Anamnesis: A Novel by Eloise J. Knapp Page B

lost time. But her train of thought was
flawed.
    “You think every guy cooking meth knows whose
body it’s going into?”
    “No, I suppose not. But something like
this seems more deliberate than meth. If people in my social circles are using
it, it must be high profile.”
    That still didn’t work for me. Some of
Olivia’s views of others were skewed, but short of throwing her into the drug
world for a few months, I couldn’t explain.
    “Okay, fine. How do we find out who is
making it?” she asked. Before I could offer a solution, she added, “On your
blog, there were a few people who always left comments. Do you remember?”
    “Sure. Some of them thought I was a nut
case. Others totally agreed it was some government conspiracy drug that caused
amnesia. Most said it was corrupt pharmaceutical testing, which has happened
before.”
    “But there were a few who always left comments. Frequently. They believed you and said they also experienced
it.”
    I leaned back in my chair and thought about
it. There had been people who tried to reach out. Back then I didn’t believe
they were serious. Like with Olivia, I thought their experiences couldn’t have
been the same as mine. I discredited them. I was too focused on my own problem
to try and make connections.
    That reminded me of something. I grinned. “You
know how I figured out it was four years I lost?”
    Olivia’s eyebrows rose up. “I think so.
The Martha Stewart thing?”
    “Yeah. I don’t remember a lot, you know. Just
random bits and pieces that didn’t get messed up. For some reason, the last
thing I remember was Martha Stewart being convicted of those felonies. I
remember watching something about it on TV and my mom making a joke about it.
The memory is so clear, like it happened yesterday.”
    Mom had made lavender lemonade. She saw
the recipe in a cooking magazine and wanted to use the lavender she grew for
it. I thought it tasted like soap. I told her so. I remembered her laugh, lofty
and throaty, as she agreed. We drank it anyway while we watched the TV show on
Martha.
    I paused as I thought back on the blog.
“All I said on my blog was that’s how I knew about how long I’d been gone,
because of the conviction. It was my reference point. Some person went on there
and tried to get in a fight with me defending Martha Stewart even though I
hadn’t really said anything about her. It was ridiculous.”
    I laughed, but it petered out when I noted
her expression. Olivia was confused. The detour wasn’t amusing. I regretted
bringing it up. Our relationship was business. She didn’t want to hear me
reminisce. Embarrassed, I shrugged and motioned for her to continue.
    Olivia brushed her hair back and shifted
in her seat. “I sent emails to all those people who left legitimate comments. Most of them came back as failures, others never responded. But then
I figured, maybe these people use the same usernames all the time? There’s one
guy, techna1, who has been using the same username forever. I searched for him
and found him on a videogame forum, then after more digging, found his real
name. Then I found him on Facebook and where he works.”
    She beamed like a good dog waiting for a
treat. “I don’t remember this guy. What is his deal?” I asked.
    “His name is Brian Stromberg. One year
before you say you woke up from your blackouts, he claims he responded to a request
for participants for an antidepressant drug. He did the test for three weeks.
He claims he doesn’t remember what happened. His posts were kind of mysterious.
Like, ‘Can’t say too much’ paranoia kind of thing.” Olivia tapped her
fingernails against the table. “It just seems like a solid story and I know
where to find him. I think we should talk to him in person and see if he has
anything else. Maybe he knows the name of the company who did the tests. He’s
an insurance rep. I made an appointment under a fake name to talk to him
tomorrow right before their office closes.