Forget to Remember (6 page)

Carol shook her head. “The name Elizabeth
Horton doesn’t register. Just as the name of the girl doesn’t.
Cynthia Sakai. Could I be Cynthia Sakai?”

“It starts with ‘C’ just like ‘Carol,’ the
name you chose for yourself.” Rigo shrugged, realizing how
far-fetched that was.

“A hard ‘C’ and a soft ‘C.’ Not exactly a
match. You’re trying to reach the roof without a ladder. Anyway, I
probably pulled ‘Carol’ out of thin air.”

“Don’t worry about not remembering names.
After all, you’ve got amnesia.” Frances handed Carol the phone. “Do
you mind if I listen in?”

“Please do. I’m nervous about this, because
I don’t know what to say. I can’t remember anything about my
parents or my grandmother. Or about having a lot of money.”

“Tell the truth. Don’t pretend to remember
anything you don’t. If you do, Vigiano will see through it and
think you’re a fortune hunter. Just be your charming self.”

Carol had a surprised look. “You know, I
hadn’t even thought about the money until you said that, at least
as other than some abstract concept. But it would be nice to be
able to pay back everything I owe you and Rigo’s parents. And help
the children at the shelter.”

“Don’t worry about that now. It’s ten
thirty—one thirty in North Carolina. Go ahead and make the call.”
Frances went into her bedroom and brought back a wireless receiver
so she could listen.

Carol realized her nervousness was fear of
the unknown—or fear of the forgotten. She didn’t want to get her
hopes up too high, but she had to find out whether there was any
possibility she might be Cynthia Sakai. She punched in Paul
Vigiano’s number. The woman who answered the phone put the call
through to his office.

“Hi, Carol, this is Paul Vigiano.”

“Hello, Mr. Vigiano.”

“Please call me Paul. I was very close to
Cynthia’s parents. I’m hoping you are Cynthia.”

“I’m sorry; I don’t know. I can’t remember
anything about being Cynthia.”

“At least you’re honest. Your voice sounds
like I remember Cynthia’s.”

“The voice expert said I didn’t have any
trace of a southern accent.”

“You wouldn’t. This part of North Carolina
has become quite cosmopolitan. The kids you—or Cynthia—went to
school with often came from somewhere else and didn’t have southern
accents. Tell me, do you remember anything about your past
life?”

“Nothing, I’m afraid. I think I’ve been in
the northeastern United States, and we think I’ve been in
England.”

“You know Cynthia went to college in New
England and disappeared while she was working in London.”

“What kind of work was she doing?”

“Actually, we think she was writing. A novel
or something.”

“About what?”

“I don’t know. Whatever she wrote seems to
have disappeared along with her.”

“How did she live?”

“Her parents sent her money at first, but
she disappeared almost immediately. I suspect from what they’ve
said she may have done some modeling for an artist.”

“You mean like nude modeling?” Carol was
surprised this idea didn’t shock her.

“She apparently wasn’t very forthcoming with
her parents on that point. We never found the artist, assuming he
existed. When I hired someone to look for Cynthia, he heard a story
about an artist who had died in an auto accident and could have
been the one, but nobody seemed to know much about him. The trail
was already cold.”

“Tell me more about her parents.”

Vigiano told about a girl from North
Carolina who had fallen in love with a brilliant Japanese boy; he
had gone through M.I.T. on a scholarship and then worked in the
Research Triangle bordered by Raleigh, Durham, and Chapel Hill; his
patents on high-tech inventions had made them a lot of money that
they used for, among other things, learning to fly and buying their
own airplane; they had a boy named Michael and a girl named
Cynthia; she grew up and attended a college in Massachusetts and
then went to London to write; one morning, a month ago, the
parents’ plane crashed in the ocean soon after takeoff while they,
and their son, were flying home from a business conference in New
England.

Carol felt overwhelmed by all the
information and her lack of response to it. She knew she should
react in some way, but to her it sounded like a family she might
have read about in a novel. She asked Vigiano what Cynthia was like
as a child.

“She was, as I recall, headstrong,
independent, creative, and fun loving.”

Carol laughed. “That’s almost exactly what
the handwriting expert said about me.”

“She was editor of her high school
newspaper. I remember she interviewed me once for a story she was
writing. She liked to have her own way, and she usually got
it.”

“I can relate to that.”

“Carol, I’d really like to meet you in
person.”

“Are you coming to Los Angeles?”

“Not in the near future. No, I mean I’d like
to have you come here. Then you can meet Mrs. Horton also. She
would be able to tell if you’re Cynthia.”

“I don’t have any money. Besides that, I
can’t fly because I don’t have a government-issued I.D. I can’t get
one because I don’t have a birth certificate.”

“Yes, that’s a problem—not the money; I can
pay for the trip out of the estate, since I have reason to believe
you may be Cynthia. But the inability to fly is a problem. You
could go AMTRAK, but that would take several days each way. Going
by Greyhound would take even longer.”

“I’m sorry; I don’t know what to
suggest.”

“Let me think about it. Give me the
telephone number and address where you’re staying.”

Carol glanced at Frances. Frances didn’t
shake her head no and Carol didn’t know why she shouldn’t give out
the information. Everything seemed to be on the up and up. Mr.
Vigiano—Paul—sounded straightforward and honest. She recited the
address and phone number of Tina and Ernie, and Vigiano said he’d
get back to her.

The call ended and Carol looked at Frances
with mixed feelings. “Do you think I’m Cynthia?”

“It’s too soon to tell for sure. You could
be. Did anything in the call jog your memory?”

“Not really. I’m not sure I could do what
Cynthia was doing in London.”

Rigo had shared the receiver with Frances
and heard most of the call. “You mean the nude modeling?”

“No, writing a novel. I know I can write,
and I can picture myself being an editor of a school newspaper. I
seem to have a basic command of the English language. I can write a
declarative sentence. But a whole book? What would I write about? I
mean, even when I had my memory I probably didn’t have enough life
experience to do that.”

Frances said, “Unfortunately, we’ll probably
never know since the manuscript appears to be lost. It might
provide valuable clues to your identity for anyone who found it,
despite the fact it’s supposed to be fiction. They say a writer’s
first novel has autobiographical elements. Or maybe they all
do.”

A desire was growing inside Carol. “I’d like
to go to North Carolina and find out the truth. Am I Cynthia or
aren’t I? Even if I have to go by train. It would be fun to take a
train across the country. It might help me remember things. Maybe I
picked the name Carol because it’s part of Carolina.”

Rigo showed alarm. “Going cross-country
without an identity is a dangerous business.”

Frances nodded her agreement. “Why don’t you
wait until we have the results of the DNA tests—yours and Mrs.
Horton’s? If you don’t match, there’s no need to go, because that
means you’re definitely not Cynthia. If you do match, you
have
to go.”

Carol had caught hints from Rigo that he was
afraid she’d disappear. She was glad he was concerned about her,
but she was chafed by the idea that he always had to be with her.
She wanted to run her own life. She was going to run her own
life.

CHAPTER 8

Carol suggested they walk to the football
game. It couldn’t be much more than a mile to the high school from
the house, mostly downhill. Of course, it would be uphill
returning. Since Palos Verdes went from sea level to 1,500 feet, a
walker or jogger had to go either up or down. There wasn’t a lot of
level terrain.

Rigo said he’d walked to school and had even
walked home. He admitted that after he owned a car, he pretty much
forgot about walking. “I need to drive because I have to go
directly to the restaurant after the game. Of course, I’ll take you
home first.”

“No, I’ll walk home.” Carol thought of the
Ramirez house as home. It was the only home she knew. She’d started
taking walks in the hilly neighborhood, between the time Rigo left
for work and his parents arrived home. She wanted to gain strength
and stamina. Walking uphill let her know how out of shape she was.
She was sure she’d been physically fit before she was attacked.

Once they were in Rigo’s car, it occurred to
Carol he’d be late for work. “The game is going to overlap your
working hours. Won’t you have to leave early? Friday must be one of
the busiest nights at the restaurant.”

Rigo grinned. “I’ve got a special
dispensation from my boss to arrive late on the days we have home
games. I just have to work harder when I get there. And I may not
be able to eat dinner until late.”

“You’re too skinny to have played football
yourself.”

“I don’t like any sport where you get hit by
somebody twice your size. Tennis is my racket.”

They parked in the high school parking lot,
and Rigo paid the nominal fee for the tickets. Carol didn’t like
not having any money of her own, and she vowed to change the
situation. Maybe she was Cynthia Sakai. If so, she’d be financially
set for life. That would be nice.

She and Rigo had spent the last two days
scouring the Internet for information about the Sakai family. They
had looked at the missing persons photo of Cynthia. Carol
remembered what Rigo had said about it.

“This picture makes her look almost weird. I
mean, she was apparently a model, but you’d never know it looking
at this shot. I’m into old movies. One I like is a cult movie
called
Fast Times at Ridgemont High
, which had Sean Penn in
it. More important, a young and very beautiful Phoebe Cates was in
it, surely one of the most gorgeous women who ever lived. Yet, I’ve
seen a PR photo of her in which she looked almost ugly. I think
we’ve got the same situation here.”

“What made you think of Phoebe Cates?”

“You did.”

Carol knew Rigo was just trying to be nice.
After all, she had scars and bald spots. She was wearing her beret.
Still, a woman liked to hear compliments, however insincere.

They walked into the stadium and sat in the
bleachers. Most of the spectators were noisy students or parents.
The teens couldn’t sit still. They were always running around to
get something to eat or talking to their friends.

Carol saw the view beyond the stadium was
very similar to that from the Ramirez house. It was like looking
down from the aerie of a hawk. She had seen several of the graceful
birds soaring above the canyons, scanning them, trying to spot a
juicy rodent to eat for lunch. From somewhere she remembered their
vision would allow them to read a newspaper at a distance
unimaginable to humans.

She was glad she’d brought a sweater based
on Rigo’s advice—purchased for her by Tina. Although the September
afternoon was still warm, it was cooling off, and the sun was going
down behind the bleachers. A breeze had sprung up. Rigo had told
her the rule for living in a desert area like Los Angeles was that
regardless of the daytime temperature, always take a wrap to wear
at night. The dry air couldn’t hold the heat.

She had vague memories of watching football
games—the noise, the crunch of players hitting each other, the high
spirits, the cheerleaders, the bands, the majorettes. Could she
have been a cheerleader—or perhaps a majorette? She would like to
get her hands on a baton, sometime, to see if she could twirl one.
It didn’t look that difficult.

Rigo stood up and waved as he spotted his
friend, Adam, walking around the bleachers. Adam, still dressed in
business clothes, climbed up the wooden steps and joined them.

Rigo introduced Adam and Carol to each
other. “Carol, this is my friend, Adam. Adam, this is Carol.”

Carol reached out and shook Adam’s hand. He
had a large hand, but his fingers weren’t as long as Rigo’s. He was
tall and handsome, with the blond hair and blue eyes of a
Scandinavian.

He gave Carol a sunny smile. “From Rigo’s
description of how you looked when he found you, I thought you’d be
a basket case, but I must say he’s been withholding evidence.” He
sat down beside Carol, so she was between the two men.

Rigo spoke quickly. “Adam is married and has
two children.”

Carol remembered what else Rigo had said
about him. “I understand you two have been friends since elementary
school. You were on the tennis team together, and you still play
tennis with each other.”

Adam had a mock sorrowful look. “We’re going
to keep playing until I can beat him. That’s the only reason our
friendship has continued this long. Plus the fact that his parents
are among my best clients.”

“You’re a financial advisor, aren’t you? Are
you skipping out of work early? Rigo is going to start work
late.”

“Being a financial advisor is like having my
own business. I set my own hours. My office is just a half mile
from here.”

“Did you walk here?”

“No, I drove.”

“Doesn’t anybody walk in Los Angeles?”

Adam looked across at Rigo and spoke over
the roar of the crowd as the Palos Verdes team made a long gain.
“She obviously isn’t from here. We’d love to have you join us on
the hill, however. We need some new blood. Your coloring is similar
to Rigo’s. Maybe you’re Hispanic. I think Rigo and his family are
the only Hispanics living in Palos Verdes who aren’t live-in
caretakers and nannies. We could use a few more rich ones.”