Page 59 of Eternal Devotion

Sunday morning, I woke up sick. Rather, I woke up with queer sensations that I could only attribute to being unwell. My entire body was heavy and tired, muscles aching. I couldn’t think in a straight line to save my life, and random bouts of unexplained panic made my heart flutter.

Concerned I had forgotten a house showing, I double- and triple-checked my day planner and calendar, but that wasn’t it. The feeling persisted. I had a nagging suspicion I was supposed to be somewhere or do something.

I move sluggishly around the apartment, disoriented and confused, while flashes of a half-remembered dream tickled the back of my brain. All night, I’d suffered what felt like hallucinations. Visions so vividly real one minute and utterly absurd the next. I must have been fevered. It had that same quality, like when I was sick as a kid.

Every time I tried to focus on the content of the weird dream-like visions, a headache throbbed in my temples.

Concluding I was unwell, I took a couple of Tylenol, made a chamomile tea with lemon and honey, and put myself back to bed, hoping to clear the cotton cloud from my brain. For a time, I stared at the ceiling, trying to relax my brain. For reasons I couldn’t explain, I kept thinking about a disgruntled pig and plagues of the 1500s. Was it lore from a recent game I’d played? But no, I couldn’t think of one with those dynamics. Part of a quest? I didn’t think so. Not that I could recall.

Eventually, I drifted off to sleep.

I woke in the early afternoon to my phone ringing. Groaning, I rolled over and found the device on the bedside table. Mom’s name appeared on the screen, so I answered with a rough, “Hey. What’s up?”

“Were you sleeping? Good grief, Ensley, it’s nearly three o’clock.”

“I’m feeling off.”

“Oh no. Are you sick?”

“Maybe. Not sure. Why are you calling?”

She tsked. “I’m your mother. Do I need an excuse?”

“No. Sorry.” I scrubbed my face and sat up, a lingering fog still turning my thoughts soupy. I squinted at the bright sunlight shining through the loft window. The rain had passed, and it seemed like a nice day.

“Well. I did call for a reason, actually.” The prying curiosity in her tone put me on edge. Shit. This would be about Dad’s memorial, and I was running low on excuses. “How was your second date?”

“I… What? Date?” I prodded my temple as I got to my feet, searching for a hoodie to throw on since the room was chilly. What the hell was she talking about?

“Don’t be coy. Your handsome European with the sexy accent. What’s his name again? It’s so unusual. It won’t stick in my brain.”

I stalled in the middle of my bedroom as she spoke, her words not landing or computing on any level. Second date? Handsome European?

I’ve lived all over Europe. Mostly in Romania, but I’ve spent time in Germany, Austria, Bulgaria, Russia… My accent is likely muddled.

I dropped heavily onto the end of the bed, unsure where the random snippet of remembered conversation came from, but I heard it clearly in a soft, mildly accented tenor voice. No matter how hard I strained, I couldn’t put a face to the memory, nor did I recognize the speaker’s lilt.

“Ensley?”

“I, um…” A date. A second date. But no. I didn’t go out last night. I… had no recollection of my evening. “Can I call you back? I’m… I need to wake up. I’m a bit nauseous.”

“Sure, sweetie. I’m worried about you.”

“I’m fine. Really. I just… need a shower and…”

“Oh, Ensley. Are you hungover? Is that it? Did you and your man overindulge? I thought those years were behind you.”

“No.” Had I been drinking? “It’s nothing like that, Mom. I swear.” And who was this man? My mouth didn’t have the pasty quality of a night of binging, but my memory was definitely full of holes. “Give me an hour.”

After getting off the phone, I stumbled down the ladder and pivoted in place, unsure where to put myself. Date? What was she talking about? Did I tell her I was going on a date?

I accessed my recent text thread with Mom and scrolled to see if there was any mention of a date. Nothing. Since my mother and I communicated mostly through email and phone chats, I wasn’t surprised.

As I was about to toss my phone aside and hit the shower, the conversation thread at the top of the contact list caught my attention. My most recent text exchange had been with a guy named Mordecai. Something about the name prickled the hair on my arms. A wash of déjà vu stole my breath. I knew the name. It was both familiar and not.

“Mordecai.” I tasted it on my tongue and couldn’t deny an acquaintance with those three syllables. “Mordecai.”

I opened the thread, but the content was minimal. A single conversation. The planning of a date. Dinner. I checked the timestamp. Friday night. Eight o’clock. I’d picked him up.