“You’d know. Do you feel dreamy? All your limbs feel like they move when you tell them to, things like that?”

I lift my arms and knees. “I don’t feel dreamy”—not quite, anyway— “and my body moves normally.”

“How do you feel?”

“Honestly, generally normal.”

“Could be stress. Or something you ate. To quote Ebenezer Scrooge when he saw the ghost of Jacob Marley, you may be an undigested bit of beef, a blot of mustard, a crumb of cheese, a fragment of underdone potato.”

“Is that your professional diagnosis then, Jim?” asks Kiera, arms crossed. “Stress or a potato? You’ve never been more Irish. You may as well prescribe her a Guinness.”

“Tea, loves?” A woman, I assume the doctor’s wife, comes in. She’s also very good-looking, with blond hair pulled back in a neat chignon, and fine lines and freckles on her face, neck, and arms. She’s in an oversized white sweater and pleated periwinkle-blue pants.

“Yes, please,” says Kiera.

“How are you, Meggie?” She’s a little stiffer with me than with Kiera, I can’t help but notice.

“I’m all right. Um, how are you?” I say.

“Mm-hm,” she says, putting the kettle on and then leaving the room.

I look at Kiera. She exhales deeply and then says to Jim, “Marcia not so happy with Meg, I take it.”

“Oh, she’ll be fine. Always is. Upset about the breakup, that’s all. I think she was really counting on it working out this time.” He gives me loaded eye contact, and it seems as though I’m supposed to get something here that even Kiera doesn’t know. But of course, I don’t.

“Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten Cillian, then?” he asks, clearly thinking he’s making a joke.

My silence is confirmation enough. His smile fades and his brow furrows.

“Jim and Marcia are Cillian’s parents, by the way,” says Kiera, looking a little uncomfortable as she says it.

“Oh God.” I slap a hand over my mouth. I want to apologize for the breakup, but then realize I don’t know for sure if he broke up with me or I broke up with him.

Kiera steps toward us. “This is what I’m saying. She doesn’t remember any of us, Jim. She says she’s here from outer space or something.”

“Kiera!” I say.

“What? Did you think you’d Weekend at Bernie’s yourself around here, pretending everything was fine?”

I furrow my brow. I don’t know what I thought. “I didn’t say I was from outer space, I said California.”

“Same thing,” she says.

The kettle starts to whistle and Marcia comes back in. She pulls out four teacups and starts about making us all tea.

“California,” says Jim, looking troubled now.

“She thinks she’s a famous actress living in LA and that she never moved to Avalon.”