Unremembered Page 8

  ‘To Los Angeles,’ I tell her.

  ‘YOU TOOK HER TO LOS ANGELES?’ Heather’s voice is back to a roar and her fingers retighten around Cody’s biceps.

  ‘Please,’ I implore. ‘Please don’t be angry with him. He tried to stop me. But I was determined to go.’

  ‘What on earth were you doing back in Los Angeles?’

  Cody’s eyes flicker to me. I immediately know what he’s thinking. He’s wondering if I’m going to tell Heather the truth. About what we did. About who we talked to. About what she told us.

  ‘I . . .’ I begin with hesitation.

  Lying protects people.

  ‘I wanted to go to the airport,’ I finish. ‘I thought it might trigger a memory. I thought it would help.’

  Heather exhales a heavy sigh and releases Cody’s arm. I hear myself sigh as well. ‘Violet,’ she begins, her voice once again gentle. Patient. It’s the Heather from yesterday and the day before. The one who picked me up from the hospital and made me a grilled cheese sandwich. ‘You can’t just sneak out of the house. You’re our responsibility now. It’s our job to make sure you’re safe. And we can’t do that unless we know where you are at all times.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I shouldn’t have left.’

  ‘No, you shouldn’t have,’ she says, and then she turns her attention back to Cody. ‘And you,’ she says, her voice sharpening. ‘You shouldn’t have taken her. You’re grounded until school starts.’

  ‘Mom! That’s so not fair! You heard her! She basically kidnapped me.’

  ‘I don’t care,’ Heather says. ‘You’re still grounded.’

  Cody kicks at a pebble on the driveway. ‘This sucks!’

  I want to ask what grounded means but I suspect it’s not the right time. Regardless of the definition, I can read Cody’s body language well enough to know that the word doesn’t have a positive association. I reach out and gently touch Cody’s hair. It’s something Kiyana used to do to me in the hospital when I was upset and somehow it always made me feel better. ‘I’m sorry, Cody.’

  His face reddens and he ducks out from under my reach. Then he lumbers towards the house, mumbling, ‘Whatever.’

  Heather looks at me again. ‘Violet, honey. You know if you want to go someplace you can come to us.’

  ‘I didn’t think you would take me.’

  My first piece of truth.

  Heather reaches out and rubs my arm. ‘Of course we’ll take you. Anywhere you want to go. Just promise me, in the future, if you want to go somewhere, you’ll ask us.’

  And apparently my last piece as well. Because before I even open my mouth, I know my answer will be another lie. ‘I promise.’

  ‘Good.’ She smiles. The first one I’ve seen since we arrived home. ‘So, did it work?’

  ‘Did what work?’ I ask.

  ‘Going to the airport. Did it trigger any memories?’

  In a flash I see everything: Brittany, the gate agent. The ocean. My locket. The engraving. The boy.

  ‘Try to remember what really happened. Try to remember me.’

  ‘No,’ I say.

  She puts an arm around my shoulder and squeezes. ‘Don’t worry. It will all come back to you eventually.’

  I nod, as though I agree, and barely muster a smile.

  ‘And first thing tomorrow,’ she says brightly, ‘I’m taking you somewhere that’s guaranteed to get your mind off things for a while.’

  I glance over at her, genuinely curious. ‘Where?’

  She flashes me a wide grin and a wink. ‘The mall.’

  17

  EXPOSED

  The mall is a crazy place. Massive and full of people and activity.

  Heather does most of the shopping. As we walk through something called a department store, she plucks items from the racks and expresses her enthusiasm with phrases like, ‘Oh, this is adorable!’ and ‘You would look so cute in this!’ and ‘If I had your tiny figure, I would wear this!’

  A friendly lady named Irina shows us into a small room in the back where I’m supposed to put on the clothes to see if they fit right.

  ‘Do you want me to come in with you?’ Heather asks. ‘Or I can wait out here and you can come out and show me the stuff you like.’

  I shrug. I don’t really have a preference. ‘Whatever you prefer.’

  She opts for entering the dressing room with me. ‘Just in case you need help putting anything on,’ she explains. ‘Some of those zippers can be hard to reach.’

  Heather sits on a bench and watches as one by one I try on all the clothes she selected for me. Since I don’t seem to have an opinion about anything she makes the final decisions on what is working and what is not.

  ‘Isn’t this fun?’ she asks as I slide a purple dress over my head. Heather pulls it down around my knees.

  I nod to appease her. ‘Yes. It’s fun.’ Even though I actually find the process quite tedious.

  ‘Oh,’ she breathes, her eyes lighting up as she admires the dress. ‘That is just stunning on you!’ She stands up and motions eagerly towards the door. ‘Let’s take a look in the big mirror.’

  She leads me out into the hallway and towards a platform with three mirrors forming a semicircle around it. ‘Go ahead, step up there so you can see it from the back.’

  I do as I’m told, turning from side to side to view the dress from every angle. I admit, it is a nice dress. The fabric is lightweight and soft. The colour matches my eyes. And it seems to fit me well. But beyond that, I’m not really sure what Heather is getting so excited about.

  I hear a trample of footsteps behind us and four girls prance into the dressing room, giggling.

  ‘OMG, Lacey!’ one of them exclaims. ‘That skirt is going to look so good on you. Trevor is going to fall madly in love with you the moment you walk into that party tonight.’

  I look at the girl holding the hanger with the skirt on it – Lacey, I presume – and our eyes meet for a brief second. She offers me a tight-lipped smile before slipping into one of the dressing rooms with her friends and closing the door.

  ‘You totally have to get it,’ another girl chimes in. ‘It’ll go perfectly with that white belt you bought last week.’

  I continue to listen in on their conversation as Heather leads me back into our stall and helps me out of the dress.

  ‘They sound about your age,’ she remarks as she hands me another one to try. ‘Do you want to go talk to them? Maybe ask them for an opinion on what we picked out?’

  I slip my arms through the sleeves and shake my head. I can’t think of one thing to say to those girls. It’s not as though we have anything in common. I’m an amnesiac who likes to count things, and they seem to be most focused on whether or not a belt will make someone named Trevor fall in love faster.

  Plus, after observing their excitement, I’m starting to think that my disinterest in trying on clothes is not normal. I wonder if I used to be as enthusiastic about shopping as they are. Before my life became one giant black void and all I had left was an empty locket, a cryptic note and a mountain of unanswered questions.

  Somehow I doubt it.

  I’m starting to get the feeling my life was never normal.

  ‘That one’s nice too,’ Heather comments. ‘Let’s add it to the pile.’

  I slide it over my head and hand it back to Heather.

  There’s a knock on the door. ‘How’s it going in there?’ Irina asks.

  Heather takes inventory of the items she’s placed in her collection. ‘We’re almost done.’ She holds up the purple dress to me. ‘I think you should wear this one out. It looks so pretty on you.’

  ‘If you hand me the tag, I’ll ring it up,’ Irina offers from the other side of the door.

  ‘Great.’ Heather pulls the price tag from the dress and places the hanger on the hook. Then she scoops her selections into her arms. ‘I’ll pick out a few accessories and meet you by the cash register.’

  ‘OK.’

  She
slips out the dressing-room door and I’m left alone with my reflection.

  Lacey and her giggling cohort exit a few moments later and the room falls silent. I stare at the girl in the mirror wearing nothing but her underwear. I take in her smooth honey-coloured skin, long lean legs, glossy chestnut hair and violet eyes. Despite everything that’s happened – despite the efforts I’ve made – she’s still just another unfamiliar thing that I hope to recognize one day.

  Heather said I was beautiful. The nurses at the hospital said I was beautiful. Even Irina said I was beautiful when she showed us into this dressing room. But I can’t see it.

  I don’t know what beautiful looks like.

  And suddenly I find myself wondering if that boy from the supermarket thinks I’m beautiful too.

  That spot in the centre of my forehead begins to glow with heat again. Like it did when he stood before me in the parking lot. I try to push the thought from my mind, feeling embarrassed for even entertaining it.

  Just then, I hear Irina’s voice through the closed door. She’s whispering but I hear every word.

  ‘No. It’s her. I swear,’ she says. ‘She has those same purple eyes. It’s the girl. The one from the news, who survived that crash. She’s here buying clothes.’

  My whole body turns to ice and I yank the door open and see that she’s speaking into her cellphone. ‘Please don’t,’ I plead. ‘Don’t tell anyone that I’m here. I can’t handle any more media circuses. I can’t go through that again.’

  Irina’s mouth falls open and her cellphone slips from her hand. She barely manages to catch it and fumble it back to her ear. ‘I’ll call you back,’ she says hurriedly, and tucks the phone into her pocket.

  ‘I’m so s-s-sorry,’ she stammers, her eyes wide. ‘It was my sister. She won’t tell anyone. I was simply so excited to meet you. We never get celebrities in the store.’

  ‘I’m not a celebrity,’ I insist. ‘I’m just a girl trying to figure out who she is and where she came from.’

  Truth.

  It feels good.

  She nods and gestures quickly between the two of us. ‘Well, this has to be some kind of clue, right?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The fact that you speak Russian, of course. And so flawlessly! Not even an accent!’

  I blink. ‘What are you talking ab—’ But before I can finish the question, I hear it. The words. The unfamiliar, sharp sounds. They’re not Portuguese. And they’re certainly not English.

  ‘They did not mention that on the news,’ she says. And I now hear it in her voice too. The same language.

  Russian.

  I speak Russian.

  On top of everything else.

  ‘There must be some mistake,’ I say, switching to English and going back into my dressing room. I close the door and lock it, falling on to the small stool and burying my head in my hands.

  I haven’t cried since the day Kiyana showed me my own face in the hospital. But I can’t help it. The tears form on their own. I have no control over them. They stream down my face. I sniffle and try to wipe them away but it’s an endless task. They just keep coming.

  ‘Are you all right, dear?’ Irina calls through the door, thankfully in English.

  ‘Yes,’ I lie, although I can’t imagine it’s very convincing.

  ‘I’m . . . going to help your . . . moth– um . . . the woman you came in with.’ I hear Irina’s footsteps retreat and I start to sob again.

  Mother. That’s what she was about to say.

  My mother.

  Even she knows Heather’s not my mother. Even she knows I have no family. At least not one that cares enough to come claim me. Who is my mother? Does she speak Russian? Portuguese? Both?

  Is she good at math like I am?

  Does she hate to shop too?

  Is she so busy that she doesn’t have time to watch the news and see that her daughter is lost and alone and in desperate need of some answers that make sense?

  I hear a faint knock on the dressing-room door. Irina must have told Heather that I was upset. And Heather, being the kind, caring replacement mother that she is, came running to help.

  I sniffle, rub the moisture from my cheeks and pull myself to my feet.

  When I open the door, however, I’m startled to see the boy standing in front of me. His wavy dark hair is swept back. His forehead is creased in concern as his soft chocolate eyes take me in. Then he tilts his head to the side, studying my current predicament.

  Tears.

  Snot.

  No clothes.

  It’s only then I realize I haven’t yet gotten dressed. Logic tells me that I should care. If people were meant to be seen in their underwear they wouldn’t have these dressing rooms with locks on the doors.

  But I don’t care.

  The only thing that bothers me about this situation is the fact that it doesn’t seem to bother me. Not in the slightest.

  Another item to add to my list of abnormalities.

  But I grab the purple dress from the hanger and hold it over my exposed body anyway. Just for show.

  He smiles at my attempt. As though he knows it’s an act. ‘I’ve seen it all before,’ he says. His smile quickly fades and is replaced with a look of sincerity. ‘And it’s still beautiful.’

  I don’t know what to say. I don’t even know if I want to talk to him. I can’t deal with this right now.

  I have to get out of here.

  I throw the dress over my head and pull the hem down to my knees.

  He watches the fabric fall around my legs. And his endearing smile returns. ‘It’s nice to see you in something other than those boring grey things you always wore.’

  The clothes I was wearing when they found me. The ones Kiyana packed up for me in a brown paper bag.

  He knows about them.

  But I don’t care. Regardless of what the note says, regardless of what the gate agent told me, regardless of the way his eyes seem to heat my skin and melt my insides, I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to trust him. I don’t want to believe anything he has to say. I just want to buy some normal clothes, go home to a normal, loving family and try to live a normal life.

  I reach for the door. He doesn’t try to stop me. He simply says, ‘You went to the airport.’ As though it’s a well-known fact.

  ‘So?’ I mutter, pushing past him.

  ‘So now you know that I was telling you the truth. That you weren’t on the plane.’

  ‘No. I don’t know that.’ I move up the row of empty stalls, determined to get out of here. But something stops me. I turn around. ‘Wait a minute. How did you know I went to the airport?’ My eyes widen in horror. ‘Have you been following me?’

  He shrugs as though this is not important. ‘I had to make sure you were safe. It’s my job to protect you.’

  ‘Your job?’

  ‘Well,’ he says, ‘it’s not an official title. Just something I swore to do once. Even if you don’t remember it, I’m still determined to keep that promise.’

  I run my tongue over my front teeth as I try to control my temper. This boy, despite his ability to crawl into the deep back pockets of my mind and stay there, is really getting on my nerves. I sigh. ‘Protect me from who? These people who are supposedly looking for me but whom I’ve yet to see?’

  ‘Yes.’ His face turns solemn. Like a cloud has passed over it. He gestures towards my left wrist. ‘The same people who gave you that.’

  With a sharp inhale, I glance down at the razor-thin black line and try to conceal it with my other hand. ‘Just because you know about my tattoo doesn’t mean—’

  ‘It’s not a tattoo.’

  I’m fairly certain I already knew that.

  ‘It’s a tracking device,’ he continues.

  I shake my head. I know I should keep walking. Turn my back on this boy forever and keep trying to forget he even exists. But something compels me to ask, ‘Who are you?’

  ‘My name is Lyzender.’

&n
bsp; Just as I suspected. This means nothing to me. ‘I don’t recognize that name,’ I say flatly.

  I expect his face to drop. I expect to see disappointment in his eyes.

  But I don’t.

  He appears as determined as ever. He moves towards me, takes my hand, holds it, squeezes it. Despite my impulse to flee, I don’t pull away. His touch is warm. Comforting. Almost . . . familiar.

  ‘You wouldn’t recognize that name,’ he consents. ‘You always called me Zen. You said it was because I brought you peace.’

  A shiver runs up my legs. It weakens my spine. My body starts to crumple. I fight to stand upright.

  Lyzender. Zen. Z.

  Seraphina. Sera. S.

  S + Z = 1609.

  My breath quickens. I try to speak but no words seem able to take shape. My mouth feels dry. Rough. I rub my tongue against the roof until I feel saliva start to form again.

  I think of my conversation with Cody – the one we had on the bus to Los Angeles – and I manage to ask, ‘Are you . . . uh . . . were you my boyfriend?’

  His almond-shaped eyes squint as he smiles. He squeezes my hand again. ‘I’d like to think I was more than that.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  I watch the colour of his face change. It doesn’t turn the same shade of red that I’ve witnessed on Cody’s skin so many times, but there is a clear tint of scarlet flushing his cheeks. He casts his eyes downward. ‘You told me I was your soulmate.’

  The way he says soulmate, I realize it means something. Something important.

  Mate: one member of a pair.

  Soul: the principle of life, feeling, thought and actions in humans; regarded as a distinct entity separate from the body.

  I glance anxiously down at his hand on mine. ‘I don’t know what that is.’

  He chuckles softly. Knowingly. ‘I had to teach it to you the first time too.’

  The first time?

  Has this happened to me before?

  My mind flashes to the note. The one currently stuffed inside my top dresser drawer.

  Trust him.