Keys to a Wild Heart

Lainey Duckworth noticed the blood because the sun hit it just right.

She was halfway into her truck when a blade of Louisiana morning slipped beneath the steering wheel and illuminated something dark between the grooves of the rubber floor mat.

Blood.

Not much. Maybe a tablespoon.

Enough.

Lainey stared at it, then checked her hands. Nothing. Her jeans. Nothing. Boots. Mud, but no blood. She crouched beside the open door of the battered Ford and touched the stain. Dry. "What the hell?"

She checked the back seat. Empty except for a denim jacket, jumper cables, two empty water bottles, and a paper grocery bag containing three cans of coffee she had apparently bought despite already having two in the pantry. That irritated her more than the blood should have.

At 42, Lainey had become accustomed to her brain occasionally hiding things from her. Walk into the kitchen and forget why. Lose sunglasses while wearing them. Search for a phone currently in her hand. Once she spent 20 minutes accusing herself of losing her truck keys before discovering the truck was running. She joked that her thoughts were horses with the gate left open.

But blood was different. She climbed behind the wheel.

"Phone." Front pocket.

"Keys." Ignition.

"Wallet." Back pocket.

Then two fingers against the side of her neck.

"Pulse." There. Still alive. Good enough. Lainey managed a feed and farm-supply store outside Ruston, Louisiana, and had spent most of her life proving she could handle things without anybody's help.

At 11, she learned to saddle a horse.

At 16, she changed her first alternator.

At 23, she buried her mother after pancreatic cancer reduced the toughest woman Lainey had ever known to 94 pounds.

At 28, she married a man named Travis who liked bourbon more than marriage and liked apologizing considerably more than changing.

At 31, she divorced him.

At 34, she rolled a pickup three times after hydroplaning during a thunderstorm. The roof collapsed far enough to fracture her skull. Doctors told her family she might not walk normally again.

Six weeks later, she walked out of physical therapy carrying the cane they had told her she would need.

At 37, she miscarried a daughter she had already named.

At 39, doctors removed a malignant tumor from her thyroid.

Every time something happened, somebody said the same goddamn things.

You're so strong.

You're a fighter.

Nothing keeps you down.

Lainey wanted to punch people when they called her resilient. Nobody ever congratulated somebody for having an easy life. Apparently suffering became inspirational if you survived enough of it.

Her younger sister, Delaney, called around noon. "You coming Sunday?"

Lainey wedged the phone between her shoulder and ear while opening a shipment invoice. "Where?"

Silence. Lainey stopped. "Dinner," Delaney said.

"I knew that."

"At my house."

"I know."

"You forgot last week."

"I was busy."

"You came Monday."

Lainey frowned. "I did?"

"You brought potato salad."

"Was it good?"

"That's not the point."

"It matters to the potato salad."

"Lainey."

"Don't."

"I didn't say anything."

"You were about to."

Another silence. "How's your head?"

"Attached."

"Headaches?"

"No." That was a lie.

"Memory?"

"Obviously excellent. I remembered your name."

Delaney sighed. "Sunday. Six."

"I'll be there."

"Write it down."

"Yes, Mom."

"Our mother would haunt you for saying that."

"She'd have to catch me first."

Delaney laughed despite herself. That was how Lainey preferred people. Laughing. Laughing people did not look at you like something cracked.

That evening, Lainey was driving home along a narrow parish road when she saw a palomino mare standing beyond a sagging fence. She slowed. The horse was beautiful. Golden coat. Cream mane. Mud splashed halfway up her legs. Blood ran from a cut near her left shoulder. Lainey pulled over. "Well, shit." She crossed the ditch. The mare backed away. "Easy, girl." Another step. The horse snorted. "I don't like strangers either."

Lainey stopped. Wildflowers grew around the fence posts, purple and yellow blossoms tangled among weeds. The mare watched her. "Wildflower." The name came naturally. "That what I should call you?" The horse flicked an ear. "Better than something stupid like Princess."

Lainey called the parish sheriff's office and reported an injured loose horse. They promised to contact the property owner. Before returning to her truck, she looked back. Wildflower stood among the blossoms watching her leave.

Phone.

Keys.

Wallet.

Pulse.

Lainey drove home. Three mornings later, she awakened with mud beneath her fingernails. There was a bruise on her thigh. She remembered neither. A week later, she found a four-inch scratch across her stomach. Then came the torn toenail. Then bruises around her right wrist resembling fingerprints. She started locking her bedroom door. That embarrassed her because she lived alone. She bought two cameras. One faced her bed. The other faced the front door.

The next morning, her left palm was sliced badly enough that dried blood covered the sheet. Lainey watched the recordings. She had slept for nearly seven hours. Never left bed. Nobody entered. She replayed the footage. Then again. On the third viewing she noticed something.

At 3:12am, sleeping Lainey raised her hand. Two fingers found the side of her neck. She held them there. Then lowered her hand. Lainey closed the laptop. She sat silently for several minutes. Then she whispered, "Phone. Keys. Wallet. Pulse." She could not remember when she had started adding the fourth item.

Wildflower appeared again two weeks later. Same road. Same field. Same horse. The wound on her shoulder had healed. Lainey pulled over. "You." The mare approached this time. Lainey extended her hand. Wildflower sniffed her fingers. "See? We're friends now."

"Yes, you are."

Lainey spun around. An elderly man stood near the neighboring gate. "You know this horse?"

He frowned. "Do you?"

"I found her injured a couple weeks ago."

The man's expression changed. "Ma'am, you've been stopping for that horse since spring."

Lainey laughed. "No, I haven't."

"You call her Wildflower."

The smile disappeared. "What?"

"Every time."

Lainey stepped backward. "What's her real name?"

"Buttercup."

"That's a terrible fucking name." The old man laughed. Lainey did not. "When did I first stop?"

"April, maybe."

It was September. "You sure it was me?"

"Red Ford with that dented passenger door. You bring apples." Lainey looked at Wildflower. The mare pressed her nose against Lainey's shoulder. "You always talk to her too," the man said. "Figured she belonged to a friend of yours."

Lainey drove directly home. There were apples in her refrigerator. Six of them. She did not remember buying apples. She hated apples. The neurologist had warned her eight years earlier. Her wreck had caused a traumatic brain injury. She recovered remarkably well, but there had been damage. Memory problems were possible. Cognitive changes were possible. Future deterioration was possible.

Lainey had stopped seeing the neurologist after two years because she felt fine. Fine was one of Lainey's favorite lies. She dug through a filing cabinet until she found the old records. Inside the folder was something that did not belong. A yellow index card. Her handwriting.

PHONE: What day is it?

KEYS: Where are you going?

WALLET: Who are you?

PULSE: You're still here.

Lainey sat on the floor. She did not remember writing it. Her hands began shaking. She opened her phone. Calendar reminders filled dates she did not remember creating.

TAKE MEDICATION.

CALL DELANEY.

SUNDAY DINNER IS SUNDAY. NOT MONDAY.

That one hurt. Then:

DO NOT DRIVE IF YOU LOSE TIME.

There was an alarm scheduled every morning at 7:00am. Its label made her stomach tighten.

YOU ALREADY KNOW.

Lainey called Delaney. Her sister answered immediately. "You knew." Silence. "You fucking knew."

"Lainey."

"How bad is it?"

"Please come over."

"How bad?"

Delaney began crying. Lainey hung up. She drove. She did not know where. That scared her more than anything else had. Louisiana blurred past in pine trees, pasture, ditches, rusted mailboxes, and late-summer green. She realized she had been driving for nearly an hour. She did not know why. Lainey pulled onto the shoulder.

Phone.

Tuesday.

Keys.

Home.

No. Where had she been going?

Wallet.

Lainey Marie Duckworth.

She stared at her driver's license photograph. The woman looked familiar. Of course she did. That thought terrified her.

Pulse.

Alive.

Her hands trembled against the steering wheel. "Get your shit together."

She looked toward the passenger seat. Blood. Fresh. A streak across the upholstery. More on the inside of the passenger door. Lainey checked herself frantically. Nothing. She searched the truck. Beneath the passenger seat was a silver earring. A woman's. Lainey held it in her palm. She had never seen it before.

That evening, the local news reported 29-year-old Cassidy LeBlanc missing. Last seen leaving a restaurant two nights earlier. The photograph showed a smiling brunette. Silver earrings hung from both ears. Lainey stared at the television. Then at the earring on her coffee table. For the first time since the nightmare began, she wondered whether forgetting might be protecting her from something other than illness.

She did not call police. That decision would haunt her later. Instead, Lainey investigated herself. Her truck had traveled 186 unexplained miles. She checked bank transactions. Gas station. Pharmacy. Hardware store. Then a purchase from a convenience store 40 miles south. Water. Bandages. Antibiotic ointment. Protein bars. She checked her browser history.

concussion confusion

how long without water

infected wound fever

how to splint broken ankle

Lainey pushed away from the table. "What did you do?"

She searched her phone photographs. Most were ordinary. Then she found Wildflower. Dozens.

April.

May.

June.

July.

August.

Same horse. Same field. Pictures Lainey did not remember taking. Then another photograph.

Cassidy LeBlanc.

Alive.

Blood covered the woman's forehead. She lay on a wooden floor with a blanket beneath her head. Lainey dropped the phone. "Oh, fuck." She picked it up. The next image showed Lainey's own bloody hand. The next showed trees. A dirt road. A broken fence. Then Wildflower standing beside an unfamiliar stretch of woods.

Lainey enlarged the image. Behind the horse was a rusted metal sign. Only part of the lettering remained. She knew she had seen it before. She just could not remember where. Headlights swept across her living room.

Delaney.

Lainey grabbed her keys. Her sister entered before she reached the door. "Give me those."

"Move."

"You hung up on me."

"A woman is missing."

"I know."

"I think I found her."

Delaney's anger disappeared. Lainey showed her the photograph.

"Call the police."

"I am."

"Then wait for them."

"I can't."

"Why?"

"Because I already forgot her once." That silenced them both. Lainey's voice cracked. "I found her, Delaney. Look at her. I fucking found her, and then I forgot where I put her."

"Lainey…"

"What kind of person does that?"

"A sick one." Lainey stared at her. Delaney immediately regretted the words. "I don't mean sick like…"

"Broken."

"I didn't say that."

"You didn't have to."

Delaney approached. "You have survived things that would've destroyed other people."

"There it is."

"What?"

"Strong. Fighter. Resilient."

"Lainey."

"I'm so fucking tired of being resilient." Tears filled her eyes. "I didn't ask for any of this. I didn't ask Mom to die. I didn't ask Travis to choose bourbon over me. I didn't ask to lose my baby. I didn't ask for cancer. I didn't ask to crack my fucking head open." Delaney was crying now. "Everybody keeps telling me how strong I am like that's supposed to make getting hit feel better." Lainey pointed through the window toward her battered truck. "You know what happens if you wreck a truck enough times?" Delaney said nothing. "It doesn't become stronger." Lainey's voice broke. "It becomes wrecked."

Delaney wrapped her arms around her. Lainey resisted for perhaps a second. Then collapsed against her sister. "I'm scared." Delaney held her tighter. It was the first time Lainey had said those words since their mother died.

"I know."

"What happens when I don't know you?"

"Then I'll introduce myself."

"What happens when I don't believe you?"

"I'll keep introducing myself."

"What happens when I forget who I am?"

Delaney pressed her forehead against Lainey's. "I'll remember for both of us." Lainey sobbed against her sister's shoulder. For once, she did not apologize. Police followed the photographs. Lainey rode with Delaney. They found the dirt road from the picture after nearly two hours. Then they found Wildflower. The mare stood beside the fence. Lainey got out.

"Where?"

Wildflower watched her. Lainey walked toward her. The horse turned and followed the fence line. One officer muttered that this was insane. Lainey followed anyway. Wildflower stopped near a collapsed gate. Beyond it stood an abandoned hunting cabin. Something broke open inside Lainey's mind. Headlights. Rain. A wrecked car tilted in a drainage ditch. Cassidy wandering barefoot along the road, concussed and bleeding. Lainey stopping. Cassidy terrified of the approaching storm. Floodwater making the road impassable. The cabin. Lainey treating her wounds. Leaving for help. Forgetting. Then somehow remembering enough to return.

Forgetting again. Returning again. "Oh, God." Lainey ran. Cassidy was inside. Alive. Barely. Dehydrated. Weak. Her ankle grotesquely swollen. When she saw Lainey, she started crying.

"You came back."

Lainey dropped beside her. "I'm sorry."

Cassidy grabbed her hand. "You kept coming back."

Lainey stared. "What?"

"You'd leave." Cassidy swallowed. "Then you'd come back with water. Food. Bandages." Lainey could not breathe. "You kept asking me who I was." Cassidy smiled weakly. "I kept telling you." Lainey looked at their joined hands. The bruises. Cuts. Mud. The torn nail. The sliced palm. They had come from climbing through wreckage, clearing debris, repairing part of the cabin roof, falling along the washed-out road.

Not violence.

Rescue.

Again.

And again.

And again.

She had forgotten Cassidy every time. But some part of her had remembered that someone needed her. Cassidy survived. The newspapers called Lainey a hero. Television stations called. People online called her courageous.

Resilient.

A fighter.

Lainey declined every interview. Six weeks later, she surrendered her driver's license voluntarily. That hurt more than cancer. Her truck remained beneath Delaney's carport. Lainey occasionally sat inside it. She would run her fingers across the cracked dashboard. Dented door. Worn steering wheel. The truck still ran. But running was not the same as being okay. She finally understood that.

Lainey moved into a small house on Delaney's property. Some days were good. Some were not. She began keeping notebooks. Photographs. Names. She saw a neurologist again. She took medication when she was supposed to. She accepted rides. She allowed Delaney to repeat things without snapping at her.

Usually.

Accepting help turned out to be harder than surviving without it. One October afternoon, Lainey walked along the fence behind Delaney's property. Wildflowers had somehow survived the first cold nights. Purple blossoms moved in the wind. Beyond them, three horses grazed. One lifted its head. For a moment, Lainey thought it was Wildflower. It wasn't. She laughed. "Wrong horse." The horse approached anyway. Lainey rubbed its nose. She stood there for a long time. Then turned toward home. Something felt wrong. Her hand touched her pocket.

"Phone."

There.

Other pocket. "Keys."

Empty.

Panic flashed through her. Then she remembered. She did not drive anymore.

"Wallet."

Back pocket.

There. Finally, two fingers against her neck.

"Pulse."

Steady.

Lainey smiled. Three out of four. Good enough. She walked toward the house. From the kitchen window, Delaney watched her sister coming home. She smiled. Then she noticed something on the table. Lainey's phone. Delaney looked through the window again. Lainey had checked an empty pocket and said the word anyway.

Her smile disappeared.

She picked up the phone. The screen illuminated. There was a new note. Created that morning. Delaney knew she should put the phone down. Instead, she opened it.

My name is Lainey Duckworth.

Delaney is my sister. Trust her.

Wildflower's real name is Buttercup. Don't tell her because Wildflower is better.

You cannot drive anymore. It will piss you off. You'll survive it.

Then:

Phone. Keys. Wallet. Pulse.

And beneath that:

One day you'll lose all four. Until then, keep going.

Delaney covered her mouth. She had noticed something she was never meant to see. Outside, Lainey stopped among the wildflowers. A yellow butterfly rested on one of the blossoms. She crouched to look at it, completely forgetting that she had been walking home. For several seconds, grief nearly crushed Delaney. Then Lainey laughed. The butterfly had landed on her finger. Delaney could not hear the laugh through the glass. She did not need to. Lainey stood among the flowers with one hand extended, fascinated by something she might forget before dinner.

But she had it now.

Maybe that was what surviving actually meant. Not remaining unbroken. Not remembering every scar. Not proving you could take another hit. Maybe it was simply possessing this moment before the next one arrived.

The butterfly lifted away. Lainey watched it disappear. Then she looked toward the house. For an instant she seemed uncertain. Delaney raised her hand through the window. Lainey saw her. Recognition returned. She smiled and waved.

Then she came home.