The Draft

Claire Grainger, New York Times Bestselling Author.

She stared at the words, embossed on the glossy cover of the book. Tracing her fingers over the letters that glinted in the light, she sighed deeply, then turned and shut her laptop.

How could she be proud of an accomplishment she couldn’t even remember?

Air, that was what she needed. She pulled on the green coat that hung on the bannister, grabbed her tote bag, and walked out onto the crisp city block.

It actually sounded like it would have made a good story, if she could remember anything for herself. They told her it was an accident, that she had been hit by a car. It was Jo, actually, who had given her the full truth: she had tried to dash across the busy intersection, late to a meeting, headphones on, when the car—who, in fact, had been speeding—came upon her.

Claire had been thrown into the air, her coffee splattered across the windshield like blood.

She hadn’t awoken until days later, with no memory of the incident. No memory at all, actually, of anything past her twenty-first birthday. It felt like yesterday. She remembered the night of her birthday, how she had rushed home from dinner early, eager to break open the new laptop Jo had given her. She had an idea. A good one. And she knew that if she could get this out, if she could put this idea onto paper, it would make a good book.

And then…nothing.

Claire hadn’t believed them when they told her she was twenty-six. She especially didn’t believe them when they told her that her idea—the one she wrote about on her birthday—actually had become a book. And she had been right. It was a good book. A bestseller. It had been such a strong debut, in fact, that now, the publishers were working on a five-year anniversary special.

She thought this must all be some sort of elaborate prank. That is, until she came home to her apartment to find a box of fifty books with her name on them. They looked so fancy. Hardcover, sprayed edges, illustrations—the works. The kinds of things they did for bonafide authors. So was that what she was?

How could that be true when she couldn’t even remember being one?

Claire shoved her hands in her pockets. Her phone was buzzing. Pulling it out, the screen read EVE. Her agent—or so she had been informed upon returning home from the hospital.

She nearly silenced the call. She watched it ring once, twice, three times, and then—

“Hello?”

“Claire! How have you been, dear?”

“Um, okay. Still just getting used to things.”

“I understand. I totally get that,” Eve said. That was the thing about Eve, Claire had come to realize. She always understood. Whatever you were going through, she got it. Totally.

“I took a look at the anniversary copies. They look good.” Of course, she had no frame of reference for what good really was when it came to her own published books, but she knew what Eve wanted to hear.

“Great! That’s wonderful. We’ll move forward with the publication then, as-is. I also wanted to check in about our other project..?”

Claire let out a breath.

Eve continued, “I totally get your situation. I know that an autobiography is a tough ask right now. I get it! But you’d been working on this for almost a year now—if there’s some sort of rough draft, anything, we could make it work.”

“I know. I haven’t found anything yet.”

“Did you check your laptop? Your notebooks? You used to start your rough drafts in journals before they even went on your computer. Are you—”

“Yes—yes, I know,” Claire interjected. “I’ve been looking through my things. I haven’t found anything. I’ll keep an eye out, though.”

Eve sighed, but the words seemed to placate her for the moment. “Alright dear. Well, I will let you get back to things. We do have a date of January 13th for the draft if we’re going to stay on track for publication, but I’m sure we can work something out by then.”

“Mmhm.” Claire scraped her boot on the sidewalk.

“Let me know if there’s anything I can do for you, dear! I’m more than your agent, you know. I’m your friend! Oh, and if you come across that draft, call me!”

“Yeah, I know. Thanks.”

She shoved her phone back in her pocket.

It was only a small lie. Eve didn’t need to know that Claire had actually found it.

The journal that contained the rough draft of her autobiography was in her tote bag right now. She found it immediately upon returning home from the hospital. It was right on her desk, front and center.

And in the three weeks since she had come home, she still hadn’t opened it.

What an unfair circumstance. This version of herself, the one she was before the accident, had achieved everything Claire had ever wanted. She had written books—books to be proud of. She had a publisher, and an agent, and her name on the bestseller lists.

And she couldn’t remember any of it.

Claire didn’t even know what her books were about. She could remember the vague concept—a sci-fi thriller, spooky and deep. She remembered the main character, a spunky space pirate—what was their name?

The memory was gone. Much like everything else.

Trying to recall these things was like reaching out into a dark room—grasping blindly for something, anything, that had a familiar shape, and finding nothing.

The coffee shop she had wandered upon was familiar to her. She knew she used to frequent this place, even before the accident.

That familiar, sweet aroma wafted out onto the street, enticing her. She watched the people bustling in and out, holding the door open for each other, talking and laughing. She wondered if any of them had ever had anything bad happen to them. She wondered if any of them had ever forgotten who they were.

But this coffee shop, she remembered. She knew the espresso here, the bright, nutty taste of it. She could picture walking around the block with it—

Claire sped up, turning the corner. Yes, here it was. The Rabbit’s Foot Bookstore. She did know this place! The bright green window panes and the dried flowers that hung from the doorframe—she had been here many times.

Without thinking, she found herself across the threshold, standing inside the cozy building. She was hit with the scent of lavender, drifting from the lit candles in the windowsill. The warmth from the room was a hug, waking her up from the chill of the November air.

The lady behind the desk smiled at her brightly, and then went back to counting her inventory.

Claire’s boots caused the floor to creak gently with each step. She knew this place well. In fact, it felt as if she had come closer to home here in this bookstore than in her own apartment.

Pacing the shelves, she glanced over all of the covers. Some, she recognized—Dracula, Bram Stoker. The Haunting of Hill House, Shirley Jackson. The greats, the stories that had shaped her. The Picture of Dorian Gray, Oscar Wilde.

The contemporary stories were less familiar to her. Names and covers she wasn’t sure she had ever seen before, the colors and words calling to her, beckoning to be picked up, to be read and absorbed.

And there it was, sitting innocently on the shelf, as if waiting patiently for her to notice it: The Blue Planet. Claire Grainger.

She watched it for a moment, as if waiting for something. Waiting for what? For the book to come alive and bring her memory back?

And then she was picking it up, feeling the weight of it in her hands. She was flipping through it.

Claire skimmed chapter one. Then chapter two, then three.

It was strange. The words didn’t bring back her memory. They didn’t fix anything, actually. But they were familiar.

Not because she could remember writing them. But she could recognize them. The same way you recognize yourself when you catch your own distorted reflection in a wine glass, she knew these words were hers.

She held the book close to her chest, next to her heart, staring blindly ahead of her.

This may be it, she thought. Claire couldn’t bring back her memory. Perhaps nothing or no one ever would. But she knew how to write. She had always known that. It had come naturally.

Maybe that was the story of her life, the key to the autobiography. If she navigated past the fear and the depth of her memory loss, she could bridge the gap between the person she was now and the person she once was. If she could lean back on her deepest, strongest instincts, perhaps she could propel herself forward into the life she was meant to live.

And in order to do that, she needed to read her draft.

Claire paid for the book. Then she walked back around the corner to the coffee shop.

In a single, assured motion, she opened up the journal that contained her story.

Claire started to read.