Broken Grace (8 page)

“Okay. I remember this one. He came in with his girlfriend at, like, six in the morning. She’d found him asleep in his car in front of their house. He’d been gone all night. He was slurring, not making sense, nauseous. She was worried about drug use. So we got him some fluids and tested his blood. He tested positive for alcohol and marijuana. He couldn’t remember what he’d done the night before. Suffered a few hallucinations while he was here. Got a little crazy even—swatting the staff, telling the nurses to get off of him. We sedated him and then he was okay.”

“Do you remember what the girlfriend looked like?” Bishop asked.

“Pretty girl. Maybe twenty or so. Long, wavy brown hair, slim. Here,” the doctor said, pointing to the screen. “She signed the intake form. Grace Abbott.”

“Okay, great. And what did his girlfriend think happened?”

“She knew he’d gone to a bar with friends after work. That was the last they knew. She said he had planned to come home early but he never did. Till she found him in the morning.”

“But you didn’t think too much of it?”

“Not really. I mean, his levels were low, not even legally drunk. It was odd not to remember anything, but everyone reacts to drugs differently. Perhaps he’d never smoked marijuana before. Or maybe it was laced with something we didn’t detect. People get whatever they want these days. It’s the age of the Internet.”

They thanked the doctor and headed back to the car. “Well, that’s interesting,” Bishop said.

“What do you make of it?”

“He was a regular user and he’d only had a couple of drinks at the bar. Something went on with that blonde.”

“You think she did something to him?”

“Maybe they did drugs together. I wanna find that girl.”

“Maybe we should focus on that waitress from the casino. It could have been her. And she might have been the last person to see him. No one has talked of seeing him after the casino on Friday, and she’s now skipped town.”

Bishop shook his head. “Grace probably saw him on Friday night; she just isn’t saying.”

“You mean isn’t remembering.”

“Whatever.”

“I don’t think Grace has given us any reason to doubt her. She’s trying to help. She’s obviously been badly hurt. And yet you’re acting like she’s faking all this.”

“Hey, I didn’t say that. And why do you sound so protective? I’m just stating the facts.”

Hackett opened his mouth to respond but thought better of it.

NINE

L
ISA CALLED TO CHECK ON
G
RACE
around lunchtime and reminded her to take her medicine. Grace stared at the little pile on the counter. “Yes, got it.”

“And don’t forget to eat—I made chili, your favorite.”

“Sure.”

“Remember, the doctor said you need to rest. What have you been doing?”

“Nothing,” she snapped.

“What’s wrong?” Lisa asked.

“Nothing!” She didn’t know what was wrong. But Lisa’s voice and those little Post-it notes were smothering.

When they hung up the phone, Grace looked at the pills and the time on the clock. She pushed them aside. She was finally starting to feel clear. She was hungry too, but the thought of ground beef and beans and spices she couldn’t even taste wasn’t appetizing. She resented being told what she liked. She didn’t know what she liked anymore, but she didn’t want chili. She ate some Saltine crackers and a few slices of cheese while watching
The Chew
. The cohosts shared recipes and cooked and laughed. The banter felt familiar, and she relaxed into the chair.

Suddenly, she was watching a new program. She’d been in a trance. She hadn’t been listening or watching anything for who knew how long. She turned off the TV and heard a faint buzz, a vibration. She followed the noise to where her purse rested on the counter. As she searched the bag, the noise got louder. When she finally found the cell phone, it had stopped, but she had messages. She knew which buttons to press. It seemed so odd that she remembered technology but not people.

The first message was from a man named Dave. He wanted to see how Grace was feeling. Everyone at the restaurant had heard about the accident, he said. They were all thinking of her, and her check was ready. “We’d love to see you,” he said. She could pick up the check or he could mail it. She just needed to let him know.

Grace called the number and was startled by the loud reply on the first ring, “Brewster’s, can you hold, please?” The woman put her on hold before she could respond. Grace waited, repeating the restaurant’s name in her head, the sound of Italian music in her ear. When the woman returned to the line, Grace asked for their location.

“We’re on Merchant in New Buffalo, right off Whittaker.”

Grace hung up before the woman could recognize her voice.

“Brewster’s,” she repeated. She was leaning against the counter, thinking about it, when she spotted the key—a single key on a ribbon hanging on a hook by the door. She got closer. The key was branded
F
ORD
. Grace looked out the window at the old pickup truck off to the side. A Ford. She looked back down at her phone’s apps and found the map function.
Don’t drive
, her doctor’s voice rang out in her head. But she let go of the counter and walked across the room as if to prove it to herself. She was finally feeling clearheaded. “I’m fine. I feel better,” she said out loud.

This house felt like solitary confinement. Going to the restaurant might spark more memories. Excited by the thought of getting out, of driving down that gravel road to a place filled with people who might be her friends, she grabbed her coat and purse, put on the rubber boots by the door, and carefully walked to the old truck.

When she climbed into the cab, the smell of vinyl hinted at times past, like a perfume. She closed her eyes, picturing little bare feet on the dashboard, toes tapping to a Bruce Springsteen tune. What was it? “‘Born to Run,’” she said, smiling. Her dad had loved Bruce. But as she sat in the seat, looking out at the house, the yard, the woods, her smile faded—that was all she knew. She turned the key in the ignition, but the engine only made a painfully weak noise before the silence returned. She tried again, pumping the gas pedal. It didn’t sound good.

She looked back at her phone to check the mileage on the map. It was a fleeting thought: to walk. But it was twenty miles. The land was covered in a thick, white blanket, it was freezing, and every step jostled her sore ribs. She was trapped. Her excitement collapsed, as if someone had opened the gates to freedom and when she ran for them, he’d slammed them shut and laughed in her face. She closed the map app, defeated, when she noticed another message in her voice mail.

With the speaker function engaged, a woman’s voice filled the cab. “This is Dr. Newell’s office. The doctor wanted me to remind you that she hasn’t seen you now in two weeks, and we wanted to be sure you’re okay and that you’ll still be coming on Friday. Please call if you need to reschedule.” The woman left a number, and Grace immediately called back. Dr. Newell had been the name on that Xanax prescription.

When the receptionist answered, Grace gave her name and explained that she’d been in an accident, had been in the hospital, and was anxious to meet with the doctor. The woman offered to squeeze in a visit the following morning between appointments. Grace noted the address. Perhaps the doctor would be able to fill in some of her blanks.

She hung up and instinctively went to the calendar function and added a reminder. She punched the date and time into the phone and closed the day. She then scanned the days before the accident to see what she might have had planned. She saw doctor’s appointments for Fridays at one, a repeating event. But there was no indication of why she’d skipped it the day before the accident. She only saw a note about working on Friday afternoon. She went further back in the week, but the only notes were work related. Nothing social, nothing that meant anything.

She tried the engine one more time. It started! The gas gauge slowly climbed to half a tank. The map guided her down several roads and then south on Red Arrow Highway. After a few more miles, she sat up straighter, predicting: “A river,” she said, before passing one a moment later. “Hamburgers,” she said before the Redamak’s Tavern sign appeared. “Nails,” as she passed a nail salon. She made a right turn in the center of town without checking the phone. She turned left a few blocks later without seeing a street sign, and there it was, on the left side of the street: Brewster’s Italian Café.

Staring at the entrance, the cobblestone-walled exterior, and old-world lamppost by the door, Grace tried to envision the interior, the uniforms, the layout, but nothing came.

The woman at the podium by the front door wore a nametag:
S
HERI
P
RESTON,
H
OSTESS
. Her face lit up when Grace stepped inside.

“Grace! How are you feeling?”

It was scarier than she thought it would be. This woman knew her, and Grace couldn’t place her face. “Hi,” she offered quietly. “I’m here to get a check. Dave called me.”

“Of course. Take a seat,” she said, gesturing to the benches by the front door. “I’ll get him.” She scurried away, pulling down her tiny miniskirt as she left, wobbling atop four-inch heels.

Grace sat, taking in the large bar, its tiled countertop, giant wood pillars, the wineglasses hanging by their feet from above, and the Tuscany-yellow walls, waiting for a spark of memory.

The girl returned a moment later, relaxing behind the podium, doodling and trying to make conversation. “Grace, we’re so sorry about Michael.”

“Michael,” Grace repeated. It took a second. Michael, the dead boyfriend, she suddenly remembered.

“The police came here last week asking questions about you,” she said.

“Oh.”

“Don’t worry, Grace. We know you didn’t do anything.”

Grace nodded silently and looked around the room.

“Anyway, I’m glad you’re okay. We’ve all been worried.”

Another girl came in then, wearing a hostess tag and equally high heels. “Hey, Grace,” she said, waving. The two hostesses looked at each other with raised eyebrows. The gossip would begin the moment she left. Coming here had been a mistake. The world would think she’d lost her mind.

Finally, a man appeared, grinning as he approached. He towered above the petite hostesses, even with the rounded shoulders that pushed forward his already large belly. He stretched his arms toward her as he got closer. “Grace!” he said, waiting for her to return the excitement. She stood to greet him, trying to make a connection—the black hair, gelled back; the ruddy cheeks; the bloodshot brown eyes, with lids at half mast. Nothing clicked.

“Hi,” she said.

He seemed to understand her discomfort and lowered his arms and voice. “We heard about the accident, Grace. Your sister called and said that you hit your head pretty good and were having some memory troubles.”

“Yeah.”

“Did you drive yourself here?”

She could see the concern on his face. “Yeah, I’m okay. I just wanted to get out.” It suddenly felt awkward to speak to this man whom she didn’t remember at all, pretending she did, pretending she knew this place and her coworkers and that she wasn’t a total basket case. “I’d better go.”

He handed her an envelope. “Okay, Grace, you take care. We’re ready to have you back whenever you’re ready.”

“I’m outta here too, Dave,” Sheri added, as the other hostess took center stance behind the podium.

Grace said a quick “Thanks” and left while Sheri held the door. Grace thanked her and hurried to her truck before Sheri could make any more small talk.

She sat in the cab, looking back at the building. How could she not remember those people? They all knew her. This was her life. She opened the envelope and found the paycheck, but when she pulled it out, another slip of paper fell out as well.

Grace,

Meet me at Cherry Beach if you can.

Two o’clock. We really need to talk.

Dave

Grace looked back at the restaurant. Dave the manager? She looked at her watch. It was 1:35 p.m. “Cherry Beach,” she repeated. She started driving again. It felt familiar. She wasn’t sure, but she wanted to try something—to just drive. Maybe she would remember where to go.

She instinctively got back onto Red Arrow Highway, heading north. She passed signs and businesses. Things were clicking. “Yes,” she said aloud. “Antiques.” She smiled as she passed a few shops. But a few miles later, she started to wonder if she were lost. She slowed, and cars zoomed past as she carefully read the street signs. And then she saw it: Cherry Lane. A little street on the west side of Red Arrow. She turned onto the tiny, winding road, flanked by homes and dense woods. It dead-ended into a big gravel parking lot overlooking a bluff. “Cherry Beach,” she said with satisfaction.

The wind whipped over the lakefront, but the water glistened in the sunshine, drawing her in. It felt familiar. The steep, long wooden stairway down the hundred-foot bluff toward the beach was covered in snow, but boot prints had packed each stair, and she slowly descended, taking in the vastness of Lake Michigan.

Snow covered the beach near the bluff, but gently lapping waves exposed the fine sand along the shore. As the wind fought to blow her hood from her head, she held it with one hand and trekked a few feet, following the tracks of previous visitors, hunting for memories. The sound of the water seeping up the shoreline was calming. A pile of old, rotted driftwood sat, abandoned, covered in snow. It sparked a vision: a bonfire on the beach.

“Grace!” a man called from the distance. She looked up. He stood on the deck overlooking the lake at the top of the bluff, waving at her. She slowly climbed the stairs, each step a little harder than the last, each one reminding her that going up was so much worse than down, that perhaps taking on a hundred steps in the freezing weather was a bad idea for her ribs and lungs.

“I’m so glad you came,” Dave said. “I didn’t mean for you to go down to the beach, but I thought this would be the right place to talk alone.”

“It felt familiar. I wanted to see if I remembered.”

“So this is for real? You don’t remember anything?”

“No.”

“Like, you don’t remember the accident? Or you don’t remember that day, or what?”

“I don’t remember much. I didn’t remember the restaurant. I didn’t recognize you.” It was as if she’d kicked a puppy. “Sorry. I don’t remember my life. It’s—”

“That’s awful.”

“I’ve had some flashes; at least I think they were memories. Honestly, they’ve got me on so many meds right now, it’s hard to know what’s real and what’s not.”

“But you remember this place?”

“Yeah, something about this place feels good.”

Dave’s smile returned. “We came here together.”

“You and me?”

“I wanted to call you so badly, but your sister said that you had to rest and that you weren’t to be disturbed.”

“I don’t understand.”

“So much has happened. I just wanted you to know that I didn’t do anything.”

“What do you mean?”

“To Michael. I mean, of course I wanted to,” he added—lightly, like there was something funny about the comment—“but I would never hurt him.”

“Why would I think that? Were we together? I thought I was with Michael.”

“You were. It was . . .” He paused and smiled before adding, “Complicated.”

She studied him: this old guy—well, maybe not old, but midthirties—with a big belly and clumps of greasy hair that kept blowing into his eyes. She didn’t know what her type was, but she couldn’t imagine he was it.

“You’re not a bad person,” Dave continued. “I didn’t mean to call you here and add to the confusion. I just wanted us to be able to talk alone. I thought you might be scared. I want you to know that I’m here for you. Anything you need.” He tried to take her hands in his, but she pulled away.

“Was I not happy with Michael?”

He stared into her eyes before answering. “I don’t know. I wish I could help, but of course you’ve never been the easiest person to read.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean you looked happy on Friday, the last time we worked together.” He stopped, as if there was some significance she was supposed to understand. She didn’t. “He was killed that weekend, right? What do the police say? Who do they think would have done it?”

“I don’t know. I don’t seem to have an alibi for the time of death, and I can’t remember anything, so I guess they don’t know what to make of that.”