Page 1 of The Crimson Lily

I got this weird feeling when I opened my eyes this summer morning.

As usual, I was alone in my bed, though I swear someone was watching me this time.

It felt like someone was standing beside me while I slept, observing in the dark.

The idea scared me a little, I must admit, but I wasn’t scared as much as I was when I woke up, two months ago, having lost all memory of myself.

I had a persistent picture printed behind my eyelids, like an afterimage of me holding a glass object. That’s it. Nothing else.

They told me my name was Liliana Springfield, that I was some sort of professor at the University of Columbia, as was mentioned on the faculty pass in my wallet.

They told me I was found by the side of the road, a pool of blood underneath my skull, and besides my memory, the only thing I lost was my phone.

The police ruled it an accident. I probably slipped on something wet and hit my head very badly.

What alarmed me the most: No one came to claim me in the last two weeks of my stay.

I was the unlucky one. Not many people get retrograde amnesia from a dumb fall to the cold pavement. Not many patients with retrograde amnesia have no one visiting them with comforting roses or clues to their past.

A nurse drove me home. Apparently, I had enough money to afford the extravagant hospital bill and a nurse bring me to where I belonged .

The doctor made a remark about that fact being rare for someone on a teacher’s salary—he must have forgotten about the Columbia part.

He asked inappropriate questions about my financial situation before remembering that I wouldn’t remember.

The police found my address on a bill I carried in my bag.

A simple electricity note I’d slipped in there for whatever reason.

The nurse helped me figure out my apartment from the dozens of others on this street of the Upper West Side of New York City.

We finally found it, together, cheering like we’d just cracked the exit to an escape room.

Ah, that’s when I realized escape rooms existed, and I was very fond of them.

She told me that other shards of my memory would probably return, but there was no guarantee I’d ever fully remember my previous life.

She stayed longer than she should have, probably feeling sorry for me, scrutinizing notes and booklets I’d left on what she pointed out to be my desk.

It didn’t bring me any more information than the fact that I could now, with certainty, confirm I was a vegetarian.

This explained why I never touched the meat when they served it as hospital food.

Now that was something I could work with.

I didn’t recognize anything in this place.

Not the large windowpanes carved into the brick wall that gazed upon the street.

Not the cream wallpaper that adorned the rest of the walls.

Not those paintings, the little statuettes on the shelves, nor the many books I didn’t remember reading—they weren’t mine.

Not even the large tropical plant in the corner by the small flatscreen TV.

I didn’t even recognize myself when I faced the bedroom mirror.

This wavy blonde hair felt off and so did these blue eyes.

My straight nose looked too narrow and my lips too thin.

I had a mole to the side of my nose that I first thought was a piece of dirt.

That’s how little I knew myself. I wiped it off five or six times before realizing it really belonged to me.

When the nurse left, she asked me at least twice if I was going to be okay.

She even gave me her number. I think she really felt sorry for me.

It’s morning. When I get up, the first thing I do is get out and get coffee.

I love coffee. The first time I tasted it after the accident was when the owner of a little coffee shop down the street heard my story—Rajesh, Commander in Chief of the Mumbai Chai, with gleaming dark-brown eyes and a big smile.

He said he’d never been so delighted to meet someone who was basically a coffee virgin and immediately wanted to initiate me.

I had never been to his diner before, but I go every day now, and he’s been my beacon of light in this darkness ever since.

He told me about American history, about India’s own history, where he came from, and that I probably had Dutch ancestry because of my hair, though my barely five-foot-four-inch frame told me I was too short to be Dutch.

Rajesh told me the latest news, why country A didn’t like country B, why POTUS didn’t like the other P’s, why this actor married this actress.

He started telling me legends of the Indus Valley when he found out I taught archaeology.

Two months in, I’ve been able to slowly piece together elements of my past, partially thanks to a therapist I saw for the three weeks after my hospital stay.

Sadly, those memories were mostly general things about me.

Meet Liliana Springfield, assistant professor in the Art History and Archaeology department at Columbia.

Volunteer-whatever at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

Twenty-seven years old, born in Los Angeles on June 6, 1995, spent the past nine years of her life in New York City.

Other than that, I don’t know much, just that I have no parents, no siblings, no friends.

I’m still not sure what exactly happened there and how the realization that I’m all alone makes me feel. For now, I’m just numb, and my blank mind simply focuses on coffee and whatever is on TV.

When I found the nerves to do so, I called the number of the department where I worked.

Turns out, they’ve been aware all this time that I was in an accident, and they put me on extended leave for an undetermined amount of time, so I could heal and become myself again.

They really have no idea, do they? Why did no one come see me at the hospital?

Why did no one come to me two months later?

Who the hell is myself supposed to be anyway?

I sip on that coffee like my life depends on it.

Rajesh isn’t here today. It’s his daughter, Priya, who does the daily duties.

I’m checking my phone, a new one I bought for just about a hundred dollars.

It’s simple, and it has an internet connection, which I still find fascinating after two months.

The internet is a beautiful thing. As I do every day, I read the news, and every day, I find it more boring. It’s always the same.

When I get home, I put myself in front of Netflix in comfy clothes on my fluffy beige sofa.

My coffee table, some small piece of wood I probably got from a thrift shop or something, is just large enough to welcome a gigantic bowl of popcorn.

I spend the afternoon watching a series I made notes about in one of my booklets.

Apparently, I really like sci-fi, and I can say loud and clear: I still love it.

I love to make theories to predict what will happen in a TV show.

I make bets with myself, and I can already see a history of me either winning or losing against myself, then placing the money in one jar or the other.

It may sound weird, but it’s a great way to save money.

After I watch the show, I go to the bathroom and look at myself for a little bit.

I still have the same eyes, the same hair, the same regular neck and irregular collar bone.

In these past two months, I realized my breasts were on the bigger side—guess I have that going for me!

I shrug. My shirt is too tight and I look like a wine barrel.

I try to adjust it, fiddling with the weird fold under my breast. The moment I make contact with myself, a bright light flashes behind my eyes, and a name pops into my mind like a cannonball.

Alejandro.

And it’s gone again.

Who is Alejandro? My boyfriend? My ex? For a split second, I had his face in my mind. I had his eyes, his hair, even his last name! Now everything is gone. But like a ricocheting boomerang, I’m hit with a second wave of recall.

I’m in the Met, and I’m holding a dagger made of glass.

What the actual hell? The Met Museum? The object made of glass I remember—my very first and only memory for a long while was of…

?a dagger? Then, as if that’s not enough, it’s evening now, and someone is banging at my door.

A series of loud thumps going at it again and again.

I stand up, hesitant, and stagger to my front door. More thumps come.

“Hello?” I spontaneously call, but my voice quickly fails me because I’m actually getting scared.

The banging stops. I make it to my door and muster enough courage to look through the peephole.

The rest happens so fast.

I catch a glimpse of a large man, then I get the door in my face.

There is blood racing out of my nose. The large man barges into my apartment, puts his hand at the base of my neck, and sends me flying.

He follows my fall, his hand flat on my chest, until I land on my back.

I’m paralyzed. Terrified, I let out a scream, which is quickly muffled by a large ball of cloth being shoved into my mouth.

Within seconds, the man seizes both my wrists and ties a rope around them.

Once done, he rises back to his feet and steps aside.