Chapter Text
“It's Miranda Priestly,” Andy hears people around her say in hushed whispers.
Miranda.
The name is familiar, and something about it feels significant as Andy repeats the name in her head. When the excited murmur keeps increasing she too turns to see who everyone is so fascinated by.
As Andy does, she realizes the woman they are all fixated on is walking straight towards Andy, the woman’s eyes firmly focused on her. Andy can’t but help but admire how she seems to stand out even among the diverse crowd. She can’t figure out if it’s the woman’s white hair, the outfit that looks like it was made for her or just the confidence she seems to be exuding.
And for some reason Andy is on her radar.
“Where have you been?” the woman asks before she's even close enough, her tone demanding and almost angry.
An ever continuing confusion washes over Andy as she stares at the intense blue eyes. “I’m sorry? You must have the wrong–”
“Andréa,” the woman warns her. Apparently she does know her, and well enough to know her given name, but Andy still can't place her. She stares at her, Miranda, trying to will something to jolt in her memory. Miranda seems to grow more and more irritated as Andy stays quiet.
“I’m sor–” Andy starts to apologize. To explain her memory has some gaps in it, but is interrupted before she can get the words out.
“Andy!” Her sister Jill’s voice calls for her somewhere to her left. Jill is quickly at her side and moves her slowly away from Miranda. “I'm sorry, Ms. Priestly, but we have to go.”
“Jill?” Andy asks as she's being basically escorted away from Miranda. Miranda looks equally baffled.
“We have to go,” Jill tells Andy as she keeps guiding her towards their car.
“But Jill…” Her sister is unrelenting.
"Who was that woman?" Andy asks after the car pulls away from the curb. She can't take her eyes off that head of white hair until it disappears behind the crowd.
"No one that should concern you, if you know what's good for you," Jill mutters. "Come on, let's get this takeout back to our room so we can eat it."
Andy peeks into the bag and catches a whiff of Thai chili peppers and basil. "It sure smells good. It was my favorite?"
"It was at least something you ordered a lot. The cook even recognized you."
Andy sighs and closes the bag, appetite fading a little. She has been dealing with this stupid memory loss for almost a year, and she is tired of being known without knowing anyone in return.
There is something about the woman that lingers in the back of her mind. Her sharp, deep blue eyes feel familiar. Like she's seen them a hundred times. At least in her dreams.
She stares out the window as Jill drives them through the city to the hotel they've been staying at but can’t get the woman out of her mind.
Miranda.
***
“So, tell me. How is Andy?” Andy's therapist asks like she does every time and whips out a fresh page from her notebook.
“Fine,” Andy states. She isn't entirely sure what being ‘fine’ means, but it's at least as equally gray and neutral as her recovery has felt.
Her therapist observes her, clearly doubtful.
“I went to New York with Jill a week ago,” Andy relents and starts talking. “Thinking it might help, because that part of my life is the haziest still.”
“Right, you mentioned you were going to. And how was the experience? Anything come back?” she asks, pen slightly too eager for Andy's liking, but she decides to move past that. This is supposed to be helpful; talking to an actual stranger instead of her family.
“No, not really,” Andy sighs. “Although… there was this woman. I can't stop thinking about her.”
"What kind of thoughts?"
"I don't know. She's interesting, somehow. It feels like I maybe knew her?"
With a cautious tilt of her head, her therapist says, "People can interest us for all kinds of reasons. Physically, intellectually, aesthetically..."
"She's definitely got the aesthetics," Andy says with a laugh. "This woman could've been a model, she looked so stylish. But also, she knew me." She means to say it firmly but doubt weakens her voice. Her memories occasionally get mixed up and it’s hard to be absolutely sure of anything. "Or mistook me for someone. I don't know why someone like her would even talk to me. I mean, she seemed a bit famous. I'm nobody." She shrugs and grins ruefully.
"You are far from nobody," her therapist assures her. "But perhaps now you see how easy it is to get carried away when there's some spark. It's not always a spark of recognition."
Andy considers her therapist’s words, but shakes her head. “She said my name, or she called me ‘Andréa,’ and no one calls me that.” …or pronounces it quite like that. “Yet no matter how hard I've tried I can't remember her.”
“Pushing it might not help, you might just need to give it more time. You've regained so many of your memories already.”
Memories. Ever since the accident and the resulting head trauma that led to her losing at first all of them. Most she regained after a day, some parts a couple weeks later but there are still lengths of time missing. Most of her life until her graduation from university she could piece together now.
For some reason after that she couldn't remember much of anything. Not breaking up with Nate, not what happened with Lily and Doug. All she really knows is that they are no longer in contact.
Almost a year is still missing from her.
“It’s frustrating, Jill knows something. But refuses to talk about it. My parents just shrug it off like it’s not that big of a deal that I don’t remember a whole year of my life.”
“Frustration is entirely understandable, and entirely normal,” the therapist says reassuringly.
Andy slumps into the chair. People keep telling her what things are normal, how she should take it.
‘Have patience.’
‘It'll come back.’
‘Give it time.’
All of them claim to know how she should feel when they have never experienced it. What it is to have something like this taken away. “I feel so… useless. I haven't really been doing anything in the past year.”
“You’re in recovery. Both mentally and physically, you shouldn't give yourself unrealistic expectations,” her therapist says and her expression is full of sympathy. So full that Andy assumes she must have spent years practicing this face.
“Yeah, I know,” Andy replies despondent.
***
The thoughts of Miranda don't leave her, and one day when she's alone at her parents' house she finally decides to search for Miranda online. The search quickly produces hundreds of results.
Editor-in-chief of Runway, rumored to be going through yet another divorce, mother of two. A lot of articles from calling her the most powerful woman in publishing to calling her an evil, ill-tempered ice queen. Admired and feared, Andy gathers.
She can't help but feel more perplexed as she tries to figure out how she knows her. Runway is an unlikely place Andy would have ended up. She doesn't even know anything about fashion or have any particular interest in it. A piece of fabric is fashionable one week and the ugliest thing anyone has ever dared to wear the next. It makes no sense.
After a little time reading more about her she switches to image search. Andy looks at photo after photo, but nothing seems familiar. As she is about to end her search, disappointed, her eyes focus on an image of Miranda with two other women standing close by.
“That's me!” Andy yells out loud as she stares at a photo of herself. She zooms in, and tries to take in every detail.
She can barely recognize herself in an evening dress and her hair up. It feels so unlikely, yet there is something. Something somewhere deep in her mind trying to resurface.
She studies it for a while. In the photo, Miranda looks gracefully ahead toward the camera while Andy and the other woman are both focused on Miranda, phones in hand―reporters, maybe? Did Andy get a real reporting job, and she was there to do a piece on the fashion editor? Why didn't her sister just say so? Was it a horrible experience or something? Why couldn't she remember?
Andy slaps the laptop's lid shut and pushes it away on the bedspread, flopping onto her back. After a moment she reaches into the nightstand drawer where her old T-Mobile phone sits tucked away. She cradles the device in her hand and stares at its cracked screen, badly broken in the accident just like she was. Photo Andy was holding a phone just like this. Miranda Priestly might be in its address book, as irretrievably lost as Andy's memories feel.
"Give it time," Andy repeats, scoffing. "I'm tired of waiting around."
“Andy?” Her mother's voice calls to her. She has returned from work. “Are you home?”
“Yeah, I'm coming,” Andy replies and tries to get up, but is hit by a sharp pain in her hip. She yelps in pain, a little too loud and she regrets it immediately when she hears her mother rushing up the stairs.
When she comes to her side Andy irritatedly tells her she is fine. “I just sat too long.”
“Have you done your exercises today?” Her mother inquires.
“Mom.”
“Have you?”
Andy gets up, while refusing the help. She rubs the right side of her hip before taking a couple wobbly steps before she settles into the slight limp she's been left with even after all the surgeries and physical therapy. “I'm going to.”
***
“Miranda Priestly’s office,” a woman's voice answers when the following day Andy calls the Runway office. It takes some convincing before they are even willing to connect to Miranda's assistants.
“Hi, this is Andy Sachs. This is kind of a long shot, but could I talk to Miranda Priestly?”
The woman on the line scoffs mockingly. “No. She is currently out of office. It is Paris fashion week.” She emphasizes the last part like it is obvious.
“Right… Can I leave a message?”
It's quiet, until the woman sighs like it’s the most bothersome thing to happen to her. “Fine.”
"Tell her..." Andy pauses and swallows nervously. She prepared what she wanted to say but now it's all fled from her head. "Um, I'm calling because―that is, I was in the hospital after a bad accident, and there are some gaps in my memory. I'm still trying to piece things together, what I was doing, who I was talking to. I would really appreciate it if she could call me back and share whatever she remembers. My new phone number―ready? My new phone number is 513-555-0101."
Sounding bored already, the assistant dutifully repeats it back to her. "Oh, another call on the line, if that's everything..."
"Wait!" Andy adds, "And if she's still angry with me, I'm sorry if I disappeared suddenly or missed something important."
Laughter crackles through the speaker. "Oh, honey. If you made Miranda angry, there's no way she'll do business with you again." The call ends with a click.
Andy sits quietly for a while, before shaking off the nerves.
The woman who answered the call didn't seem to know who Andy was. So it's unlikely she worked for Miranda or Runway. Andy folds the note she had scribbled the office number on and puts it in her back pocket before deciding to head outside.
Her mind feels a little foggy, and she decides a walk might do her mind and leg some good.
***
A couple days later she's in the living room, idly reading a book while her father watches the news.
‘... and Miranda Priestly, the queen of fashion, was of course present as it was Galliano’s turn on …’
Andy lifts her eyes to look at the TV.
Miranda is sitting in a row of people, a bald sharp looking man sitting to her right, whispering something before the camera moves to show footage of previous days shows.
Miranda's assistant did mention Paris was where she was currently. If Miranda did get her message there have been no contact attempts yet.
Andy senses her father's eyes on her, and turns to look at him. “What?”
“Nothing,” he says and returns to watching the news. “Have you been writing anything?”
Andy feels a knot in her stomach. “Not really.” She's tried. Essays, articles, fiction, even haikus for heaven’s sake. Nothing comes out right. It feels like she's forgotten how or scared she'll never be able to pursue her dreams again. Always be left feeling this hollow and broken.
“I spoke to Harry, he'd be interested to have a guest writer for the Ohio Valley Observer,” he says, nonchalant.
It feels like an offer out of sympathy. Andy tries to swallow her pride, and all of the insecurities she's been feeling about her ability to write. “Really?” she finally asks, trying to match his casualness.
“I think you should go for it.”
“Yeah,” she says, unsure. “Might be good.”
“You're a good writer, Andy. You'll be a great journalist.” He turns the TV off with the remote.
“Dad?”
He looks to Andy waiting for her to continue.
“The year before my accident… Did I write anything? My portfolio. It doesn't have anything after Northwestern.” Andy has searched on the internet, but at least there she hasn't found any mentions of herself she didn't remember.
“Andy,” her father says like always. “You know we are supposed to let you remember on your own time.”
“I know, I know. But just… Tell me this much.”
Her father smiles gently, before his mouth is set to a line. “As far as I know, you didn't.” He pats Andy’s knee. “Come on, dinner is probably almost ready and Jill and company should be here soon.”
“Isaac!” Andy says excited when her sister arrives with her son and husband, Kyle. Isaac is almost three years old already which Andy finds hard to believe. Even without her missing year it seems he is growing far too fast.
Jill puts Isaac down and the toddler rushes towards Andy. Andy lifts him up and high fives him like she’s been teaching him. “Look, Ant,” he says and shows a doodle on his forearm. “A tattoo!”
“I see that,” Andy says and looks at Jill who rolls her eyes exhaustedly.
“Kyle’s brother got a tattoo. Isaac wants one too. He practiced on the wall of the hallway before putting it on his skin,” Jill says smiling through her teeth. Kyle shakes his head.
Andy snorts, glad her own tattoo isn’t to blame. “I see. Well, let’s go show your tattoo to grandma too. I’m sure she’ll be impressed.” She puts the boy down because she can’t quite manage walking and carrying the extra weight for too long.
Isaac rushes first towards the kitchen and they follow after him.
"Wow!" Andy's father exclaims. "Such an impressive tattoo."
"Theodore," her mother says with a scolding look. "We shouldn't encourage drawing on ourselves."
"What is it supposed to be?" he asks Isaac, undeterred.
"A rocket ship!"
"Oh, of course!"
It looks nothing like a rocket ship. Andy chuckles, then covers it up with a cough when the scolding looks turns toward her. She pulls some plates from a cabinet and escapes to the dining room to set the table.
They've just sat down to eat when Andy's cellular phone rings in her pocket. "Sorry, sorry," she apologizes. She pulls it out and silences it quickly, confused. "I don't know who would be calling me in the evening like this. Most of the people who talk to me are in this room." She grins at her family, then sees the caller ID on the screen. An unknown caller with a New York City area code. Her heart thuds. She can almost feel the phone number in her fingertips, as if they've dialed it before.
Could it be?
Andy puts the phone back even though she wants to answer so badly it feels like it's burning a hole in her pocket. Miranda or not, it would be way too rude.
But now it's all she can think about again while her family goes on and on talking about daily life.
Jill leaves the table for a minute to bring Isaac to the bathroom, and Andy seizes the opportunity to see if her parents might be able to tell her anything. Casually, she asks, "So did Jill mention we saw Miranda in New York?"
Her parents exchange a look. What the hell did that mean? Andy wonders.
"Oh?" her mother asks. "How was it, seeing her again?"
So they knew who Miranda was. Odd if she was just an interviewee.
"It was a little confusing, given that I didn't even recognize her and she's apparently pissed at me," Andy says, starting to feel angry. "She asked where I've been. Did I just disappear on her? You didn't think to tell me there's someone in my life I should inform about the accident?"
Her father frowns. "Andy, Miranda was informed. Your mother made all the important calls in that second week at the hospital, as soon as we realized you didn't remember about your job or apartment or anything."
Her mother has an odd, almost guilty expression.
"Amy?"
"I... called Runway. I didn't actually get through to her, just some assistant. British, I think. I told her you wouldn't be returning to work. The moment I mentioned your name, the assistant stopped listening and was very rude to me. To be honest, she was kind of a... bitch." She whispers that last word. "I couldn't explain any more before she hung up."
"Return to work? Wait, you mean I worked for her?" Andy struggles to remember. Rude woman, British accent―yes! A memory flashes briefly of a time when the other woman from that photograph insulted her skirt. While wearing an evening dress? No, they were only wearing dresses the night the photo was taken, and the skirt was another day. Her head aches. "But I don't know anything about fashion. Hideous skirt convention. Why was I writing for them?"
Her mom bites her lip. "You worked for her, but not as a writer. I'm sorry, I don't think it's a good idea for you to keep pushing―"
"I think I have a right to know my own past," Andy insists. "In the photo, we were both by her side. Was I also an assistant?"
"What photo, Andy?"
Andy tries to think about what assistants do for executives. Fetch coffee? Yes! "One no-foam skimmed latte with an extra shot and three drip coffees with room for milk," she recites, trying to control her breathing as her heart starts to race for no reason.
Her sister and nephew finally return. "Sorry we took so long, someone wanted to play with the soap and made it very difficult to wash his hands. Andy, are you feeling okay? You're white as a ghost."
"She's grilling us about her job with Miranda," her mother says, flashing a 'help us' look.
"Andy, don't," her sister says firmly. "You know you shouldn't. Not to mention she put you through hell. I don't know why you'd want to remember all that stress."
"Oh, my god, I just dismissed a call from Miranda," Andy realizes with dread.
"That was her calling you just now during dinner?"
"Of course it was," her father says. "Interrupting as usual."
"Nobody dismisses Miranda," Andy groans, burying her face in her arms. Her head is starting to feel a little light.
"Don't worry, Ant! Just say you're sorry and she'll forgive you. That's how it works."
Andy lifts her head and smiles at the sweet, naive suggestion. She ruffles his hair. "Aw, thanks..." She's blanking on his name. Oh, god. "...sweetie." There, buy herself some time, maybe the pause wasn't that long...
"What was that?" her sister demands to know, not missing a thing.
“Nothing,” Andy tries, but her head now feels really unbearably light. She’s nauseated and before she can do anything her vision goes black.
“So,” her doctor asks as she makes Andy follow her finger. “What were you doing when you passed out?”
“I, uh…” She remembers being on the floor of the dining room, her whole family hovering over her when she came to. “I think I was having dinner with my family. But I… I don’t actually remember what we were talking about.”
“She was trying to force herself to remember,” her mother intervenes, and looks sick with worry. Andy feels a pang of guilt. “We tried to tell her.”
Her doctor crosses her arms, and hums thoughtfully. “It happened the last time too, when you tried to force yourself. You shouldn’t overwork your brain.”
Last time it happened Andy tried to make herself remember what happened between her and Nate - by calling him. He told her she chose her job over him, and Andy was able to even almost remember it. Being outside, on a street with him. Before then too she became nauseated, with a horrendous headache before the world went dark.
“She forgot her nephew’s name,” her mother adds.
“Isaac,” Andy says, to assure her mother or herself. “It was just a brief slip.”
“Memory loss like yours is unusual, so we can’t be sure whether it's a good sign or a bad one,” her doctor taps her fingers absentmindedly against her arm. “I would recommend you go consult your neurologist at Mount Sinai Hospital. You’re due for a checkup anyway.”
Andy nods, starting to admit to herself that she may be hurting her own recovery. They wait while the doctor leaves to make the call. Finally she returns, handing over a fax with the confirmation details.
"The earliest appointment I could get is in three months' time. I hope that works for you. In the meantime, I'd recommend focusing on the present, building the life you want. Not pushing yourself too hard, but moving forward instead of trying to live in the past. Does that make sense?"
"Yeah, for sure," Andy agrees. "Dad told me about a writing opportunity at our local paper. I think I'll take it."
"Wonderful," her doctor encourages, smiling. "Sounds like it'll be good for you. I remember how excited you were about the 'power of journalism' back in college."
Andy turns red, realizing how much she must have been blabbing about writing if even their family doctor knows about it. "Right. Welp, better get going. Thanks for seeing me today."
"Of course. Take it easy and always feel free to give me a call."