Forget to Remember (19 page)

When she and Rigo had returned to the family
room with drinks, the faces of Carol and Victoria had told her all
she needed to know. They weren’t exactly hitting it off. It would
have been better if they hadn’t met unless the full genome DNA test
proved to be a match. When Frances found out what Victoria had
proposed to Carol, she backed Carol one hundred percent and made
sure Victoria was driving back to Fresno within half an hour.
Frances had formed a negative impression of her when she showed up,
unannounced. Hopefully, they were rid of her.

Carol looked as pretty as ever, except for
the bandage on her arm. However, once Frances got over her shock at
the story of how she had received the wound she realized it wasn’t
that bad. Frances sipped her iced tea and contemplated the bandage.
“Somebody wants you dead, which, I suspect, is the reason you were
found in a Dumpster. This is beginning to look more like a murder
mystery than a search for identity—although the would-be murderer
was unsuccessful, thank goodness. I don’t know how I can help with
that unless he left some DNA…”

Rigo shook his head. “He took the gun with
him, and all he touched were bushes. I couldn’t identify the car
well enough to help, and no suspicious characters were found in the
area. It looks like he made a clean getaway.”

“Unfortunately, Carol, what we know about
you isn’t enough to distinguish you from thousands of other young
women. Your haplogroup, or clan, indicates your ancestry in your
mother’s line is European, but that’s just a tad better than saying
you belong to the human race.”

“So, if I have Japanese ancestry, it must be
through my father.”

“Chances are. Which is why I was willing to
consider Victoria might be your mother and your coloring might be
from Hispanic genes by way of your father. Well, of course, she
still might be your mother.”

“I hope not.”

Frances laughed. “Your case isn’t
sufficiently unusual yet to receive wide press coverage or to get
you on
Good Morning, America
. Perhaps if you still don’t
know who you are five years from now…”

“Oh, God, that would be worse than knowing
Victoria is my mother.” Carol had a horrified expression.

“By the way, the testing service still
hasn’t received the DNA sample from the grandmother in North
Carolina, Elizabeth Horton.”

Carol shrugged. “What does it matter? I’m
not Cynthia. I think I’d like to explore my UK connection. I don’t
want to sit around and wait to see if Victoria is my mother. I’m
afraid if I stay with Rigo and his family, I’ll be a target for the
gunman. I’m scared to go for a walk. Maybe I need to take another
trip.”

Frances watched Rigo frown. She could think
of reasons why Carol shouldn’t go, including an obvious one. “You
need a passport.”

“I’ll…I’ll take care of that. And I’ve got a
little money.”

Frances wondered about those things, but she
wasn’t going to ask. “If you’re set on going, you should make the
trip as productive as possible. Maybe you were going to school
there, or even teaching.”

“It must be next to impossible to find out
if someone attended a university unless you have a name. I tried it
for Duke and didn’t get anywhere.”

“True, but there are a few things we can do.
For example, if you were a Rhodes Scholar at Oxford University, it
would be easy to find out. The names and backgrounds of Rhodes
Scholars are public knowledge. I’m sure I can find pictures, too.
I’ll check on that.”

Carol looked incredulous. “Don’t you have to
be extremely smart and versatile to be a Rhodes Scholar?”

Rigo grinned. “Well?”

“You don’t think that I—”

“That description would appear to fit you to
a T,” Frances said. “Sure, it’s a long shot, but we’ve got to try
everything. Where do you think you’ll start looking?”

“London. I promised Mrs. Horton that if I
went to the UK, I’d look for signs of her granddaughter. She was
last seen in London. In doing so, maybe that’ll give me ideas for
my own situation. I seem to have a map of the London tube etched on
my brain. I must have hung out there for some time.”

***

Actually, Carol and Mrs. Horton had promised
Paul
she would look for Cynthia, to help extract the money
and documents from him, but she didn’t want to talk about Paul in
front of Rigo. She still remembered the night she spent with Paul,
and the intense feelings it brought back were not ones she wanted
Rigo to know about. Perhaps she would have the same feelings with
Rigo, someday—assuming they ever did anything together other than
act like brother and sister.

***

Rigo drove home from Orange County by a
different route than he’d driven there. He took the 405 all the way
to the 710, aka the Long Beach Freeway, before heading south to
Pacific Coast Highway. Going
to
Frances’ house he had taken
PCH to 7
^th
Street, well past the Long Beach traffic
circle, and gotten on the 405 from there. That seemed like a
shorter route to Carol who was learning her way around, although
staying on the freeway longer was probably faster, at least before
the afternoon traffic got too heavy.

The Long Beach traffic circle, or roundabout
as it would be called in the UK, was the only traffic circle Carol
had seen in California except for a small one in Palos Verdes. They
were as scarce as hen’s teeth (which of her relatives had used that
expression?) here. She had a feel for roundabouts, although the
mantra that repeated in her head was “keep to the left and look to
the right,” because the British drove on the left and traffic on
the roundabout coming around from the right had the right of way.
More proof she’d spent time in the UK.

Rigo wasn’t happy about Carol’s decision to
go to the UK. His unhappiness showed in his moodiness before he
actually said anything. She kept silent, waiting for him to say
what he was thinking, which he soon did.

“I don’t like the idea of you going to the
UK alone.”

She didn’t want to argue, so she tried to
keep it light. “I’ve obviously been there before, and apparently I
made it back to the States. It was here I got into trouble.”

“That was different. What if they find out
you have a fake passport?”

How did he know she had a fake passport? It
wasn’t that hard to guess. “I might get deported to the U.S. where
I’m already a non-person. At least I can’t get deported from here—I
don’t think. Where would they send me—to Antarctica?”

“I’m going with you.”

Carol paused before she answered him. She
didn’t want what she had to say to sound like a put-down. “Rigo, I
really appreciate all you’ve done for me. Without you and your
parents, I don’t know where I’d be—probably on Fifth Street in
downtown L.A., trading cigarettes for food.” She had almost said
“trading sex for food,” but that came too close to the truth.

“You have your own life to live. Helping
your parents could be the start of a career in computers for you.
You can’t go chasing all over the world with me. It’s noble of you
to volunteer, but there’s really nothing in it for you. I have to
keep trying to find out who I am, but I also have to face the fact
that it may never happen.”

Rigo was silent. Had she hurt him? She had
implied they didn’t have a future together. It was certain they
didn’t as long as she was a nobody, because nobodies couldn’t get
married. Once she had an identity, she’d see the world in a
completely different light. Who knew what would happen between them
then?

CHAPTER 24

Carol knew she was in England when a
breathtaking view of Windsor Castle suddenly materialized outside
her window as the plane descended into Heathrow Airport. She had a
feeling of excitement, like a child who’s seeing new and
interesting things. Except she was sure she’d seen these things
before, such as the clusters of row houses separated by expanses of
green, built on a slightly smaller scale than they would be in the
U.S.

She had spent the past few days making
airline reservations and learning all she could about London with
the help of a
Frommer’s
travel guide, maps, and the
Internet. Or relearning, because that’s what it felt like. Still,
as the plane touched down, she had a moment of panic, wondering why
she was doing it. She pushed it aside and concentrated on entering
the country without incident.

She didn’t begrudge the extra time it took
her to get through customs, because she didn’t have a European
Union passport. She was just glad the clerk didn’t question the one
she had. She hadn’t checked anything—all of her belongings fit into
a suitcase she carried on the plane plus a small backpack. She
didn’t have anything to declare, so she soon found herself in the
bustling airport greeting area.

Expectant Brits lined the exit from customs,
waiting for relatives and friends to be disgorged from the system.
Nobody was waiting for her, but again she didn’t mind. She found a
cash machine and was gratified when crisp British pounds came out
of the slot in answer to her withdrawal request.

She followed signs to the Heathrow Express.
She knew from her research the train would take her to Paddington
Station in fifteen minutes. Sure it cost more than the tube or the
airport bus, but it was a heck of a lot faster. Since she was tired
and jet-lagged, she felt she could afford this one luxury.

Paddington Station was a huge place with
hordes of people moving determinedly in all directions. As she
picked her way among them, the thought occurred to Carol that
people walked faster here than in the U.S. And longer distances.
London was her kind of city.

She exited the station into the noisy
traffic with double-decker buses and the ubiquitous London taxis
competing for road space with ordinary cars. With the exception of
the huge buses, she again had the feeling everything was smaller
here—maybe three-quarter size. That included the cars, the streets,
and the family-owned hotels occupying Victorian town houses on
Sussex Gardens where she walked from the station, being careful to
observe the painted warning on the busy street she crossed
imploring her to “look right.”

A cool drizzle made her glad she had the
North Face raincoat Tina and Ernie gave her as a going-away
present. For the hundredth time, she mentally thanked the Ramirez
family for their assistance and wondered where she’d be without
them. She’d find a way to pay them back.

She found the Balmoral House Hotel, and a
small woman with a non-English accent came to the locked door in
answer to her ring. Carol told her she’d seen the hotel on the
Internet. When the owner—she owned the hotel with her husband—eyed
her lack of luggage, Carol paid cash for two nights and received a
discount. She did a quick conversion in her head; she was paying
something over a hundred dollars a night. She wondered what the big
hotels charged. At least this price included a good English
breakfast.

Her small room was clean, and it contained
an equally small television set that could play the BBC station and
had a few other channels. She flopped down on the bed. The flight
from Los Angeles had been an over-nighter. She closed her eyes,
intending to take a short rest before she started making plans.

***

A ringing telephone woke Carol. Where was
she? Her brain quickly sorted through possibilities until it came
up with London. Who would be calling her here? She realized it was
her cell phone ringing. What time was it? A quick glance at the
cheap watch she’d purchased said six o’clock. P.m. or a.m.? Had she
slept all night? She picked up the phone from the small table
beside the bed and said hello.

“Hi Carol, this is Rigo.”

“Hi.”

“Did I wake you?”

She must sound sleepy. “No…well, yes. What
time is it?”

“It’s ten a.m. here. There’s an eight hour
time difference so it’s six p.m. there.”

“Oh, right. I was just taking a nap.”

“I’m glad you got there okay. I just wanted
to see if the SIM card we installed in the phone works.”

“Apparently it does.” The Ramirezes insisted
they be able to reach her by cell phone. Carol was glad they had.
It didn’t make her feel quite so isolated. Paul Vigiano was paying
the charges, so that wasn’t a problem.

She chatted with Rigo, glad he was concerned
about her. However, she didn’t want to prolong the conversation
until it became maudlin. “I’d better go out and look for something
to eat. That’s the best way of adjusting to local time. While
walking to the hotel I saw Italian, Greek, and Indian restaurants.
There’s also a Burger King, so I won’t starve.”

She disconnected and made herself
presentable. She had spoken to Paul on the phone several times
before she left. She wanted to stay in his good graces, and
possibly be able to get more financing from him if she needed it,
so she’d discussed with him how she could best look for Cynthia.
That gave her a purpose, because at the moment she hadn’t the
faintest idea how to look for herself. All she knew was she wasn’t
a Rhodes Scholar. Frances had confirmed that.

CHAPTER 25

Carol waited until nine thirty to purchase
her all-day tube pass so she received the cheaper rate. Having
recovered some of her lost sleep, she was again very conscious of
her financial situation. No more Heathrow Express rides. She rode
the Circle Line from Paddington to Sloane Square, feeling at home
on the rumbling train. She was able to find a seat after the second
stop and observed the other passengers. Their variety convinced her
London was every bit as cosmopolitan as Los Angeles.

Since she had no leads on herself, she had
decided to follow one Paul had given her for Cynthia. It was an
address in Chelsea. Cynthia’s first and apparently only letter had
come from there. Then she evaporated like a puddle when the sun
comes out. Carol’s immediate mental association with Chelsea was a
line from the musical,
Cabaret
, “…with whom I shared four
sordid rooms in Chelsea,” sung by Sally Bowles, in reference to a
dead roommate named Elsie who had apparently been an alcoholic and
drug addict, as well as a prostitute.