Willow Glen
Memory is a puzzling thing. Why is it she could remember that her favorite flavors were chocolate and peanut butter and that she could not stand the taste of beer? She knew her favorite color and could remember all the lyrics to many of the songs that played on the oldies rock station. She knew her name: Devon Whealy. But this was only because one of the nurses found her driver's license in her handbag when she was brought into the emergency room.
"What happened to me?" she asked once she regained consciousness.
"You were shot," the attending physician replied.
Dozens of questions flashed through her mind. Who? Where? When? And most importantly, why?
"There was a shooting at the mall," Dr. Balin explained.
His statement elicited more questions. What mall? What was she doing there? Was she with anyone at the time? Were they hurt? Killed?
Seeing that his patient was becoming agitated, the physician told the nurse to administer a sedative. Devon felt a pinch in her arm, and then her eyes closed.
I was shot, she thought as she drifted off to sleep.
When she woke the next morning, she vaguely recalled the brief conversation she had with Dr. Balin the evening before.
"Excuse me," she called to the nurse who walked past her door.
"Yes?"
"Was I really shot or was I just dreaming?"
"It's no dream, I'm afraid. There was a shooting at the mall. Twenty-six people were wounded, and eight died."
"Why can't I remember anything about it?"
"Post-traumatic amnesia is fairly common in head injuries."
Devon raised her hands and felt the heavy bandage wrapped around her head.
"Try not to worry too much," the nurse advised. "In many cases, patients recover most if not all of their memories. Stress will only make recovery that much more difficult."
"But ...."
"Would you like me to get you something to help you sleep?"
"No. I just woke up."
With a five-dollar bill she found in the wallet in her handbag, the patient persuaded a hospital volunteer to buy a notepad and pen from the gift shop in the lobby. On one sheet, she wrote down facts about her life that she was able to recall. On the opposite page, she scribbled down questions for which she had no answers. Sadly, the questions far outnumbered her recollections.
When Devon was finally released from the hospital, she took a bus to the address listed on her driver's license. She stared up at the twelve-story apartment building with no hint of recognition. The key on the ring at the bottom of her handbag opened the door to unit 4D. Blue walls triggered only one memory: her favorite color was blue. Nothing else looked even remotely familiar to her.
Did I really live here? she wondered with no valid reason to doubt the facts she was given. What a cold, impersonal place. It's like being in a box. There's nothing homey about it. Yuck! I might as well be in a coffin.
There were no pictures on the wall, no books or magazines on the end table, no knickknacks on the dresser. The clothes in the closet and drawers were functional but not stylish. There was no jewelry or makeup.
This is more like a hotel room than an apartment.
It occurred to Devon that perhaps this was the best she could afford. Rents were high in the city—that was something she remembered at least! Maybe she couldn't buy jewelry and designer clothes or spend money decorating an apartment.
I must have had a job, she reasoned. What did I do? Was I a sales clerk? A waitress? A teacher?
Given the spartan surroundings of her domicile, she doubted she had a high-paying job.
At least I won't miss this place when I move.
That thought took her by surprise. Had she been planning on moving before she was shot? If so, where was she planning on going? And why?
* * *
Although the unadorned apartment would never make the pages of House Beautiful, it was clean and the bed was comfortable. When her head hit the pillow that night, Devon slept until morning without having to resort to painkillers. She woke, fully rested when the sun shone through her bedroom window.
Hoping to find a clue to unlock her missing memories, she searched through every drawer and closet in the small dwelling. There was nothing in her medicine cabinet except a bottle of generic aspirin and a tube of toothpaste. Rummaging through the pockets of her clothes yielded only a chewing gum wrapper and thirty-five cents in change.
It suddenly occurred to her that there was no phone in the apartment.
I must have a cell phone then.
She opened her handbag and dumped the contents onto the kitchen table. Tissues. A cheap plastic comb. A key ring with only one key. (She assumed she did not own a car.) A wallet that contained her driver's license, a Target gift card and the $48.60 she had left after buying the pen and notebook at the hospital and paying for bus fare to take her home.
Devon had just about given up hope of discovering any useful information when she heard the ringtone of an iPhone coming from inside her handbag. She looked inside the purse and saw a zippered pocket in the lining.
"Ah ha!" she said with triumph. "That's where I keep my phone."
The call was from an unfamiliar number. (All numbers were unfamiliar to her now.)
"Hello," she said.
"Miss Whealy?" a female voice asked.
"Yes."
"Have you forgotten that our appointment was for ten o'clock this morning?"
Appointment? What appointment? Who was calling her?
Devon quickly explained that she had just gotten out of the hospital and was suffering from temporary amnesia.
"Oh, that's horrible!" the woman said. "That must mean you don't know who I am."
"I'm afraid not."
"My name is Mehitabel Bunsall."
Mehitabel Bunsall? Surely, that's a name I would have remembered!
"I'm a real estate agent in Willow Glen," the caller explained. "You had an appointment with me today to finalize the sale of your new home."
Willow Glen. The name sounded vaguely familiar.
"A new home?" Devon echoed. "Can I afford one?"
"I would say so," Mehitabel laughed. "You gave me a certified check for the entire purchase price. Our meeting today is only a formality. We just have to cross the T's and dot the I's, and you can move right in."
"There's one problem"—only one?—"I don't know where Willow Glen is or how I can get there from here? I don't believe I have a car."
"No problem. Take the train from the city to Ashford. I'll meet you at the station and drive you to the house. I'll see you then."
The realtor ended the call, leaving Devon standing in the middle of the kitchen, staring down at the phone in her hand.
I wish I knew why I'm moving and where I got the money to pay cash for a house! Hopefully, when I get to Willow Glen, something will stir a memory in my brain.
After a quick shower, she changed her outfit, grabbed her purse and headed for the door. She did not bother to pack a bag since there was nothing in the apartment she wanted to bring with her.
* * *
Thankfully, there was enough cash in her wallet to cover the cost of the train ticket. One thing that could be said in favor of the city was that mass transit was available. Devon wondered if she would need a car when she lived in Willow Glen.
I have a driver's license, but do I remember how to drive?
The motion of the train relaxed her, and she dozed off. The announcement that the train was nearing the Ashford station woke her. She wondered how long she had been asleep.
"Miss Whealy!" a middle-aged woman with pale blond hair called from the end of the platform. "Over here. It's me, Mehitabel Bunsall."
A fleeting memory crossed her mind.
I met that woman, she realized.
Although no details of their previous meeting came to mind, Devon was encouraged. Perhaps her memory was slowly coming back to her.
"Here we are," Miss Bunsall announced and pulled her car into the driveway of a cute cookie-cutter house on a tree-lined street.
The small, box-like house was white with decorative blue trim, shutters and front door. This color combination was all that distinguished her home from the dozens of other small, box-like houses on the street. The neighbor to the right had a yellow house with black trim; the one on the left was beige with red trim.
"There are so many different color combinations," Devon noted. "Even a lavender house with green trim."
"That's so people can easily identify their homes," the realtor explained. "Let's go inside and sign the paperwork."
To the new homeowner's delight, the house was already furnished, and the kitchen was fully stocked. To her disappointment, however, like the apartment in the city, the décor was lacking warmth and personality. No paintings hung above the fireplace mantel. There were candles or a fruit bowl on the dining room table.
Ugh! How dull! It's another box! I'll go insane if I have to live here!
"It's lovely!" she lied.
"I'm glad you like it. And since it's your place, you can add whatever decorative touches you want."
"What's the upstairs like?"
"Go up and have a look."
Like those on the first floor, the rooms on the second were furnished. There were even clothes in the closet and dresser drawers.
Are these my clothes? she wondered. I've heard of furnished homes but never ones that came with food and clothes.
When Devon descended the staircase, Mehitabel was waiting for her in the dining room. There was a single sheet of paper on the table awaiting her signature. Like most legal documents, the print was small and no doubt would require someone with a law degree to understand. Perhaps she ought to have a lawyer review the document before she signed it.
She paused, pen in hand, and a worried look crossed her face.
"Is something wrong?" the realtor asked.
"I don't know how I'm going to pay for anything. You told me I paid cash for the house, but what about taxes and utility bills? I don't have a job—at least, not one that I'm aware of."
"No need to worry about anything. You have a large sum of money in your bank account, and all your bills will be paid by direct withdrawal."
"How much money is there? Where did it come from?"
"I'm sure you'll remember in due time. For now, relax and get settled into your new home. Meet your neighbors. I'm sure in no time at all, you'll feel right at home in Willow Glen."
* * *
Late that afternoon, the growling of Devon's stomach reminded her that she had not eaten lunch. She walked into the kitchen, opened the refrigerator and reviewed her options for dinner. The crisper had lettuce, tomatoes and cucumbers, and there was a bottle of honey mustard salad dressing on the door. But would salad alone satisfy her hunger? She opened the freezer and found a selection of frozen dinners, a pepperoni pizza, chicken nuggets, hamburger patties and battered fish filets.
What if I'm a vegan or vegetarian?
As she debated what to cook and serve with her salad, the doorbell rang.
I wonder who that can be.
"Hi. I'm Kelly Rosslyn," the smiling, middle-aged woman introduced herself. "I live next door in the yellow house. I brought you a casserole to welcome you to Willow Glen."
"That was so thoughtful! Why don't you come inside?"
Kelly entered the house, which was laid out like her own. She walked into the kitchen and placed the CorningWare baking dish on the counter.
After introducing herself, Devon invited her neighbor to join her for dinner.
"I don't mind if I do. Like you, I'm new to the neighborhood. I moved in about a month ago, so I haven't been able to meet many of the other residents yet."
"Why don't you ask your husband and children to come over, too. I'm sure there's enough food here."
"I don't have a husband or children," Kelly said, the smile quickly disappearing from her face, replaced by a look of sadness and confusion.
"I'm sorry."
"There's no need to be. Of the people that I've met here, most of them are single, and I never see any children playing in the yards or riding bikes down the street. I've often wondered if Willow Glen was one of those singles communities or a seniors housing project."
"It couldn't be the latter since neither of us is old enough for a retirement home."
"That's true."
As the two women dined on the macaroni casserole, they took the first steps in getting to know one another. However, although many questions were asked, few answers were given.
"I'm not being deliberately evasive," the latest resident of Willow Glen confessed when the other woman inquired about any possible family she might have. "I was injured during a mass shooting recently, and I'm suffering from amnesia. I know that sounds like a lame plot from a daytime soap opera, but it's the truth."
Kelly's eyes widened, and her complexion turned two shades paler than normal.
"You don't believe me," Devon said, misinterpreting her neighbor's reaction. "You think I'm crazy, don't you?"
"No, not at all. I'm just flabbergasted at the bizarre coincidence. You see, I was involved in a serious car accident six months ago. Since then, I'm having trouble recalling certain aspects of my life."
"Really? What is the likelihood of both of us having memory problems?"
"Remember when I told you that I didn't have a husband or children?"
"Yes."
"Well, the truth is that I don't know if I'm married or not or if I'm a mother."
Now it was Devon's turn to react with stunned disbelief. Her mouth dropped open, but no words came out.
"You know, it never occurred to me that I might have a significant other," she finally said. "I woke up alone in the hospital, and no one came to visit me. I naturally assumed I was unattached."
"What about family?" Kelly inquired. "Parents? Siblings?"
"I don't know. I mean I'm sure I had parents. Everyone does. But I don't know if they're alive or dead. And as for siblings, I might be an only child. Who knows? Wouldn't you think if I had a family, though, someone would have tried to contact me by now?"
"I wish I had an answer for you, but I'm in the same boat. I remember odd things like the recipe for this casserole, but I can't recall what I did for a living or where my money came from."
"Me, too! The day after I was released from the hospital, I got a phone call from Mehitabel Bunsall—there's a memorable name for you!—who told me she was waiting for me to sign the papers to finalize the sale of the house, yet I don't have the slightest memory of buying it."
"This is weird! The same thing happened to me."
An idea suddenly occurred to Devon, and her face lit up with hope.
"Maybe I have a Facebook page," she told Kelly as the two neighbors drank iced tea and nibbled on Keebler Chips Deluxe cookies. "If so, I could see who my friends are."
"Forget about it. I came up with the same idea when I arrived in Willow Glen. There is no internet service here. Haven't you noticed that no one uses a computer or cell phone? We can't even get Netflix here. Just basic cable stations."
"Frankly, I could care less about what's on TV. I just want to remember who I am."
"They do say it's better to let your memories return on their own. My doctor told me to just relax and not worry so much."
"That's easier said than done."
"Tell you what," Kelly said, her face glowing with optimism. "There's going to be a picnic tomorrow on the green. Why don't we go? We can get to know other people and maybe even enjoy ourselves for a few hours."
"I suppose—worst case scenario—if I never get my memories back, I'll have to make a new life for myself. I might as well take the first steps."
"Good! Why don't we go over to my house now? You can help me make potato salad and bake cupcakes to bring with us."
* * *
Kelly arrived at her neighbor's house at ten o'clock the following morning, carrying a canvas bag containing her food contributions.
"I was just about to have a second cup of coffee," Devon announced. "Want one?"
"I'd love one!"
"I still have some chocolate chip cookies left over from yesterday. Why don't we finish them?"
"Great idea. You seem in a much better mood this morning. Did you get a good night's sleep?"
"Yes. I had a dream last night about being in a shopping mall."
"And?"
"I was told I was shot in a mall."
"And you think this was a memory?"
"It could be."
It was half past eleven when Kelly picked up her canvas bag and she and her new friend headed for the front door.
"How far a walk is it to the green?" Devon asked.
"One block up and six blocks over."
Since neither woman owned a car—oddly enough, there were no vehicles at all in Willow Glen—they began to walk. As they made their way east, the newest resident noticed there were no street signs at the intersection.
"It never occurred to me to wonder what my address is," she said. "What's yours?"
The blank expression on her neighbor's face confirmed that she did not know hers either.
"Did you ever get any mail delivered here?"
Kelly shook her head and said, "Which is odd because, before the accident, I used to get a lot of packages from Amazon Prime. Wait! How do I know that?"
"Your memory must be starting to come back, too!"
The two women walked in silence for several minutes, both lost in their own thoughts. They had walked four blocks when they saw a dirt road through a wooded area.
"Where does that go?" Devon wondered.
"I don't know. I've never seen it before."
A metal chain was stretched across the road and a sign was posted beside it: PRIVATE PROPERTY. AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.
"What do you suppose is down there?" Devon asked.
"Beats me," Kelly replied, shrugging her shoulders. "Come on. I hear music. Let's go have some fun."
* * *
"I expected a bigger crowd," Devon said, estimating there were no more than two dozen residents in attendance.
"Maybe more people will show up during the day," Kelly said hopefully.
Despite the low turnout, there was plenty of food and drink. An old-fashioned boombox, turned on full volume, provided the music. Someone had put on a compilation of Queen's greatest hits, and "Bohemian Rhapsody" was just coming to an end.
"You must be the newest addition to our community," a tall, redheaded middle-aged man with freckles said, approaching the two women. "I'm Gerald McKinty. Can I get you ladies something to drink? Coke? Iced tea? Lemonade?"
Kelly exchanged her potato salad and cupcakes for a glass of cold sweet tea.
By the time the Queen CD was replaced with one by The Beatles, introductions had been made all around.
"Whose children are those?" Devon asked, nodding her head in the direction of an eight-year-old girl and a ten-year-old boy who were jumping rope nearby.
"Patience and Martin Filchner," Gerald replied. "Currently, they're the only two children in Willow Glen."
"It seems odd a development this large has so few youngsters."
"Yeah, well, there are a lot of strange things about this place."
Devon was about to ask him to explain when Martin announced that the hamburgers and hot dogs were ready. Hungry people descended upon the buffet line and then found places to sit at the picnic tables. During the meal, "A Hard Day's Night" came to an end, and Creedence Clearwater Revival had its turn on the boombox.
After finishing her hot dog and eating an assortment of salads, Devon cast an eye on the dessert table. She was unsure if she wanted one of Kelly's red velvet cupcakes, a slice of pineapple upside-down cake or a piece of lemon meringue pie. Considering the number of calories she had consumed during the meal, maybe she should just stick to watermelon chunks instead. She had just decided on the lemon meringue pie when Gerald joined her in line for dessert.
"Did you enjoy your meal?" he asked.
"Yes. Did you?"
"I certainly did. I'm used to living on frozen dinners, I'm afraid."
"Oh? Are you single?"
"Yes," he answered after a brief hesitation.
"You sound as though you're not sure," she laughed.
"I'm not. I had a life-threatening injury not too long ago, and when I woke up in the hospital, I had difficulty remembering things."
Devon's initial reaction was one of disbelief.
"Not you, too!"
"What do you mean?"
When she explained about her own memory loss and that of Kelly Rosslyn, several people overheard her and joined in the conversation. It was bizarre! Everyone present had a similar story. Gerald, who suspected he was involved in law enforcement before his injury, was angry as well as perplexed by the revelation.
"I always thought there was something weird about this place. This only confirms my beliefs. What the hell is going on here?" he demanded to know.
The other members asked similar questions. Why were most of the houses in Willow Glen vacant? Why was there no mail delivery? Why did no police cars patrol the streets? Why didn't anyone who lived there have a job? Why? Why? Why?
"I think it's about time we got some answers!" Gerald exclaimed.
"How do you propose we do that?" Devon asked.
"I doubt we'll find them here. There's no owner's association. I suggest we see what's beyond Willow Glen."
The twenty adults at the picnic were divided into ten groups of two; the children were to accompany their parents. Each group was to follow one of the roads out of the development in search of a neighboring town. An hour later, all twenty-two people found themselves back on the green. All roads in Willow Glen, they discovered, circled around and returned to the point of origin.
In short, there was no way out.
* * *
"We're prisoners here!" Patience Filchner cried.
"Is this some kind of government experiment?" the man who lived in the orange house with the yellow trim asked.
"Maybe it's some kind of mass hallucination," Kelly offered. "Or some kind of drug that a terrorist group placed in the water."
There were all sorts of theories, some that seemed as though they came from pages of a science fiction novel, others taken from the supermarket tabloid headlines.
"There must be some way in and out of this place," Gerald declared. "We all got here from somewhere else. And what about our food? A delivery truck brings it in every week. The driver has to have a way in and out of the development."
Devon's eyes widened, and her pulse quickened.
"I think I know where it is," she cried. "Everyone follow me."
She led them to the dirt road through the wooded area. Twenty adults and two children cautiously approached the metal chain that blocked the private road.
"I think you're right," Gerald agreed. "That must be the way in and out of here."
Since the chain was only two feet high at its lowest point, the adults easily stepped over it whereas the Filchner children ducked underneath it. When Devon's feet were on the opposite side of the barrier, she felt a cold sensation envelop her body and one of her forgotten memories flitted across her brain.
I was a secretary for a civil engineer.
With each step the residents of Willow Glen took, more of their past returned to them. They recalled the names of friends and family. Images of former homes, schools and places of employment came to mind. Gerald, as he had suspected, was once a detective with the state police.
The dirt road meandered through the wooded area and eventually came to a clearing. In the center of a green meadow was the state of an angel with its hand pointing upward. Devon looked at the face and recognized the features.
"Mehitabel Bunsall!" she exclaimed. "The real estate agent who sold me my house."
"Mine, too," Kelly said; her two words echoed through the group.
"Maybe this isn't the way out," Devon announced with mounting apprehension. "Why don't we go back to the green?"
"No," Gerald said, vetoing the idea. "I want to find answers."
Nineteen adults and two children pushed on ahead, leaving Devon standing alone at the rear.
The Filchners—mother, father and two children—were the first to see the gravestones up ahead. They walked up to a large granite block with four names engraved upon it.
"Now, I remember everything," Patience announced. "There was a fire. We were all asleep upstairs in our beds."
"We never woke up in the hospital, did we?" Martin asked.
Before he received an answer to his question, he, his wife and children vanished, having crossed over to the next plane of existence. Shortly after the Filchner family took their final journey to the hereafter, the Bronsons walked toward a double plot where they finally recalled their fatal boating accident. Without either a wave or word of goodbye, the elderly couple faded from view. One other married couple was placed beneath a double headstone, but most of the people in the group were buried in single graves. All had died as a result of sudden, sometimes violent, death. One woman, Nan Robsky, had been murdered by her husband. Finally, only Gerald McKinty, Kelly Rosslyn and Devon Whealy remained.
"I suppose this answers my questions," Gerald said, looking down at his grave and stoically accepting his fate. "At least, I can now say with certainty that I have a wife. At least I did until I was shot and killed in the line of duty. Now, she's my widow.
"That leaves just you and me," Kelly said with a sad smile after the detective disappeared. "Maybe I'll see you on the other side."
Devon reached out to grab her neighbor's arm but the flesh and bone dissolved in a mist.
"No!" she wept.
A freshly dug grave beneath a shining new marble headstone stood directly in front of her, less than twenty feet away. She took one step forward, and music began to play. It was not Queen, The Beatles or Creedence Clearwater Revival. It was not a recognizable tune, more like the eerie, random notes of wind chimes.
"I don't want to die," she whimpered, refusing to accept her fate. "Why should my life have come to an end just because I picked the wrong day to go to JCPenney at the mall?"
The lure of the unnerving music was strong, but her will to live proved stronger. With every ounce of strength in her body, she turned around and walked back along the dirt road toward Willow Glen. The nearer she drew the chain suspended across the road, the more speed she picked up. After stepping over it, she ran all the way to the box-like, white house with blue trim.
* * *
Lisa Ahearn and her teenage daughter, Mikayla, had just moved into the yellow house formerly inhabited by the late Kelly Rosslyn. Like everyone who moved into Willow Glen, they had suffered a recent serious injury and were suffering from post-traumatic amnesia.
Who was my father? Mikayla wondered as she sat at the kitchen table, dunking Oreos into a glass of milk.
Do I have a husband? her mother asked herself.
Both women put aside their questions when they heard the doorbell ring.
"I wonder who that is," the teenager said.
"It's probably Mehitabel Bunsall, the real estate agent," her mother replied. "She probably has more papers for me to sign."
"If I were her, I'd change my name," the teenager muttered.
Lisa opened the door and saw a young woman on her front steps, holding a CorningWare dish in her hands.
"Hi. I'm Devon," the woman introduced herself. "I live next door in the white house with the blue trim. I brought you a casserole to welcome you to the neighborhood."
For Devon Whealy, at least, a simple, boring existence in a box-like house at Willow Glen was preferable to death and the uncertainty of the hereafter.
Even if I had amnesia, it's unlikely I could forget Salem. He has many not-so-subtle ways of making himself known.
