Unremembered Page 5

  I repeat it over and over again. Like a mantra.

  ‘Which is why,’ he says emphatically, ‘it’s very important you don’t attract any attention to yourself. And especially not any press. Or photographers. Keep wearing the hat. Do whatever you need to do to conceal yourself.’

  What is taking Heather so long? She should be here by now.

  I look up to see that she’s stopped halfway across the parking lot to talk to a woman carrying a baby. Judging by their body language, I assume they know each other. Heather reaches out to tickle the small child, who laughs giddily in response.

  ‘I know you won’t believe anything I say,’ the boy continues, pulling my attention back to him. ‘At least not until you figure it out on your own. And I know you’re going to try to talk yourself out of whatever you’re feeling right now. That’s simply the way you are. But I also know the memory is in there somewhere. I’m in there somewhere.’

  I drop my gaze to the ground, but he bends his head to catch it.

  ‘You just have to find it,’ he urges.

  His voice is grave. Pleading. It makes my hands shake.

  Heather has finished her conversation and is making her way towards us. She studies our interaction carefully, seemingly noticing the boy for the first time. She doubles her pace.

  He glances in her direction, then back at me. ‘Sera, you need to try to remember.’

  I can’t take it any more. The tingling skin. The heat. The eyes. It’s too much. I turn away from him and grab the last bag from the cart. I place it in the trunk, trying to block out the sound of his voice. But it continues to infiltrate all my mental barriers.

  ‘Don’t trust anyone,’ he urges. ‘Try to remember what really happened. Try to remember me.’

  I focus on a box of frozen pizza that’s peeping out from the top of one of the bags.

  290 words.

  1,432 letters.

  The counting seems to be working. I can no longer hear him. My forehead is starting to cool.

  108 instances of the letter A.

  87 instances of the letter—

  ‘Who was that?’ I hear Heather’s voice behind me and I swivel around.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘That boy who was just here talking to you.’

  I think about telling her the truth. Repeating everything he said to me. But his voice still rings in my ears.

  ‘Don’t trust anyone.’

  I peer up at Heather’s kind, gentle face. I may not remember much about anything, but I have a hard time believing she could possibly be dangerous.

  Still, for some reason I find myself saying, ‘He recognized me from the news. I told him to leave me alone and he left.’

  Maybe it’s because that’s what I want so desperately to believe myself.

  She seems satisfied with my response and reaches up to close the trunk. I subtly scan the parking lot, searching for some trace of the boy, but I don’t see him anywhere. If Heather hadn’t asked about him, I might finally have been able to convince myself that he never even existed.

  But he did.

  And more than that, he knows about the locket.

  Heather opens the car door for me and I nearly fall in, grateful to have something sturdy underneath me.

  ‘Well, Violet,’ Heather says with a chuckle as she gets in on the driver’s side and fastens her seat belt, ‘you survived the supermarket. You can pretty much conquer anything now.’

  I smile politely and turn to gaze out the window. Violet, I repeat silently, the temporary name suddenly feeling as ill-fitting as my borrowed clothes.

  10

  WRITTEN

  Heather and Scott’s son is home when we return from the supermarket. He’s smaller than I thought he would be. His photograph made him appear bigger somehow. But standing up, he’s only as high as my shoulder. His arms are skinny. His face is young. Childlike. Although I don’t technically know what thirteen is supposed to look like, Cody does not strike me as someone who is only three years younger than me. But perhaps a person does a lot of growing between the ages of thirteen and sixteen. His hair is dark blond. It sprouts in many different directions. Round wire-rimmed glasses sit across a round face that’s pocked with brown and orange freckles.

  ‘Mom,’ he says, sounding agitated as he pats down his disorderly curls, ‘you didn’t tell me she was hot.’ Judging by his hushed tone and the way he turns his face away from me when he speaks, I don’t believe he meant for me to hear this. But I do.

  Heather laughs and ruffles the same hair that Cody has just attempted to smooth. ‘What does it matter what she looks like?’

  His eyes dart towards me and then away again. ‘It matters,’ he says, his teeth clenched tightly.

  ‘Violet,’ she says with a smile, ‘this is our son, Cody, who apparently thinks you’re “hot”.’

  ‘Mom!’ His eyes grow wide and his face turns a curious shade of red.

  ‘I feel a normal temperature,’ I reply, slightly confused by the exchange.

  Heather laughs again. ‘Violet still hasn’t regained her memories,’ she explains delicately. ‘She’s not familiar with a lot of slang.’ She puts her arm around Cody’s shoulder. ‘Maybe you can teach her the “hip” words teenagers are using. Help her become cool.’

  Cody’s eyes roll upward. It’s an expression I’ve never seen before but make a mental note to attempt in front of the mirror later. ‘First of all, Mom,’ he says with a groan, ‘no one uses the word hip except you, and second of all, I’m the last person in the world anyone should go to for tips on how to be cool.’

  ‘Well, that’s just not true,’ Heather argues. ‘You’re cool to me.’

  Cody’s eyes roll again. ‘Oh, great,’ he says, his voice sounding hoarse and insincere. ‘My mother thinks I’m cool. I’m sure the freshman chicks are going to fall all over themselves.’

  Heather turns to me. ‘Cody is starting high school in a couple of weeks. He’s a bit nervous.’

  ‘Mom!’ He pushes her arm from his shoulder. ‘Stop!’

  I watch him toss the strap of a large backpack over his arm and walk up the stairs. I’m intrigued by how much louder his footsteps are than anyone else’s in the house. Particularly in proportion to his size.

  ‘You’ll have to excuse him,’ Heather says as she finishes emptying the bags of groceries. ‘He’s at an awkward age.’

  Awkward age. I dissect the phrase, trying to make it fit with what I just witnessed. Is she referring to his small size? Or the fact that he changes colour so frequently? I’m about to ask her to elaborate but she does so without prompting.

  ‘Thirteen is hard. You don’t know who you are yet. Who your real friends are. Who you can trust. You don’t yet know what you’re capable of.’

  I absorb her definition, mulling it over. ‘I suppose I’m at an awkward age too, then.’

  She smiles. I like the way it crinkles the skin around her eyes. And slightly softens them. She closes a cabinet door and looks at me. ‘Thank you,’ she says.

  ‘For what?’

  ‘You have a good heart.’

  I think back to the hospital, remembering what Kiyana said about my vitals, and assume that’s what Heather is referring to. Although I don’t understand how it relates to this conversation.

  ‘Anyway,’ she says, rinsing her hands in the sink, ‘I suppose it doesn’t help that Cody is only interested in math and science. It’s been a long time since I was a teenager but I know those kinds of hobbies never help one’s social situation in school. Plus, he’s a bit on the small side. But his father didn’t hit his growth spurt until he was fifteen.’

  I listen to everything that Heather is saying even though I don’t comprehend the meaning of all of it. I have a feeling, however, she doesn’t need me to.

  ‘You’re a lucky girl to be so pretty so young,’ she says to me. ‘I’m sure wherever you’re from, you didn’t have any trouble getting dates or making friends.’

  I wonder if that could
be true.

  She wipes her hands on a towel. ‘Anyway, if Cody acts strangely it’s because he gets nervous when he’s around pretty girls. Give him some time to get used to you being here. He’s a very sweet boy.’

  I nod and smile, unsure of what to say next.

  Heather suggests I go upstairs and rest, promising to call me when dinner’s ready.

  I don’t argue. I’m anxious to be alone. I climb the steps quietly and retreat to my room, closing the door behind me.

  I sit in the rocking chair and sway back and forth. The movement calms me. The range of motion is limited. Confined. It fits in a box.

  I like things that fit in boxes. Especially boxes that have labels.

  It’s the misshapen, unmarked containers with unknown contents that bother me.

  Although I tell myself not to, I think about the boy. I can’t help it. He fascinates me. And infuriates me at the same time.

  What does that mean?

  Maybe nothing.

  Maybe everything.

  He wasn’t like Cody. He was tall. Taller than me. His face was long and oval-shaped. His arms were not scrawny, but loosely defined by muscle. I assume this signifies he’s already hit his ‘growth spurt’, as Heather called it. Which means he’s older than thirteen. I find myself wishing I had a better frame of reference.

  For everything.

  Is it possible he really knows things about me? Where I’m from. What I’m like. Who I am.

  ‘Sera. That’s your name. It’s short for Seraphina.’

  Seraphina.

  I walk over to the mirror and stare at my reflection while I repeat the name aloud, dissecting it in my mind.

  ‘Sera. Short for Seraphina.’

  Seraphina . . . Sera . . . S.

  I hurry over to the dresser, pull open the drawer, and snatch up the locket, flipping it over to study the engraving on the back.

  S+Z=1609.

  The equation that I can’t solve. Despite the fact that math seems to come easy to me.

  But perhaps that’s the problem. Perhaps the equation has nothing to do with math.

  ‘You’re not who you think you are.’

  I’m not anyone! I want to scream. I don’t even know who I am. How can I possibly be someone I’m not?

  My head starts to throb. I return to the chair and rock frantically back and forth, waiting for the motion to calm me once more. But this time it does nothing. I close my eyes and concentrate on the boy. On his face.

  I watch his demeanour change as soon as he sees Heather approaching us. His face becomes sombre. Earnest.

  ‘Try to remember what really happened . . .’

  I create a mental index of everything I know to be true:

  I like numbers.

  I have a tattoo.

  I like grilled cheese sandwiches.

  And supermarkets.

  I have long brown hair and purple eyes.

  I survived a plane crash.

  A plane crash I have no memory of.

  A glitch in a computer erased me from a list.

  ‘You were never on that plane . . .’

  Suddenly my eyes flutter open. I rise from the chair and pace the room. I hate all these unanswered questions. I hate the doubt that he’s planted in my mind. I hate that he’s made me second-guess everything I know.

  And mostly I hate how unforgettable he seems to be.

  Somehow every memory in my brain has managed to abandon me and yet his face is the face I can’t seem to chase away.

  As I walk, I repeat my mantra.

  I don’t know him. I don’t remember him. I can’t trust him.

  The last line makes me stop. Apprehensively I glance down at the locket in my hand. I draw in a deep breath and pop open the black heart-shaped door, removing the crumpled note and placing it on the dresser.

  I ransack the room, searching everywhere until I find what I’m looking for in a nightstand by the bed.

  A pen and a blank sheet of paper.

  I place the paper next to the yellowed note and slowly, carefully, scrawl out two words.

  Trust him.

  I glance between the two messages – one yellowed and ragged and faded by lost time and salt water, and the other white and crisp and right now – and I see what I was afraid I would see.

  They are exactly the same.

  They were both written by my hand.

  11

  PROOF

  Heather and Scott try to make conversation with me during dinner but I’m not really there. My mind is elsewhere.

  More specifically, on the note.

  The note that I wrote.

  But why? This is the question that bothers me the most.

  Did I intend it for me? Or for someone else?

  It had to be for someone else.

  Otherwise, doesn’t that imply that I knew I was going to lose my memory? Why else would I need to remind myself to trust someone? But I know that’s impossible. No one can predict a plane crash. No one can predict amnesia. Did I somehow manage to scrawl out the message right as the plane was going down? Just in case?

  And who is him?

  Trust him.

  I can only think of one person. And he’s the last person I want to trust. Because it would mean believing everything he’s told me.

  That there are people looking for me.

  That I’m in danger.

  That I was never on the plane.

  No. I can’t.

  There are a million hims in the world. It seems far-fetched and completely irrational just to assume that boy is the one the note is referring to.

  But I suppose if I really am the girl who wrote that note, then I at least owe it to myself – to her – to find out for sure.

  After dinner I go to my bathroom and wash my face with the cleanser Heather bought for me at the store today. While I was in the hospital, Kiyana taught me how to take care of myself. Teeth need to be brushed, faces need to be washed, fingernails need to be kept clean. I find it annoying that I have to be reminded of these things that seem so basic. So human.

  I have started over in so many ways I’m beginning to lose count. And I have a feeling I’m not one who loses count easily.

  I notice a light under the door of Cody’s bedroom. I can hear voices. Three in total. It sounds like an argument.

  Cody told his parents at dinner that his friends from school were coming over.

  I unlock the door and open it, revealing Cody and two similar-aged boys crowded around a giant board with a glossy white surface. It’s covered in red scribbles. Cody holds a matching red marker in his hand.

  The voices quiet immediately and all three boys turn to look at me.

  ‘Haven’t you ever heard of knocking?’ Cody asks. I can infer from his tone that he’s angry with me, although I’m not sure why.

  ‘I have.’

  He releases a funny sound from his nose. ‘Then why didn’t you?’

  ‘I wasn’t aware I was supposed to.’

  One of the other boys starts to laugh and then covers his mouth with his hand.

  ‘Well, you are,’ Cody replies. His tone still has that edge to it. I don’t like the way it makes me feel.

  ‘Are you angry with me?’ I ask, taking a step towards him, searching his face.

  He won’t look me in the eye. ‘No,’ he says, barely audible.

  ‘You seem angry.’

  ‘I’m not. What do you want?’

  I look to the other boys, wondering if I can trust them with what I’m about to ask. Wondering if I can even trust Cody. But right now he’s my only option. I would go to Heather and Scott, but something tells me that they wouldn’t grant my request. And that they would ask me for explanations I’m not ready to give yet.

  ‘I want to go to Los Angeles,’ I finally say. ‘To the airport, specifically.’

  Cody laughs but it doesn’t sound genuine. ‘Then ask my parents to take you.’

  ‘I can’t go with them.’

  �
�Well, good luck with that.’

  I understand the phrase but I’m fairly certain he’s not really wishing me luck. His tone and body language say otherwise. I find the contradiction frustrating.

  ‘My parents are never going to let you leave this house alone,’ he points out.

  ‘Yes, I agree. That’s why I’d like you to take me.’

  His eyes widen. ‘What? Now?’

  ‘No,’ I reply. ‘In the morning. Before Heather and Scott wake up.’

  ‘This girl has lost her mind,’ he says to his friends.

  ‘Yes,’ I say again. ‘And that’s exactly why I need to go. To see if I can find it.’

  They all laugh in unison now but I don’t understand. Did I make a joke? I would hate to have made one without even realizing it. What a waste that would be.

  ‘So, can you take me?’ I repeat, once their amusement has subsided.

  ‘No.’ Cody turns his back to me and faces the whiteboard. He continues to write with his red marker.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because I’m busy,’ he snaps.

  I glance at the whiteboard and review the series of scribbles. On closer inspection, I notice that the board is covered with numbers, letters and mathematical symbols.

  ‘You’re busy with this?’ I confirm.

  He doesn’t look at me. ‘Yes. If we can solve this problem, we start out freshman year with like zillions of extra credit. Not to mention go down in the math hall of fame. And since school starts in less than two weeks, I don’t exactly have time for clandestine journeys to LA.’

  ‘So if you solved it, you’d have time,’ I conclude.

  He snickers. ‘Yeah, sure. If I solved it, then I’d have time to take you.’

  ‘Well, what if I helped you solve it?’ I suggest, feeling hopeful.

  This makes him laugh again. The two other boys join in. ‘Yeah, because someone like you is so likely to solve Goldbach’s Conjecture, a conjecture that hasn’t been proved or disproved in over two hundred and fifty years. Award-winning mathematicians around the world haven’t been able to solve it, but you, the amnesiac supermodel, you can.’

  ‘And if I do, you’ll take me to Los Angeles?’

  He finally turns back around and looks at me, replacing the cap on his red marker with a loud click. ‘Yes.’ He’s smiling now. It’s not the kind of smile I saw on Heather earlier today. His eyes don’t crinkle. ‘If you can prove or disprove that every even integer greater than two can be expressed as the sum of two primes, then I’ll personally escort you to Los Angeles.’