to see her. ”
“I’m in pain. ”
“Is that really it?”