Forgotten: A Novel (22 page)

Chapter
22: First Things First

T
he Dream
again. Africa. The safari. The fire. Banga-just-Bob. The excitement of my fellow
travelers, the exotic mix of meats. I wash my dinner down with large mouthfuls
of the local brew, a brackish mixture of throat-stripping alcohol and something
that smells like bark. It tastes awful, but the result isn’t unpleasant. Plus it
has the added benefit of dulling the effect of my mother’s sudden ethereal
appearance. Or maybe it’s that I’m finally numbed to seeing her like this,
alive, well, and warning me against danger.

Only this time she says, “Look in the box.”

“Why, Mom? What’s in there?”

She brushes her hand across my forehead, pushing my
hair out of my eyes like she used to do when I was home sick from school. “The
answers, of course.”

The answers to what?
I
want to scream, but I can’t. I can’t scream at my mother. I don’t have the
energy, only the alcoholic bark flowing through my veins, evening me out, making
me care less than I should.

She kisses my forehead and turns, floating away
from me like she has too many times before. I feel sad like I always do, but
also, for the first time, a little hopeful.

If I remember this right, I’ll get the answers
soon.

My mother said so.

T
hough
it’s impossibly early, I wake up feeling hopeful. It’s strange because my head
is throbbing with the beginning of a migraine and my mouth feels like I’ve been
chewing on the inside of a twig, but I push that aside. Hope feels good. Hope
feels right. Hope feels like just about all I’ve got.

I hold on to this feeling for as long as I can,
lingering beneath the covers. But something gnaws away at it. Something feels .
. .
off.
It takes a second to figure it out, but
then I know.

I’m not in my own bed.

This bed is at the wrong end of the room. And these
aren’t my sheets. They’re stiffer. Familiar, but distantly so, like they come
from another lifetime. Like my apartment felt when I got home.

My eyes fly open.

I’m in Dominic’s room.

I can’t believe I did this.

Last night, when I got to the apartment, which is
still full of Dominic’s things, I undressed and stepped into the hot shower,
hoping the water would revive me like it did that first night back, when I was
overwhelmed by confusion and loss and the familiar sights and sounds of my
bathroom. I toweled off and changed into the most comfortable pair of pajamas I
own. And then, because I was still feeling weak and confused and lost, I went to
Dominic’s room and climbed into his bed, letting his smell lull me to sleep.

And so this is where I am. In Dominic’s room, in
Dominic’s bed. Like an idiot.

Well, I can do something about that, anyway. I exit
Dominic’s bed and remake it, making sure not to leave any traces of my weak
moment behind.

After confirming what I already know—that there’s
nothing in the fridge—I pull on some jeans and a fleece and suit up for the
outdoors. I walk out into the dawn, heading for the local diner, which I know
from experience is open at this hour. I’m the first customer, and I order the
biggest, greasiest breakfast on the menu. It makes me full and sleepy, but
instead of giving in to it, I order a second cup of coffee, forcing myself to
wake up.

When I leave the diner, it’s brighter out but not
quite light. I feel as if there’s somewhere I need to be, but I’m not exactly
sure where. Unable to put my finger on it, I go to the office. That’s usually
where I need to be when I feel like this.

The lobby is echoey and empty. The night watchman
looks bored in his round guard station. I swipe my key card and pass through the
turnstile, then ride the stainless steel elevator to my floor. I leave my coat
and boots in the lobby and pad in my stocking feet down the corridor, creating a
bluish static charge as I go.

It’s oddly peaceful being in the office when no
one’s here. I used to come in on weekends all the time, looking forward, in a
way, to working through my files with the sound off—no emails pinging, no phones
ringing, no Matt. I could get lost in my own world and figure things out. An
angle for a case I was working on, a line of questions that would elicit the
admission that would eventually lead to a settlement or victory.

I stop at Jenny’s desk. The pink message pad is
sitting next to the phone, a bottle of sparkly nail polish holding it in place.
I pick up the pad and flip through it. In between the carbon-paper messages
Jenny gave me is the evidence I’m looking for. Dominic called, Dominic called,
Dominic called.

I carry the message pad to my desk. I notice a
matching flash of pink on the floor. It’s the message from Carrie, Cathy
Keeler’s assistant. It has her cell-phone number written on it, in case I change
my mind.

I smooth it out absentmindedly as I look out the
window. I stare at the view for a long time, watching the sunrise, tracing the
pattern of numbers in the messages I never received. When the sun gets too
bright, I close my eyes and try to clear my mind, to focus on what it is that
drove me here, the thing that seems just out of reach. I let every bad thought
linger, but only for thirty seconds. Then I push it away and reach for the next
one. One by one by one.

Time passes and I run out of problems. My mind
feels clearer, and I finally feel connected to my brain in a way I haven’t in a
long time. Ideas start to take shape, a path to where I want to go, and maybe
the destination too. I open my eyes, pick up a pen, and pull a pad of paper
toward me, making a to-do list like the one I made before Christmas.

Maybe this time I’ll get it right.

I
spend the rest of the day working, formulating, happy.

Yes,
happy.
I’m in a
groove. My neurons are firing. All systems are go. I feel like I used to feel,
and it feels good. This is why I worked so hard. This is what I love. This is
what I’ve been looking for since I got back. I owe it to Matt, but also to
Craig, which makes me a little sad but mostly grateful. Love can bring unselfish
happiness to others. I’ve always known this, but now I feel it.

When a good day’s work is done, I head home. And of
course, because my life is what it is these days, I find something I’m not
expecting: Dominic’s been here.

I don’t notice it at first. There’s no extra coat
on the hooks, no boots that shouldn’t be there. But there is
something
different, something about the air that tips
me off. It feels less lonely than it usually does, even though I’m still
alone.

I walk down the hall listening for him, but the
apartment is silent. The door to his room is ajar. I push it open. The boxes
that were lined up neatly against the wall are askew.
OLD CLOTHES
seems to have disappeared altogether.

I sit down on the edge of his bed, waiting for
something, maybe for him to reappear, though I know deep down he won’t. And
then, telling myself it will be only one more time, I crawl into his bed,
drinking in the mixture of our smells until it lulls me to sleep.

O
n
Monday morning, I’m waiting for Matt in his office. The sky is dark. Small, hard
pellets of ice are pinging against the window.

“This is a pleasant surprise,” Matt says as he
hangs his fawn-colored coat on the back of his door. “What’s up?”

“I think I might’ve cracked something in the Mutual
Assurance case, and I wanted to talk it through.”

His face brightens. “That sounds promising. What is
it?”

I tell him as he settles into the chair behind his
desk, rolling up the sleeves on his banker’s shirt into their customary
union-negotiator position.

“So if you’re right, we have a case for negligence
against the museum?”

“I think so. It’s kind of a big miss on their
part.”

“How can we prove that’s the way the painting was
stolen?”

“That’s why I need some help.” I tell him about the
surveillance video.

“Who did you have in mind?”

“I thought I’d put the Initial Brigade to some good
use.”

He smiles. “Are you sure they’re up to the
task?”

“I can manage them.”

“I’m sure you can.” He drums his fingers on the
corner of his desk. “You know, if you’re right, more people than just our client
are going to be interested.”

“I know.”

“Why not pass on your hunch to the police? Let them
do the work?”

I shrug. “The detective in charge of the case
thinks I’m tilting at windmills. It’d be nice to prove her wrong.”

“And the Management Committee?”

I meet his intelligent gaze. “Them too.”

“All right. Keep me in the loop.”

“Will do.”

Matt smiles at me proudly. “It’s nice to have you
back, Emma.”

“I’ve been back for weeks.”

“Have you, now?”

A
n
hour later I’ve taken over one of the boardrooms and assembled my team. They sit
scattered around the long cherrywood table watching me with a look of
trepidation. I explain what needs to be done: I want them to watch the museum
video footage to see if everyone who went in also went out.

They gripe and grumble, but I can tell they’re
interested.

J. Perry puts up his hand.

“Come on, J.P., you don’t have to put up your hand
to talk.”

He lowers it. “You really think the robber dude
hung out in that box all night long?”

“Well, I’m not sure, but I think so. That’s where
you guys come in.”

“So, essentially, you want us to watch hours of
tape looking for something that’s not there, based on a hunch?”

“That’s right. You guys game?”

I. William shrugs. “Beats doing research for
Sophie.”

Amen.

“All right, then. Why don’t you get started? Tell
me if you find anything immediately. If you don’t, let’s meet here tomorrow at
the same time for a status update.” I turn toward Monty, who’s doodling stars
around the edge of his yellow legal pad. “Can you hang back a minute?”

I wait for the others to leave. “Did you get that
research done?”

Monty shifts back and forth on his heels. “Yup. But
it’s not looking good. If a landlord gets an expulsion judgment and the tenant
doesn’t leave of their own volition, the landlord has the right to remove any
property they find.”

“They don’t have to warehouse the property
anywhere? They can just give it away?”

“Apparently.”

“Damn.”

“What’s this got to do with the museum thing,
anyway?”

I gather together my papers. “It’s another matter a
client needed looking into.”

“Sure enough.”

I walk away from his curious expression and head
back to my office. Jenny follows me in, wearing a conservative (for her) navy
suit. She tells me that Stephanie called, as did the
I-won’t-give-up-until-you-agree assistant from
In
Progress.
“And Mr. Bushnell’s lawyer called. He wants to schedule a
date for the depositions.”

“Anyone else?”

“Nuh-uh.”

“Are you sure?”

She gives me her innocent face. “Of course.”

“Listen, Jenny, I know you didn’t give me those
messages from Dominic.”

She turns bright red. “I’m sorry.”

“You know how important it is for me to get my
messages,” I say as gently as I can. “And it’s not like you to forget. What’s
going on?”

“I didn’t forget. I did it on purpose.”

“Is that supposed to reassure me?”

“I was doing it for you.”

“How so?”

“You were just so totally sad the last time he
called. I didn’t want you to go through that again. Not after everything that’s
happened.”

My throat tightens. “I wasn’t that sad, was I?”

“You didn’t talk to me for two days.”

I wonder, briefly, if that’s true, but the days
after Dominic called to tell me he was leaving the apartment are a little
hazy.

“You have to give me all my messages, no matter who
they’re from, okay?”

“Does this mean I’m not fired?”

“Of course you’re not fired. You’re the only one
keeping me sane around here.”

She flashes me a bright white smile. “I do my
best.”

“Thanks.”

“What for?”

“For . . . trying to protect me. I appreciate
it.”

“Anytime.”

She bounces out of the office, and I take a seat at
my desk. Almost instantly, my email pings. It’s from Jenny telling me the dates
and times that Dominic called. There’s a PS at the bottom of the email that
reads:
Are you going to call him?

I pick up the pink slip with Carrie’s number on it
and add Dominic’s below, doodling a box around and around it until the ink makes
a deep impression.

Are these numbers a path to peace or disaster?

If only I knew.

Chapter 23: As Per Usual

I
’m at home working on the Mutual Assurance file, killing time until a late dinner with Stephanie. I’m going through the investigator’s report Sophie ordered on Victor Bushnell. It’s not generally something I enjoy doing, but since he took the time to learn all about me, I thought I’d repay the favor. It’s fascinating stuff really, like seeing behind the curtain in the Land of Oz. Many of the details are in the public domain, of course, but others are not. Like the fact that Bushnell has a massive personal loan that’s guaranteed by the painting, and that he doesn’t have enough unencumbered assets to pay it back if the insurance money doesn’t come through.

The doorbell rings. I get up to answer it, rubbing the crick in my neck along the way. Our insurance plan covers ten massages a year, but I never manage to take advantage of it. I should get Jenny to book me one tomorrow. I definitely deserve it.

I open the door as Stephanie presses the bell a second time.

“Are we late for something?”

She smiles at me from the middle of her fur-lined hood. “It’s freezing out here.”

The air swirling in
is
freezing, at least ten degrees colder than earlier. I step back to let her in, then close the door behind her quickly.

She looks me up and down. “How come you’re not ready to go?”

I’m wearing a pair of sweatpants captured from Dominic’s
OLD CLOTHES
and a cream V-neck wool sweater I’ve managed to get yellow highlighter all over.

“You think I should change?”

“If you still want to go to Studio.”

“Right, I forgot. You wanted to go fancy tonight.”

“What I want is to dig into their old-fashioned mac and cheese.”

“Why don’t I make us some Kraft Dinner and save you the thirty-six bucks?”

She shakes her furry head. “Uh-uh. You agreed to go out, and we’re going out. You’ve been hiding in here for too long.”

“I’m not hiding.”

“Whatever. Go. Change.”

I leave her in the entranceway and search through my closet for something that’s chic/warm enough for this month’s fancy restaurant on a freezing-cold night.

“What are you wearing under that coat?” I call to Stephanie.

“My wool sweater-dress.”

That means
my
wool sweater-dress is out. I stare at my half-filled closet. I really need some more clothes. Fucking Pedro. I can’t believe I can’t sue him. Maybe I should have someone a little more thorough than Monty look into it? No, no, that’s silly. I need to accept that I don’t have a case against him. Though . . . he doesn’t know that . . . I could take him to small-claims court. Maybe that’ll make him think twice before he does what he did to me to someone else.

Man, will you listen to yourself? You sound like Sophie.

“Come on already, Em! Just put on a nice pair of jeans and one of your new sweaters and be done with it!”

I follow her instructions and run a brush through my hair, checking my reflection in the mirror. My tan is almost gone. Only the extra freckles across the bridge of my nose and the faint outline of my sunglasses around my eyes betray where I’ve been.

I walk into the hall. Stephanie’s standing in front of Dominic’s room. She turns toward me with a quizzical look on her face. “I thought you said Dominic wasn’t staying here?”

“He isn’t.”

“Then how come his bed’s unmade?”

I knew I forgot to do something this morning.

I shrug. “He’s a guy. It’s been like that since he left.”

“His bed was made the last time I was here.”

Ah, hell.

“Do you have to notice everything?”

“Will you spill already?”

Is there any way I can tell her what I’ve been doing that won’t make me seem pathetic and weak?

“I’ve been having trouble sleeping.”

“Don’t tell me you’ve been sleeping in his room?”

I nod.

She starts to laugh. “Hoo boy, you’ve got it bad.”

“Yes, yes, are we going to dinner or what?”

“Was it just once?”

I walk to the entranceway and lift my coat from the hook.

“Twice? Please tell me it wasn’t more than twice.”

I pull on my boots.

“Now I really need to see that pro list.”

I open the door and gesture to the dark outside. “I’m hungry. Do you want to keep mocking me, or are you ready to go?”

“Oh, I’m ready.” Her eyes twinkle as she pulls her hood around her face. She hops from the step onto the snowy walkway.

I start to follow her, then think better of it. “Hold on a sec, okay?”

“What the—?”

I sprint down the hall to Dominic’s room. I pull up the sheets and fluff the pillows. I tug the comforter into place and smooth my hand over it, eliminating the creases. That’s better. Now . . . a quick glance around reveals a half-drunk glass of water on the bedside table. I pick it up and put the glass on the table in the hall. I join Stephanie outside, locking the door behind me.

“What was that all about?”

“Covering my tracks.”

“To think, people pay you hundreds of dollars an hour to solve their problems.”

“Fuck off.”

“And she has a mouth too.”

I flash my teeth. “You’d better believe it.”

I
get home around ten, my stomach full and my ears ringing from the too-loud music. The restaurant was one of those half-club, half-restaurant places, and the DJ was spinning disks at club-level volume. It made conversation difficult, but the upside was that Stephanie gave up on quizzing me about my recent sleeping habits when I pretended I couldn’t hear her.

As I hang up my coat and scarf, I can feel a bout of brain-won’t-turn-off insomnia coming my way. After getting caught by Stephanie, I’ve promised myself that I’ll stop sleeping where I shouldn’t. I have a feeling I’ll be up late watching infomercials.

I notice the hall light is on as I leave the entranceway. The door to Dominic’s room is ajar, though I swear I closed it two hours ago.

My heart leaps. Dominic’s been here. Maybe he’s still here? But why? What does he want? Why did he call me all those times? And what did Emily want with him at the museum?

As per usual, I don’t have any answers. Thank God I made the bed.

I hear the scrape of a chair across the kitchen floor. Either it’s Dominic or I’m being robbed. I’ll take option A, please.

I walk cautiously down the hall, my heart lifting. He’s here. He must be waiting for me, right?

Dominic’s sitting at the kitchen table wearing jeans and the sweater I gave him for Christmas. He’s flipping through the file I left scattered across the table.

“What are you doing?”

He looks up. “That’s some interesting reading you’ve got there.”

I walk toward the table and start collecting the file together. “You shouldn’t be reading that.”

“It was sitting on the table.”

“I shouldn’t have left it out. I had no idea you were coming.”

“I’m sorry,” he says testily. “I didn’t know I needed permission to come to my own apartment.”

“You don’t. You can come whenever you want. Only . . .”

“ ‘Only’ what?”

“I’m just a bit confused, I guess. I mean, you come back from Ireland and say you’re going to stay somewhere else, but then you keep showing up here without even calling first . . .”

“I called a bunch of times. You never called me back, remember?”

“I told you at the gallery. I never received those messages.”

He pushes his chair back and walks toward the sink, gripping the counter. On the cabinet above his left shoulder are the faint scratches he left when he punched it. The night Emily called. The night we slept together.

“What did Emily want the other night?”

He turns toward me, his eyes spreading a chill across the warm room. “Leave her out of this. And don’t tell her anything more about us.”

His words hit me like a slap. He doesn’t want Emily to know we slept together. They’re back together. He took her back after everything she did to him.

“I didn’t tell her
anything
about us.”

“Oh, really?”

“I don’t have to defend myself to you, but yes, really.”

“Right, whatever.”

My hands start to tremble. I want to take the file folder and throw it across the room like I did with the Scotch glass, but the time for infantile gestures is over. Besides, it wouldn’t make the same satisfying crash.

He starts to move past me and I grab onto his arm. “Wait, Dominic. Please don’t go.”

He shrugs me off. “I have to.”

“Will you at least tell me why you came here tonight?”

He looks down at me, but I’m not sure he can see me, not really.

“I don’t remember,” he says, and walks away.