From nothing to everything

Part I

MICHELLE FINISHED ADDING GROUND coffee to the drip brewer and switched it on. Pausing, she sipped her glass of chilled orange juice enjoying the sweet flavor and pulp, then checked that the toaster was ready. With the frying pan warming, a pat of butter melting, and fresh eggs waiting at the side, she checked her watch.

Where was he? Usually he was the first up in the morning, especially today, Father's Day.

She moved the frying pan off the heat and left the kitchen, walked down the hall of the sprawling bungalow-style home, and into his bedroom. Dad was sound asleep, uncovered from the waist up, his sandy hair a mess. She moved to the bed and shook his shoulder. "Time to wake up."

He didn't stir. She shook his shoulder harder. "Wake up, Dad." With no response and a tickle of worry, she shoved his shoulder, relieved when he finally stirred, his eyes opening.

"It's Father's Day! Time to get up," she repeated.

Something was off in his pale grey eyes. They had a strange expression she'd never seen before. He studied her for a moment then asked, "Who are you?"

Michelle laughed. "Stop kidding around and get up."

When his expression didn't change, a thread of fear wormed into her, her heart beating faster. "You really don't know who I am?" she asked.

"No. Who are you?"

"I'm Michelle, your daughter." When he didn't respond, she asked, "Dad? What day of the week is it?"

"I don't know."

"What year is it?"

"I don't know."

"What's your name?"

He didn't answer, his brow wrinkling in concentration. She didn't like the confusion in his eyes or the lack of affection he usually had in his voice.

Now panic threatened her. "Get up and get dressed RIGHT NOW, Dad! We're going to the hospital. There's something wrong with you!"

When he didn't move, Michelle yelled, fear making her louder. "GET UP!"

An hour later, Michelle sat quietly in the examination room as a neurosurgeon flashed a penlight in each of Dad's eyes, talking to him in a soft voice.

"Can you tell me who the Prime Minister is?" he asked.

"I don't know," Dad answered. "John something?"

"Where were you born?"

"I don't remember."

As the surgeon asked more questions, Michelle's fear intensified, her heart thumping, her hands damp. Why couldn't Dad remember? What happened last night?"

"We're going to conduct some tests, Mr. Jerry," the surgeon said. "There could be a blood clot in your brain causing your memory loss."

"Is that my name?" Dad asked. Before the surgeon could answer, Dad glanced at Michelle. "You're my daughter?"

Michelle nodded and wiped her eyes before tears could fall. "You'll be okay, Dad."

Once Dad was wheeled out of the examination room, Michelle found a seat in the waiting room. The doctor had told her it would be a while, with Dad undergoing x-rays and possibly an MRI scan.

Sunday morning in the hospital was oddly busy. She watched people come and go, some obviously injured, some in pain, family members distraught, one wife chastising her husband for something stupid he'd done - his arm and hand wrapped in a bloody towel.

For the first hour she was numb with shock. Adrenaline faded to be replaced by fear. What had happened to his brain? What would happen if he couldn't get his memory back?

She thought about her life with Dad. In so many ways she thought herself lucky, especially compared to some of her friends. Despite losing Mom five years ago, Dad had made sure she felt secure. Sure, he was a pain and bugged her about her school grades. He worked far too hard and long, long hours. And she didn't like the chores he made her do when she'd rather be out with her friends. But he was Dad. He was supposed to do those things. He never yelled at her. He didn't punish her. He went out of his way to support her school activities even if he couldn't be there.

Maybe he didn't spend as much time with her as she wanted. But he was Dad. My dad! The only family she had.

Worry distracted her. She waited, sitting on the hard plastic chair, lost in "What ifs?"

"Mr Jerry?"

Shaking herself, she looked up. Dr. Mcdonalds was approaching. He was youngish, about Dad's age - mid thirties - with sharp, intelligent brown eyes behind wire-framed glasses, slender and short.

She jumped up. "Is he better?"

Dr. Mcdonalds sat in the seat next to her. She sat down. He turned slightly towards her. "The good news is your father does not appear to have a brain clot. He seems healthy."

"Then, what's wrong with him?"

"The truth is, we don't know." The doctor paused before continuing. "Physically, every test we've run has been negative." His expression softened. "The brain is a mystery to us, even today. We know a little about it, but there are still mysteries we don't understand. From a health standpoint, your father is fine. That's good. He's suffering from retrograde amnesia; he's lost his episodic memories."

"I don't understand," Michelle told him.

Dr. Mcdonalds smiled gently. "Think about riding a bike. Your father can describe how to ride a bike - we call that semantic memory - but he can't remember when he learned how to ride a bike. He can't remember the event itself."

"But, he doesn't remember me!" she said.

"That's true. At the moment, you're the keeper of his memories. All he'll know about his past is what's in your mind."

Michelle wrestled with the news. "Will he ever remember?" she asked.

"No one can answer that. We simply don't understand enough. He might wake up tomorrow with all his memories back, or it might take months or years ... or perhaps never."

Michelle's eyes welled. She brushed the tears away. "He didn't even know I'm his daughter."

Dr. Mcdonalds put his hand on her shoulder and squeezed. "It's going to be hard on both of you. Try not to inundate him with information. He's grappling to come to terms with his condition. Just be yourself and help him. Tell him about your life together, but don't overwhelm him. It might help."

Michelle nodded, looking down at her lap.

"Has he ever been injured?" the doctor asked.

"Once, a couple of years ago, he fell off a ladder and was unconscious for a long time. But he was fine when he came to."

"How long was he unconscious for?"

Michelle shrugged. "I don't know. I found him when I came home from school." Glancing at the doctor, she asked, "Is that why he's lost his memory?"

Dr. Mcdonalds smiled softly. "It's unlikely. If it was a couple of years ago, it probably has nothing to do with his current condition."

He patted her knee. "Come. He's waiting. You can take him home."

Maxwell's POV

I SAT ON THE edge of the examining table. Across from me was a mirror. A stranger looked back at me. The void in my mind terrified me; a hole that should have been filled with something but wasn't. It was eerily empty.

The stranger looking back at me appeared just as lost. It was in his pale grey eyes; desperation to understand, full of fear.

"Dad?" a hesitant voice said.

I looked away from the stranger in the mirror and saw her - the girl who woke me up. The girl who said she was my daughter. I looked back into the mirror and studied the stranger.

Was someone playing a cosmic joke on me? Was this a dream?

"Dad?" This time softer and filled with worry.

Turning back to the girl, I asked, "Are you really my daughter?"

Tears welled in her eyes. She nodded, tears falling down her cheeks, and I felt worse for making her hurt despite needing to ask. I had to ask. She was so different.

She had long, straight, jet-black hair and, despite her normal eye shape, was clearly of Asian descent; short, petite, delicate, and very slender. I strained to see any of me in her and couldn't, except for her eye colour - dark grey, smoky and haunted.

She stood crying silently, not moving, her eyes studying me. I saw the pain battling fear in them.

"What did you say your name is?"

"Michelle," she replied.

"What's my name?"

"Maxwell Robinson."

Silence. Neither of us moved.

"Okay. I guess we should go home," I suggested.

She nodded.

Michelle gave the taxi driver the address. The taxi ride was disconcerting. Everywhere I looked was new and unfamiliar. The city, or town, was neat, clean, with retail strip malls giving way to residential neighborhoods, semi-detached homes transitioning to detached homes on larger and larger plots, all with neatly manicured lawns.

Michelle pulled some wrinkled bills from the pocket of her jeans and paid while I studied the house. The bungalow-style home sprawled on a huge plot backing onto a stand of trees. Ocher brick. Shingled roof. Wide double front doors. A detached two car garage to the side. The front garden was neat, lawn mowed, with flower beds full of blooming plants; a miniature Japanese Maple with red leaves the centerpiece.

As I stood studying the house, the taxi pulled away. Michelle stood next to me.

"Do I have a wife?" I asked.

"You used to. Mom died five years ago."

I wracked my brain. Nothing. No feelings. No sense of loss. That terrified me even more. I'd loved someone and I didn't feel anything.

Eventually, I said, "Okay."

Michelle unlocked the front door. I stepped in and recognized what I'd first seen this morning. Now more details registered. The entry opened into a broad, expansive living room tastefully decorated. There were halls to the left and right. Across from me, floor to ceiling windows looked out onto the well-maintained back garden, a shed at the back to the left, the old trees behind giving privacy, and the edge of an in-ground pool to the right. A flagstone patio stretched from left to right, outdoor furniture, and a gas barbecue grill on it.

Turning my attention back to the living room, I noticed exotic wood side tables with framed pictures on them. I hesitated. Michelle stood silently at my side as if keeping me company while I tried to absorb.

Eventually, I moved, walking in. I circled the room pausing at one side table. The picture was of me with a petite Asian woman at my side and a child of seven or eight - Michelle. The woman - my wife - had a wonderful smile. I looked serious. Michelle was making a goofy face.

Nothing. No memory. But now I felt an ache of loss. I wanted to remember people in my life being that happy.

"What was her name?" I asked quietly.

"Christelle."

I slumped onto the couch. "I'm sorry. I don't know what to do."

Michelle sat next to me. After a moment of silence, she asked, "Would you like me to show you the house?"

I nodded.

Much later, lying in an unfamiliar bed in an unfamiliar room, wearing unfamiliar pajamas that didn't feel right, I stared up at the dark ceiling. Had I ever been this scared before?

Everything was disorienting. There wasn't one thing I could relate to. Every thought in my mind came with questions. How old was I? Had I been happy? What career did I have and was I even good at it? Simple things were beyond me. Did I like ice cream? Did I drink? Was I an alcoholic or an abusive father? Did I have friends?

I knew some things. I knew how a car worked and how to turn on the television. I knew how to shower and brush my teeth. But I didn't know if I owned a car. I couldn't remember actually driving one. I didn't recognize my toothbrush. I didn't recognize any of the clothes in the bedroom closets or drawers.

Worst of all was seeing the pain and fear in Michelle's eyes. I didn't know what she expected of me. Was I a hugger? Had I been a good father or not? How could I help her cope when I couldn't help myself?

Michelle CURLED UP IN bed and cried silently. She felt abandoned even though Dad was in the house. In some ways, this was worse than losing Mom. At least with Mom, she was gone. Dad was here but not. Every time she looked at him she could see he was different - not Dad.

She hadn't recognized how important he was in her life. Before, he was always there, her Dad, providing an anchor in her life. Now...

Tears fell to the pillow. Now Dad was gone. It was in his eyes. They didn't look the same. Every familiar expression was no more. This dad was a stranger. And what made it worse was his confusion, watching him struggle to understand and not.

Until today, she hadn't understood how Dad was her foundation, the rock tethering her to life, always dependable, always consistent. Now she was adrift and didn't know what to do.

Early dawn woke Michelle. For a brief moment fear returned. But then, as if her brain had been working all night, a plan of action formed. And the prospect of action, of doing something, anything, calmed her.

She jumped out of bed and dressed, choosing simple blue shorts and a Tee. In the living room, next to the couch, she found Dad's Smartphone and scrolled through his contacts until she found Richard Craig number, then dialed.

A groggy, "Hello?" answered.

"Mr. Craig? It's Michelle Robinson calling. I'm sorry it's so early but I need to talk to you. Something's happened."

For the next ten minutes she told him what had happened to Dad. She knew Richard. He was Dad's right-hand man at the company, short and portly, always quick with a smile, with a wife and four kids and, according to Dad, indispensable to the business. She hoped he'd be able to run things until Dad was able to. He assured her he would, much to her relief.

Next, she hunted through storage boxes kept in a spare room, pulling out shoe boxes of photos, rifling through others to find old videos. Satisfied, she carried them to the kitchen and turned her attention to breakfast.

Dad might not remember, but she was going to arm him with knowledge. Maybe it would spark a memory. Maybe it would displace the confusion and fear in his eyes.

Dad's favorite breakfast was scrambled eggs with bacon - lots of bacon - and toasted English muffins. She prepared.

Sun intensified. Glancing out into the back garden, she looked at it through new eyes. What would Dad think about it? Would he like gardening as much as he used to? Could he remember how to swim? Or how cook on the barbecue?

Before she could get frustrated at the thoughts, with breakfast almost ready, she headed to his bedroom.

He was sprawled across the bed sideways, uncovered, one arm hanging over the edge, and wearing pajamas; he never wore pajamas, always complaining they were too restrictive. His sandy hair was a mess.

She approached and shook his shoulder, secretly hoping he'd wake up and be his old self. He didn't respond. She shook him harder and he stirred, opening his eyes, looking at her without moving.

"Michelle, right?"

Relief flooded through her. "You remember?"

His light grey eyes clouded. "Just your name."

Her brief moment of happiness evaporated. "I've made breakfast. It's time to get up."

He rolled off the bed and stretched. "That's an uncomfortable bed."

When he followed her into the hall, she asked, "Aren't you going to shower?" He always started his day with a shower.

"Maybe later."

As he walked, he studied everything; the framed paintings of spring flowers in the hall, the furniture in the living room, and in the kitchen, while Michelle made scrambled eggs, he inspected all the appliances, cupboards, and drawers before sitting at the eat-on island counter.

"I made coffee," she said, pointing to the machine.

He hunted back through the cupboards, found a mug and poured. Back sitting at the counter, he sipped. "Coffee. This is good."

"Don't you want milk and sugar?"

He contemplated it for a moment. "I don't know." Rising, he went to the fridge, poured milk into the mug, and sipped, his face wrinkling with distaste. "Yuck!"

"Try adding sugar," Michelle suggested.

"Is that how I drink it?"

"Uh-huh."

"How many sugars?"

"Two." Noticing him glance around, she added, "Up in that cupboard," nodding towards it. "No. The other one."

He added two sugars, sipped and frowned. "Double yuck!"

"Then pour another." Michelle was amused with his reaction. And "Yuck?" He'd never used that word before.

With a fresh cup of black coffee, he sat, looking around. "Did your mom design the kitchen?"

"She decorated every room except for the study and kitchen. Those were your two rooms."

"So, I can cook?"

"You love cooking," she told him while spooning scrambled eggs onto the plates, adding bacon and English muffins. She passed a plate across to him, wondering if he still liked eggs.

He did.

"The doctor told me I should help you remember, but he said take it slow. After we eat, I've got some stuff to show you, if you want."

Dad studied her, then nodded. "Okay."

Michelle briefly thought about calling her school to tell them she wouldn't be coming, then decided not to. Dad didn't even know she was supposed to be in school anyway.

After breakfast, they sat on the couch and Michelle started showing him photos, explaining each. At first, he just listened and looked. Eventually, he started asking questions, starting with one of a younger him standing next to a race car.

"I guess I liked driving. Was I good?"

"Your trophies are in the study, so yeah."

"Do I still race?"

"No. Mom said you gave it up when I was born."

Before she could show him another photo, he asked softly, "Was she happy? Was I a good husband?"

Michelle choked up, a lump forming in her throat. "Yes. She was always happy. You loved her a lot."

"How did she die?"

For a few moments Michelle didn't answer. Her sinuses blocked, eyes damp. She almost never thought about it, still so painful. She could still see Mom in the hospital bed, gaunt, ravaged by leukemia, so weak, and still with her loving smile, her soft eyes. The smell of the room came back in a flash. The feeling of Mom holding her, caressing her hair, whispering weakly, "I love you, sweetheart. I'll always love you and be with you. Never forget that. Take care of your father and let him take care of you. Don't be sad. These things happen."

Michelle desperately tried to tamp down the memory of Dad and failed. Tears welled as she remembered sitting in the hard plastic seat outside Mom's room and seeing Dad emerge. She'd known immediately. She saw the grief in his eyes. Mom had died. And as if from afar, she heard herself wail, "Nooooo!"

"Michelle?"

Wiping her eyes, she told Dad, "Leukemia. She died from leukemia." She didn't tell him the details. He couldn't remember. It was better for him. Picking up another photo, she tried to bring brightness into her voice. "This was you and Mom at graduation. You were high school sweethearts."

"Your mom's pretty. I look like a dork," he commented.

Michelle laughed lightly. "She was beautiful. Mom was born in Japan and moved here when she was two years old. I have home videos. Would you like to see them?"

He leaned back. "No. I think I'd like to talk." Looking at her, he asked, "How old are you?"

"Twenty as of last month."

"How old am I?"

Michelle shrugged. "I'm not sure. Forty-something."

"Do I work?" he asked.

"Yeah. You own a software company. I called Mr. Craig and told him what happened. He said not to worry. He has everything under control." When confusion appeared, she added, "He's, like, your best friend and runs the company for you."

Dad nodded. "Okay."

For the rest of the day, they talked. Michelle answered his questions as best she could, some she couldn't. That night in bed, it occurred to her that today she'd talked to Dad longer than she ever had in her life, and strangely, it felt good. She felt better, less worried. Still, there was something odd about him beyond the memory loss and she couldn't put her finger on what it was.

Maxwell's POV

I STARED UP AT the dark bedroom ceiling for the second night, my mind too busy to sleep. Now I had images to think about; my wife, our life, Michelle. I had knowledge about someone else's life, distanced from reality, not part of me. Nothing I'd learned struck a bell; nothing.

It seemed to me I'd led an ordinary life, been an ordinary father, and an ordinary husband, and provided for my family quite well, judging by the house. As if reading a book, it was a detached life.

What was I supposed to do? Go back to work doing something I knew nothing about? Raise a daughter I didn't know?

Yet, how could I not? I had responsibilities; a daughter, employees, a business.

My thoughts turned to Michelle. Even if I didn't feel like I was her father, she was my daughter. How hard was this on her? Today, she'd been articulate, calm, and smiled a couple of times. She'd shown maturity, coping in the face of what must be a disaster for her. What was it like to have a father that didn't recognize you? Your life pulled from under you so suddenly?

How had I treated her before? Was I stern and demanding? Had I been a good father? She seemed well adjusted.

Staring at the dark ceiling, I searched for answers and found none. I didn't have a plan, a focus, a goal. Like drifting in a raft in the middle of the ocean, I was going nowhere, and that didn't sit well. Had I been driven before?

I knew one thing. Talking with Michelle today had relieved much of my stress. I liked her. Talking helped. Fear still hovered, but she'd tamped it down.

Maybe that's what I should do; focus on Michelle, learn all about her, reintroduce myself to my daughter. Perhaps by focusing on her I could find some stability.

Maxwell's POV

"Where do we live?" I asked, eating cereal at the breakfast table.

Michelle, in flower-printed tight Bermuda shorts and a royal blue Tee, was multi-tasking; eating cereal, her Smartphone to one side, and writing in a book. She looked at me in surprise at my question. "Here. We live here."

"No. I mean, what city is this?"

"Toronto."

"We're Canadian?"

"Well, duh!" she responded, immediately followed by, "Sorry. I didn't mean that."

"Don't worry. I think I'm going to have a lot of stupid questions. What day is it?"

"Tuesday, June twentieth, two thousand and six."

"After breakfast, how do you feel about driving around with me?"

Michelle studied me. "Are you sure you know how to drive?"

"Nope. But I'll try," I told her with a smile, despite some nervousness. "What are you writing?"

"My diary. I've kept one forever so I don't forg..." Her face fell. "Sorry."

"Don't be. We can't hide what's happened."

On entering the garage, I saw two cars; the first, a dusty Subaru station wagon, the second, a gunmetal grey Range Rover. Since it wasn't dust-covered, I assumed it was mine. Oddly, when I sat in the driver's seat, I knew what everything was for. While I couldn't remember driving before, I instinctually knew I could.

We started with canvassing the neighborhood. Michelle kept up a running commentary:

"This is the Bridle Path area. Turn right. Up here on the left is my school, Park Lane Public School."

I pulled to the curb and watched kids playing sports on a field. "Shouldn't you be in school?"

"Yeah. I'm taking a couple of days off until you've adjusted. Besides, finals are over. It's only two weeks to summer holidays."

"Okay."

"Really?" Michelle asked, surprised. "You don't mind?"

"No. What grade are you in?"

"Fourteen."

I resumed driving. The area we lived in was rather ritzy. Huge mansions behind electronic gates, with tall, old trees, slowly gave way to smaller plots featuring oversized homes. Our house, despite being large to me, was quite modest for the area.

"Turn right," Michelle suggested.

I did. The road dipped and rose, widening.

"That's Edwards Gardens," she said, pointing to a beautifully maintained park of rolling lawns, trees and blooming, colourful flowers.

For the next couple of hours, Michelle navigated us around the area, circling back to our house. I'd seen luxury homes and condos and small bungalows and semi-detached houses. The area was quite a mixture. But as soon as we turned back into the Bridal Path area, quiet luxury, opulence, and gated estates returned; a small enclave of wealth. It was a very elegant area.

At home, Michelle prepared lunch. I watched her. She'd gathered her long jet black hair into a high ponytail. It shone in the bright light coming in through the kitchen windows. Having seen photographs, I could see the resemblance to her mother; petite of stature, slender as a reed, delicate features. With the exception of her slate grey eyes that didn't have the hooded lids of her mother, I struggled to see any of my features in her. To me, she didn't look like she was Twenty years old.

"Here you go," she announced, placing two plates in front of me. One had a sandwich, the other a small salad.

She brought a couple of plates for herself to the kitchen table and sat. I took a bite of mine and frowned. Mystery meat with a tang.

"What's the matter?" she asked, a fork of salad paused on its way to her mouth.

"What is this?"

"Tongue with grainy Dijon mustard on dark rye. It's what you always eat."

I looked at her sandwich, putting mine back on the plate. "What's yours?"

"Bologna with yellow mustard."

"Can I try it?"

Michelle pushed her plate across the table. I took half of the white bread sandwich and tasted it. "Much better."

Michelle's eyes opened wider. "You've really changed, Dad. You hate bologna!"

Mouth full, I murmured my pleasure, "Mmmmm." Swallowing, I added, "That's what I call a sandwich! Can you make another?"

Michelle gaped at me, then let out a bright laugh, her smile like a million-watt spotlight. She nodded. "Are you sure you're feeling okay?"

"Physically, yup. Mentally, who knows?"

Shaking her head with amusement, she got up to make more sandwiches. Her laugh pleased me. It chased away the fear in her eyes and lit up her face. I might be suffering from worry, but at least she was happier, and that made me feel better.

"What did I do for hobbies?" I asked.

"You didn't have any. You read a lot and gardened ... when you were at home."

"Did I work long hours?"

"Most of the time I'd only see you on weekends," she replied, cutting two more sandwiches.

As she brought them over - one for her, another for me - I observed, "It doesn't sound like I was much fun. Did we take vacations?"

"No."

"Why not?"

She took a bite of her sandwich and chewed, contemplating me. "After Mom died, you buried yourself in work."

"Must have been tough on you," I said, not really liking what I was learning about myself.

Michelle shrugged.

Glancing out through the kitchen window, I admired the crystal clear, aqua-coloured pool. "Can I swim?"

"If you want to," she answered.

"No. What I mean is, do I know how?"

A glint of mischievous pleasure passed through her eyes. She smiled. "Yes. You can. You rarely did, though."

"I assume you swim."

She nodded, still smiling.

"Let's swim after lunch," I suggested. "If you want to."

"Okay."

When lunch was over, I dumped the plates in the sink. We went to change. In the bedroom, I hunted through drawer after drawer for swimming trunks to no avail.

"Michelle?" I yelled. "Where is my swimming suit?" Waiting for a response, I yelled again, pushing clothes aside in a drawer. "Michelle!"

"You don't have to yell," Michelle admonished quietly. "I heard you the first time."

Glancing at her, I asked, "Do you know where they are?"

She nodded, walking in. Pulling the bottom right drawer open, she reached back and pulled out a black suit. "Here you go."

"Thanks."

"You're welcome," she replied, walking out.

With the bathing suit in one hand, I paused. Michelle, in a simple, teal bikini looked good. Her legs appeared to be longer, her body nicely proportioned. She was, I thought, a good looking girl.

She was in the pool when I emerged. Cautiously, I walked down the steps. While having no recollection of swimming, it came instinctively. The water was the perfect temperature, warm yet cool, easing the heat from an intense summer sun. Coolness caressed my skin. Why didn't I swim a lot before? This was very relaxing.

Michelle swam slowly, a lazy breast stroke, watching me with those smoky eyes. When she came near, I splashed her. Shock registered quickly followed by a broad smile and she laughed as she splashed me back. A water war erupted, neither of us ceding to the other, her bright laughter loud.

When she made a strategic error of getting too close, I reached out and shoved her head, pushing her underwater. Surfacing, spluttering, she lunged and shoved me under.

"That'll teach you!" she exclaimed when I surfaced, then screamed when I lunged toward her.

We fooled around in the pool, tiredness eventually turning the war into peace. Insects buzzed in the quiet. In the distance, a lawn mower cut grass. The pool skimmers gurgled. Eventually, I got out.

"Would you like a drink?" I asked.

"Yes, please. Diet Coke."

By the time I returned, having found sodas in the fridge and figured out how to work the ice dispenser, Michelle was just leaving the pool.

Almost unconsciously, with her bikini plastered to her, I noticed small mounds on her chest, too small to show under a T-shirt. Her hips were narrow, just hinting at a mature shape, thighs tapered. And her bikini bottom was stuck to her like glue, a small camel toe forming. Twenty? My daughter was a late bloomer, I thought.

"Here you go," I said, placing her glass on the intricate cast iron patio table.

Michelle bent and wrung her long hair out, then grabbed a towel wrapping it around her.

"Thanks. I brought you a towel too," she said, passing me a pale blue bath one. She sat, sipped her drink, then looked at me.

"You're really different, Dad."

"How so?"

"You're ... relaxed, not as intense and serious as you used to be."

She sipped her Coke again, then continued, "I know what you're going through is no fun, but..."

"But, what?"

She looked away. "It's probably wrong, but I like who you are."

For a while, I pondered it. I didn't know how I was before. The few snippets of information Michelle had given me sounded like I was a driven man, focused on work, and probably not much of a father to her. She appeared to be quite independent. Was that from my absence? Forced to cope on her own?

And what would happen if my memory returned? Would I forget everything that had happened since losing it? Would I revert to the man she was describing?

"I can't imagine not wanting to spend time with you," I told her. Then, with a grin, added, "Besides, you're the only person I know, so what choice do I have?"

Michelle laughed. "You're more of a goof now. I like it. Maybe that's how you were as a kid."

I shrugged. "Maybe."

That night in bed, studying the dark ceiling, I thought back over the day. Fear in me had not left. I still felt stress over who I was, what would happen, and how my life could be restored with so much gone. But there was one bright spot. I was pleased with Michelle. She'd relaxed. The fear in her eyes had gone. And I was discovering my daughter was a charming young girl. Hour by hour I was learning more about her and, even if fatherly feelings hadn't yet returned, I did feel some pride. Surely I had done something right for her to be who she is?

For the first time, I thought there might be a light at the end of this dark tunnel. I could see myself eventually returning to work and finding out what I did, whether I still had skills, and, nervous or not, face reality no matter what it was.