Mara's Garden of False Delights

When he finally came to, the hazy morning light was illuminating the room in a soft, warm glow. 

Though he was awake, he let his eyes take the time they needed to open, seeing nothing but a blur of lights and colours until they slowly eased into shapes and figures — the white, classically-styled frame of the windows, the delicate floral patterns on the wall. He drew in a deep, long breath of the light, flower-tinted smell in the air and let it all out as a gentle sigh. It felt like his first breath of life in ages. 

Only then did his sense of touch decide to return. The plush volume of the couch he laid upon seemed to envelope his thin, sagging frame, surrendering it completely to its comforting embrace. His feet rested on one end while his head was propped up on a pillow. One hand was cradelled to his chest while the other was elegantly draped off the couch onto the floor, akin to how a painter would pose their subject. 

He nearly caught himself nodding off again but the sun in his face told him otherwise. He heaved as he hoisted his body up. The kinks in his neck, shoulders, and down his spine tightened in protest, having been moved from a position they’ve settled in nicely. He groaned and stretched them out, letting out another sigh. As much as he would love to return to the best hours of rest he has ever had, he knew he needed to get up. He knew he needed to… he rubbed his eyes. What did he need to do? Was it the weekend? He hoped it was the weekend. Showing up like this at work would be terrible, whatever his job was. 

Wait. Why doesn’t he remember his job? He leaned against the coach and propped himself up with his arm as if his own weight was a burden. He ran his hand through his dark, curly hair and grasped at them. This was no headache — his mind was lost in a faraway dream, slipping further the more he tried to reach for it. 

His hands reached for his pockets. He had no phone but his wallet was intact — thank goodness. He flipped it open and checked his cash. There were only a few bills left and not a single credit card was in sight — so thankfully he wasn’t robbed. But his ID card was gone. That wasn’t too bad; he shouldn’t be driving in this state anyway. If he even had a car. What did, however, was what snapped into his head the moment he found out his ID was missing. 

He realised he had forgotten his name, and now he has no way of telling what it was. 

He squeezed his eyes hard as though trying to blink his trance away and gripped into the couch to try root him back into reality. He stared at the ground. Don’t panic. Even though he wasn’t panicking when he ought to, he still told himself to not panic. He should look for something remotely familiar in this house — anything at all. That would at least be a start. 

His eyes drifted upwards to the coffee table resting on the rug, then to a white, cotton scarf folded into a neat square on it. 

Well, that was easy. He didn’t know who it belonged to nor if he he ever saw it, but the placement of it all stood out enough for him to pick it up. Who did this belong to? Was this his? He unfolded it and raised it up to his face, catching a whiff of the smell of clean laundry and honeysuckle. 

‘AH! God!’ a woman yelled. 

He lifted his head in surprise and found himself reeling back from the woman he had just bumped into. Wait, what the hell? The air has gone colder. He looked around him and saw streets, buildings, and streetlamps. Then he realised his arm was soaked wet by the drink in the woman’s hand. He looked at her. Her dress and scarf were stained too. 

‘Oh my god, I’m so sorry—’ he found himself saying to no one in the empty floral room. 

He jerked in shock and nearly kicked over an end table. What? Was he drugged?! He threw the scarf to the ground and scrambled backwards into a shelf. Books cluttered down on his arms. That was real. That was definitely real. There was no way in hell it wasn’t. It wasn’t just some vision — he could feel his soaked arm, smell the cold air, and the rush of embarrassment in his face. But if that was real, how was he still here? 

He scrutinised the scarf. There seemed to be nothing suspicious about it — he was very certain it smelled of detergent and nothing more. But a single whiff transported him to a different part of town with the woman in the dress and the scarf—

Wait. He picked the scarf up and — while holding his breath — examined its sides. One edge was rendered a shade darker by a stain. This was the scarf the woman wore. Did she know him? She must at least know of him. But how was he supposed to find her? 

He allowed himself shallow breaths. He has got to be kidding himself. But with no other leads and his foggy brain, he couldn’t think of any brighter idea. It was worth trying out. 

He stared down at the white scarf, brought it to his face and, with a pause of hesitation, took in a deeper sniff at its scent. 

‘AH! God!’ a woman yelled. 

It was cold once more. He lifted his face and saw the woman with her spilt drink in hand. He stared at her scarf — it was definitely the one he found. 

‘Oh my god, I’m so sorry,’ the words leapt out of his mouth. ‘I-I wasn’t looking at where I was going.’ 

The woman frowned. ‘Well, that’s a drink wasted. At least not a lot of it got onto me. Oh! Your arm! Is it alright? The drink’s hot.’ 

‘Oh, it’s fine,’ he brushed off the sleeve of his coat. ‘I’m so sorry though. That was completely my fault. I, er, well, walked right into you. Oh! Uh, please, let me get you another drink. It’s the least I could do.’ 

‘No, it’s fine,’ she made a small chuckle and waved her hand. ‘You must be in a hurry, ramming your face into my shoulder like that. I wouldn’t want to hold you back.’ 

‘No, really, please,’ he said before he could stop himself.  

‘Well…’ she looked around as she thought, ‘if you’re really fine with it. The cafe isn’t far from here, anyway.’ 

‘Sure, of course.’ God dammit. 

She smiled. ‘Thanks. You’d think that I’d be used to the cold since I was born in this dreadful weather, but apparently I still need a warm drink in my hands to get by.’ 

She laughed and he took it as a cue to laugh along — not so much for her remark but, oddly, by the apparently infectious nature of her laugh. 

‘Here, it’s just down this street on the right,’ she pointed at one of the buildings with some tables and chairs set up in front of it next to a street sign. 

The street and buildings vanished and he was back in the room, scarf in hand and books at his feet. He glanced around him to make sure he was really back and found he was. That was interesting. He finally felt like he had found something to grip onto in his head. He knew the woman and she was the first recovered fragment of his memory. Could he even call it a memory? It was a lot more vivid than what reminiscence brings, but it was very much real to him as well. 

There was one way to test this. Aside from the woman, the cafe and the street sign next to it was like a freshly stamped imprint in his head. He closed his eyes and recited the address — it seemed to be correct. That was enough to test his hypothesis out. 

He found the door to the house and left. The hairs on his skin immediately stood from the chill in the air and he wrapped his coat around him tighter — he noted his sleeve was slightly stained, too. He also realised that he was still holding onto the scarf as well. 

Screw it — it was cold and it provided him with information however unconventional it may be. He draped it around his neck and headed out. He’ll return it when he sees her — if he sees her. 

---

The Coffea Pot stood right where he saw it in his memory. As he stared at the cafe, people walked passed him with hands in their pockets and chins tucked down to avoid the cold sting in their eyes, all of them going about their daily life without a second thought. He thought about how the rediscovery of a forgotten memory could make such a mundane task an adventure. 

The door swung open and a small bell tinkled above him. It was a quaint place with chairs and tables tucked into every corner possible. It was not claustrophobic, though — the warm colour tones, the splashes of blue, and the various memorabilia and books arranged neatly on shelves added a touch of personality and hominess, as if it were a small family-run business. 

As soon as he stepped in, the aroma of rich coffee beans fused with fruit wasted no time in whisking him away. He suddenly stood at the front of the counter with the woman to his left and a queue behind him. 

‘One London Fog with a dash of spice, please,’ she said. 

The barista raised an eyebrow. ‘Back for another one already?’ 

She smiled and shook her head. ‘I spilt it and the culprit’s here to help me get another one.’ 

Though the cafe was already warm, he could feel his cheeks heating up more. Why did he agree to this? 

‘Oh, don’t look so glum,’ she nudged him as the barista took her order. ‘Don’t worry, it’s nothing too expensive. And I didn’t actually mean for you to come here. Didn’t even think you really meant it!’ 

He arched a brow. ‘Then why’d you accept in the first place?’ 

‘Well, I dunno,’ she bit her lip. ‘Looked like you could take a break from whatever you were so seriously thinking about.’ 

She laughed and he shook his head. What an odd person. 

In a blink he was back at the door of the cafe. This time there was no queue. He looked at the clock mounted on the wall then at the calendar beneath it — it was a Tuesday afternoon. That explained the emptiness of the place. 

He walked up and the barista — the same one from his memory — greeted him. ‘So, what would you like?’ 

‘Well, erm…’ he looked up at the menu written on a chalkboard and wondered why the hell he was looking at it despite very well knowing what he was going to order. ‘I’ll have a… London Fog?’ 

‘To go?’ 

He nodded. 

‘Alright,’ the barista took a paper cup. ‘Anything else?’ 

He thought for a moment. ‘I’ll have the drink with a dash of spice..?’ 

‘Sure thing,’ the barista nodded. ‘What’s your name?’ 

‘I, uh...’ the words fell out of his mouth. ‘I don’t know.’ 

‘Oh,’ the barista said. ‘Uh, okay.’ 

He wanted to smack himself in the head. Was it too hard to think of a random name? He’d rather be Paul than someone who might have the police called on him. 

‘Doesn’t matter anyway,’ the barista continued preparing the drink. ‘There’s no one else here. I just say that out of habit. But, uh, feel free to sit a while if you need to. I could bring you some water too if you like.’ 

‘Uh, sure. Thanks,’ he made a quick smile and after he paid, he sat down in a chair. 

The drink came a few minutes later with a small shaker filled with cinnamon powder. When the barista left to get water afterwards, he looked down at his white, creamy drink. Once he made sure the barista was nowhere to be seen, he brought the cup up to his nose and took a whiff. 

He remained seated on the chair. The barista came from the kitchen, handed him a glass of water, and returned to the counter. He tried sniffing his drink again and looked around. Nothing happened. Did he do something wrong? Or has he never smelled this drink before? 

He looked at the items on the table: the London Fog drink, some cinnamon, and a glass of water. What was he missing? As soon as he asked himself that, he found his answer. He wasn’t missing anything — he had all the things he needed in front of him. 

‘A dash of spice’ — the words rang in his head as he added a firm shake of cinnamon into the London fog. He has no idea what ‘a dash’ meant but that should be good enough. Now when he took a whiff of the drink, he was back at the counter with the woman by his side as they waited for her drink. 

‘Have you tried London Fog before?’ she asked him. 

He shook his head. ‘I don’t buy this sort of drinks much.’ 

‘It’s just earl grey tea with some vanilla, milk, and sugar. It’s simple but quite nice.’ 

‘Now why would I waste money on tea with milk?’ he chuckled. 

The drink was finished with a shake of cinnamon into the cup. The barista then handed it to her. ‘Come on. A sour person like you should have some sweetness now and then. What about I buy you a drink and you accompany me to the florist’s?’ she made a cheeky grin. ‘If you’re free, that is. Here, give it a smell. It’s good.’ 

She raised the cup to his face. It steamed with wisps of a touch of bergamot, a tinge of vanilla, and a lot of cinnamon. 

‘It’s not too bad, is it?’ she said. 

‘Yes, only because the cinnamon overwhelms everything else.’ 

She laughed. ‘So is that a yes or a no to my invitation?’ 

He looked at the clock. It was morning. ‘Well, I’ve nothing better to do at the moment. I’ll pass on the drink, though.’

‘If you insist,’ she smiled. As she brought the cup up to her lips, he spotted four letters scrawled on it in black ink. 

‘Mara?’ he asked. ‘Is that your name?’ 

‘Nickname,’ she corrected. ‘You’d be surprised at how many baristas can’t spell Magnolia.’ 

She disappeared and he was back in his seat. Magnolia. He finally had a name. It wasn’t his own, but it was a good enough start. He went up to the counter and called for the barista’s attention. 

‘Excuse me, sir. But, uh,’ he said, ‘do you remember a Mara visiting here? Blonde, tall, pale, ordered the same drink I did?’ 

‘Um, yeah, she’s kind of a regular,’ the barista replied. ‘Hey, weren’t you with her one time? No wonder you look familiar.’  

‘Yeah, I was. Do you happen to know when we were last here?’ 

The barista placed his hands on his hips and whistled. ‘Sorry mate, people come and go often and I don’t keep track of it. But I’d say somewhere within last week?’ 

At least he has a timeframe now. ‘That’s good enough. Thanks.’ 

‘No worries. Good luck with her,’ the barista winked. 

He hid his small grin from the barista, went back to his table, and took a sip of the drink. He could barely taste the tea and it was very sweet, but the cinnamon toned it down. Maybe that was why Mara added it. It was still a bit too sweet for him and the cinnamon was a nice touch, so he reached for it to add more, catching a hint of the spice—

Everything turned dark. 

‘Please, promise you’ll—’

He nearly dropped the bottle. That was Magnolia. What happened to her? Why is it from the cinnamon? He pried the shaker’s top open and got a better sniff at it. 

Everything turned dark. The smell of cinnamon around him was so strong it stung his nose. 

‘Please, promise you’ll find me. You need to.’ 

And he was back at the cafe. Hell, what happened to Mara? Was she kidnapped? Abducted? Was she in danger and he somehow forgot about it? Damn, maybe that was related to his memory loss. 

But at the moment, that was secondary to his priorities. Her voice was soft and gentle — sad, almost — and a sense of obligation rose in his chest. If she was in danger and he somehow got away mostly intact, he needed to find her more than ever.