Unremembered Page 13

  ‘Sera,’ he urges gently, ‘I would never lead you into danger. I’m doing my best to keep you away from it.’ He smiles ever so slightly. ‘I promise.’

  I walk past him into the building and Zen lets the door swing shut behind us. He guides me up two flights of stairs and down a hallway to room 302.

  The lock has been broken. Busted open. He holds the door for me, flips on the light switch, and we step inside. The room is hot and a bit stuffy but I hardly notice. I’m far too distracted by the walls. They’re utterly fascinating. Bright and colourful and decorated with hundreds of pictures and drawings and maps of the world.

  There are shelves stuffed with books and a handful of small round tables with blue plastic chairs tucked in around them. Every letter of the alphabet is displayed in various colours near the ceiling.

  ‘What is this place?’ I ask, spinning in a slow circle, trying to absorb everything.

  ‘It’s a kindergarten classroom.’

  ‘What’s kindergarten?’

  He chuckles. ‘It’s the first year of school. When children start their education. Typically around age five.’

  I smile, immediately feeling a peculiar kinship with the room. After all, I seem to be starting from the beginning as well.

  ‘Sorry it’s so warm in here,’ Zen says, walking to a table in the centre of the room. ‘They don’t turn on the air-conditioning in the summer when school is out.’

  On the floor near his feet I notice a thin foam pad with a pillow and a crumpled blanket on it. ‘Are you . . . living here?’ I ask.

  ‘Temporarily.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I had to find a location that was deserted. So I could stay under the radar. And a kindergarten classroom seemed like the perfect place. There’s no one here during the summer and they have blankets and pillows for nap time.’

  I stifle a laugh at the thought of Zen sleeping on a pillow belonging to a five-year-old. ‘I mean, why aren’t you living at home?’

  I watch him remove a tiny silver cube from his pants pocket and place it gingerly down on the table in front of him. He’s so noticeably delicate with it you would think it was made out of fragile glass.

  I move towards him, keeping my eyes on the curious steel object. For some reason, it seems to be calling me. Like the gravitational pull of a large planet. Even though it’s barely bigger than my fingernail.

  ‘I can’t go home,’ he says simply as he presses his thumb against one side of the device. It glows green in response.

  I completely forget about our conversation as I’m drawn further and further into the magnetism of the mysterious object, marvelling at how my hands tremble the closer I get. ‘What is that?’ I ask, refusing to take my eyes off it for even a second.

  Zen follows my gaze until we’re both staring at the tiny radiant cube.

  ‘This,’ he says, picking it up and holding it protectively in his hand, ‘is where I’ve stored your memories.’

  25

  CONNECTED

  The gun slips from my hand and lands on the floor with a loud thud. Zen gasps and lunges forward. ‘You have to be careful with that!’ he warns, scooping it up and placing it on the table next to the glowing cube.

  ‘My memories?’ My voice quivers.

  ‘Well,’ he amends, ‘not all your memories. Unfortunately I couldn’t get all of them. But these are enough to give you the general idea of what happened.’

  He points to the device. ‘I stored them on this hard drive until I could convince you to come here.’

  His explanation only confuses me more. ‘But how did you get them?’

  He shrugs. ‘I stole them.’

  ‘From who?’

  ‘From the people who took them from you.’ He studies the bewildered look on my face and then quickly adds, ‘To be fair, they stole them first. I was just . . . you know, stealing them back for you.’

  My legs feel wobbly and I collapse into the nearest chair – one of the small blue plastic ones clearly designed for a young child. It’s a long way down and I nearly lose my balance.

  I hold my head in my hands. ‘What is going on?’ The words barely make it out alive. My throat does its best to suffocate them.

  Zen hurries over to me and kneels at my feet. ‘I’m sorry. I’m being insensitive. I know this is scary and overwhelming for you. But I promise everything will be explained in a minute.’

  He stands up and draws a small wooden box out of his other pocket, flipping open the lid. I crane my neck to peek inside and see that the box contains three very odd-looking discs. Each one is about two inches in diameter and made of some kind of transparent rubber.

  He removes the first and leans over me, placing the disc just behind my left ear. It sticks on its own, practically fusing to my flesh.

  ‘These are cognitive receptors,’ he explains, removing the second rubber disc from the box. He places this one behind my right ear. ‘They will link your brain to this hard drive, allowing you to access anything that’s on it.’ He taps the miniature steel box gingerly with his fingertip. ‘It’s a technology that was developed on the Diotech compound. I think they call it re-cognization.’

  ‘And how do you know all of this?’

  He shrugs and gives me a sheepish smile. ‘The truth is, I don’t really. I mean, I don’t know the science behind it. I knew the technology existed because my mom was on the team that developed it. And after I went back and stole the memory files from the Diotech compound and erased any backups on their server, I did a little test run on myself, to make sure it worked.’

  ‘Does it hurt?’ I ask fearfully.

  ‘No. It’s just a little . . .’ He pauses, screwing his lips in concentration. ‘Weird.’

  ‘Weird,’ I repeat, my stomach rumbling with nerves.

  He picks up the third receptor and closes the lid of the now empty box. Then he steps behind me. I crane my neck, trying to see him, waiting for what he’ll do next. But he just stands there, awkwardly fidgeting with the disc. ‘Sorry,’ he says, extending his hand tentatively towards my head and then quickly withdrawing it. ‘I need to, um, move your hair.’

  ‘Oh,’ I say, suddenly feeling as awkward as he looks. ‘Right. Sure. Go ahead.’

  He slowly reaches towards me and I hold my breath. I don’t mean to. The air just kind of traps itself willingly inside my lungs. I feel his fingertips graze the back of my bare neck. His touch causes my skin to prickle and heat up. He gently gathers my hair in one hand and sweeps it over my left shoulder, taking a moment to brush a few loose strands that didn’t make it.

  The whole movement is so fluid – so practised – that it makes me 100 per cent certain he’s done this before. This is not the first time his hands have touched my hair. And I find myself silently hoping that it won’t be the last.

  ‘OK,’ Zen says, clearing his throat. I jump and my eyes flutter open. I didn’t even realize they had closed. He’s back in front of me again.

  ‘So,’ I say, trying to mask my embarrassment. ‘It’s done?’

  Zen takes a deep breath and sits himself down in an adjacent chair. ‘Yes. You should now be directly linked to the drive.’

  I wait, wondering if something is supposed to be happening. I’m half expecting a bolt of lightning to strike my brain, but in reality, nothing changes. My mind is quiet. And the room has fallen silent once again.

  ‘I don’t feel anything,’ I tell him.

  He nods. ‘You won’t feel different. Think of this as an extension of your brain. An external storage container of sorts. But in order to access the information that’s in it, the memories have to be triggered somehow.’

  ‘OK,’ I say dubiously. ‘And how do we do that?’

  ‘There are several ways to trigger dormant memories – key words, objects, images – but the easiest thing is for me to ask you questions.’

  ‘OK,’ I say again, feeling less and less confident that this will actually work.

  He rubs his palms on his pants.
‘Let’s start with your house. Tell me about your living room.’

  I frown. ‘How can I possibly do that? I don’t remember my house. I don’t remember anything about my life before—’

  ‘What colour is the couch?’ he interrupts.

  ‘Beige,’ I say without thinking.

  My whole body freezes. Apart from my pounding heart. Which I can now hear in my ears.

  What just happened?

  ‘And where is the front door?’ he continues.

  This response comes as quickly as the last one. ‘On the opposite side of the room. Next to a tall brown lamp and a coat rack.’

  I don’t know how I’m doing this. I don’t know why these answers are coming so easily. Or if they’re even the right answers.

  I stare wide-eyed at Zen. ‘What is going on?’

  He smiles encouragingly. ‘You’re remembering.’

  ‘I am?’

  He nods. ‘Your brain is accessing the memory that’s stored on the drive.’

  A rush of euphoria shoots through me, waking me up, energizing my senses. ‘Do it again!’ I order. ‘Ask me more questions!’

  Zen laughs. ‘OK, OK. What else is in the room?’

  I bite my lip in concentration and close my eyes but nothing is coming. ‘I . . . I . . .’

  Zen steps in. ‘Sorry, you probably need something more specific. What is in the corner, to the right of the front door?’

  A grin spreads wide across my lips. I know this. ‘It’s a plant!’

  I doubt anyone in the history of the world has ever gotten this excited about a plant, but I don’t care. For me, this plant means everything. It’s a piece of me. A piece I thought I had lost forever.

  And then suddenly the room starts to take shape. What was a blank white canvas is now becoming a tapestry of colours and objects and furniture. One by one, items materialize out of thin air, filling in empty gaps. A table. Another lamp. A chair. A bookshelf. A fireplace.

  It’s so magnificent. And so real! I can remember it almost as clearly as I can remember my room at Heather and Scott’s house.

  ‘Is this really my house?’ I ask Zen.

  ‘Yep.’

  I can hardly believe what I’m seeing – or remembering, rather. For the first time in what, for me, seems like forever, I start to feel an undeniable sense of ownership over something.

  My living room.

  My beige couch.

  My house.

  And everything I see feels comfortable. Safe. Right. It feels like home.

  The living room continues to populate with familiar adornments and trimmings. As though a pair of magic, invisible hands were skilfully decorating my memory. Brass candleholders appear atop the mantel and are immediately filled with long tapered green candles. A richly coloured mosaic rug unfurls along the hardwood floor.

  The walls, once plain white, are suddenly coated in creamy taupe paint as three dark wood picture frames take shape over the couch. Inside each one, a beautiful oil painting starts to emerge, swiftly crafted by an unseen artist with a concealed brush.

  Red opaque curtains glide across the window, blocking out the daylight until, finally, the lamp in the corner illuminates, casting a warm soothing glow on everything, and adding a satisfying finishing touch to the full picture.

  But even though the living room seems to be complete, I am hungry for more. I have a burning desire to explore the rest of the house. To push the limits of my newly returned memory.

  I notice the beginnings of a narrow hallway leading out of the room and I’m immediately pulled towards it. I squeeze my eyes shut tight and focus hard on the path of the hardwood floor, forcing my mind to walk down it until I see . . .

  Nothing.

  The world simply stops there. And as hard as I try, as deeply as I concentrate, I can’t see beyond it. It’s as though the hallway just dissolves into nothing. The floor ceases to exist, the walls disappear, and I’m surrounded once again by that exasperating empty white space that’s been haunting me since they pulled me from the ocean.

  I squirm in my seat and let out a small whimper. ‘I can’t . . .’ I try to explain, frustration mounting. ‘I can’t see anything else.’ I open my eyes and look desperately at Zen. ‘I can’t remember what’s outside of that room! Why can’t I remember?’

  Zen puts a reassuring hand on my arm, but this time his touch does nothing to calm me. ‘Because you only have access to what’s on the hard drive. And unfortunately I wasn’t able to get any memories of other rooms in the house. Which means you won’t be able to see anything past the living room.’

  I toss my hands in the air and launch to my feet so forcefully the little blue chair I was sitting on goes flying backwards. ‘So that’s it?’ I cry. ‘That’s all I get? A quick glimpse of a stupid living room? What good can that possibly do me?!’

  I expect Zen to reach out and try to comfort me again, but he doesn’t. In fact, all he does is smile. As though he’s thoroughly entertained by my aggravation.

  ‘What?’ I demand, my teeth clenching.

  He shakes his head. ‘Nothing. Sorry. It’s just . . .’ His voice trails off.

  ‘It’s just what?’

  ‘It’s nice to see you back.’

  My forehead crumples. ‘Back?’

  ‘Yeah, you know, the old Seraphina. The feisty, spirited one I fell in love with. I saw a flash of her just then and it . . .’ His smile quickly fades, replaced by a much more sombre expression. ‘Well, for a while there I was afraid she might be gone forever.’

  My rage suddenly subsides and I cast my eyes downward, coming up with nothing more interesting to respond with than ‘Oh’.

  ‘But don’t worry,’ Zen assures me, tapping the steel cube. ‘That’s not the only memory on here. I promise there’s more to see.’ He stands up and retrieves the upturned chair from the other side of the room where it landed. ‘Sit back down. Relax. I’m going to show you my favourite memory of all.’

  Reluctantly I lower myself back into the chair. ‘And what memory would that be?’ I ask, trying to sound as lighthearted as possible in hopes of counteracting my earlier outburst.

  The crooked smile is back. The one that makes me feel like it’s the only thing in the world worth remembering. He holds my gaze tightly as he says, ‘The day I met you.’

  26

  CONTAINED

  ‘Close your eyes,’ Zen instructs me. ‘Go back to the living room and tell me what you see.’

  I do as I’m told, allowing my mind to be transported back to the only room I have. I focus hard until I see everything reappear in front of me. The beige couch. The coffee table. The lamp. But this time, there’s something new in the picture.

  ‘A book,’ I tell him eagerly. ‘I see a book. And a hand. It’s . . .’ The realization comes fast. ‘It’s mine! It’s my hand. I’m holding the book. I just finished reading it.’

  ‘Good,’ Zen encourages. ‘That’s right. You were in the living room reading.’

  I can see the book clearly in front of me now. A Wrinkle in Time, by Madeleine L’Engle. The cover is ragged and peeling away. As though it’s been read a hundred times. And underneath it, I can make out my legs, curled up on the couch, swathed in a pair of dark grey cotton pants. They look surprisingly similar to the ones I was wearing when the rescue boat found me. The ones still folded up in a drawer at the Carlsons’ house.

  ‘Now try to let the memory guide you. It may be somewhat stilted at first but it will get easier and start to flow more fluidly the longer you do it. And I’ll be here to prompt you if you get stuck. What else do you remember about that day?’

  I bite my lip and concentrate, attempting to verbalize everything I see and feel. ‘I was getting hungry,’ I recount. ‘I was going to eat lunch. But then I heard something. A scratching sound. It was coming from outside.’

  I watch the scene as it plays out in brief, somewhat hazy fragments. I see it through my own eyes. As though it’s happening to me right now.

&nbs
p; Standing up. Walking to the front door. Reaching out my hand.

  But I’m crippled by a sudden bout of fear and I quickly withdraw it.

  ‘I was scared,’ I tell Zen. ‘Something scared me.’

  ‘Yes,’ Zen replies. ‘Do you remember what you were afraid of?’

  ‘The outside,’ I say with startling certainty. ‘I was afraid to go outside.’

  ‘Why?’ Zen prompts.

  ‘Because someone told me not to.’

  Who? I immediately wonder. I clench my eyes shut and press my fingers against my temples, trying to find the person’s face. Trying to hear the warning. But I just can’t. The memory is not there.

  ‘I’m not supposed to go outside when no one is home,’ I tell Zen. But I barely recognize my own voice. It sounds flat and lifeless. My words come out like a monotone chant. ‘Something bad will happen if I do. But I don’t know what.’

  ‘It’s OK,’ Zen says hastily. ‘Keep going.’

  I inhale deeply and slide back in.

  My hand extends again. My finger presses against a glowing blue scanner. The door beeps and I push it open.

  ‘I didn’t listen,’ I recall. ‘I went outside anyway.’

  Zen laughs. ‘You were never very good at following rules. Much to the disappointment of the people who made them.’

  I think about the Carlsons. How I convinced Cody to sneak out of the house before they woke up. How I disappeared into the night without telling them I was leaving. I find myself comforted by the knowledge that apparently some parts of me were never really lost.

  ‘What did you see when you went outside?’ Zen asks, his question inspiring a whole new picture to appear before me.

  A white wraparound porch, a small, well-manicured lawn with freshly cut grass and flowers. The air is hot and dry.

  ‘My front yard,’ I reply.

  ‘And past that?’

  I struggle to remember what was past the yard. But I can’t see much.

  A tall concrete wall rising ten feet into the air blocks my view. There’s a narrow walkway that leads from the base of the porch steps and across the lawn but it stops at a thick steel gate that’s been set into the wall.