The Epidemic (16 page)

“You really don’t remember Friday night?” I ask as gently as I can.

Virginia shakes her head but keeps her eyes trained on the road. “What exactly did I tell you about my memory?” she asks.

“Nothing. You just told me to remind you if you forgot.”

Virginia presses her lips together, and I worry that she’s about to cry. But instead she glances over at me. “Will you tell me?” she asks. “Tell me everything about that night. That day. I’ve never even seen you before, Liz. Never heard of any Micah. So start with one of those.”

“Why can’t you remember?” I ask, a sudden thought occurring to me.

“I don’t know.”

Seems Virginia and I have some things in common: memory loss and her father. I doubt it’s a coincidence.

Virginia takes the exit onto the freeway, and I see by the
signs that she’s heading toward the coast. “Where are we going?” I ask, a little frightened, although not exactly of her.

“Out of town,” she says. “It’s about an hour away, if you don’t mind.” She turns to me, seeming concerned that I don’t have the time. But she doesn’t know that she’s the reason I’m here.

“I don’t mind,” I say.

“Great,” she says, and turns back to the road, speeding up. “Now,” she says. “When did we meet?”

I TELL VIRGINIA ABOUT FINDING
her at her volleyball scrimmage, reusing the line about being a new student. I’m careful with the details, making them seem less important than they are. My existence in her life should be a red flag, a random stranger showing up and inserting herself in her social circle. But Virginia only seems interested in hearing about the party. She grows quiet when I mention Micah again. She has no recollection of him at all—like he never existed. It’s a shocking thing to witness.

When I finish telling Virginia about Roderick’s death and the way we ran out of there, she’s stoic, looking unmoved—much like she was after the suicide.

“And that’s what happened,” I say, studying her for a crack in her character.

“Thank you,” she tells me, watching the road. “This isn’t the first time, you know. I’m just lucky you were there. Other people have stopped filling in the blanks for me.”

“How often does this happen?” I ask.

“Lately?” She looks over. “I think it’s been every other week. My father’s a doctor, and he says these are memory blackouts, but nothing to worry about. He claims they’re stress-related. But if it were something to worry about, I doubt he’d tell me. He deals in denial.”

“What do you mean?”

“Closers,” she says with contempt. “Ever hear of them?” She doesn’t wait for me to answer. “They’re my father’s creation. People trained to absorb grief—perpetrate denial. It’s predatory and disgusting, even if it started with good intentions.”

I want to jump to defend myself, tell her about all the people I’ve helped, but I can’t compromise myself. She obviously doesn’t remember that she already mentioned her father to me.

“That denial is killing us,” she continues. “But my father thinks otherwise. He’s not listening to me.” She rubs her face roughly, seeming frustrated. “I keep forgetting things—important things. And I think my father is somehow behind it.

Arthur Pritchard made me forget my past, but could he really have induced her memory loss too?
Would
he do that to his own child?

“What makes you think it’s your father?” I ask, prying deeper into Virginia’s life.

“My mother died when I was little,” she says quietly. “Cancer, they say. But I can’t remember much about her, and it bothers me. I know that her death changed my father. I think he’s lied to me every day since.”

“Lied how?”

“He’s taken some of my pictures, switched others around,” she says. “I have one photo of my mother, and it’s cropped from a larger photo. He says no, but I’m smarter than he thinks. I’m going to beat whatever system he’s put in place. I’m going to beat him.”

And I know now that I have my opportunity. I don’t need to betray Virginia’s trust to blackmail her father if she’ll help me willingly. I open my mouth to ask if she has anything I can use against her father, when Virginia takes her hand off the wheel and points.

“There it is,” she says, nodding ahead. She eases her car to the side of the road in front of a
DEAD END
sign, and it takes me a moment to find any reason why we’re stopped in what looks like the middle of nowhere.

I squint; the weather is foggy out here, this close to the ocean. I notice a small lighthouse. It’s not facing the water, though, only a marshlike strip of land.

“Come on,” Virginia says, opening her door. “I have to show you something.”

I reluctantly climb out of the car, take a look around, and get my bearings. The air is thick, a mixture of salt and seaweed smell. I step over rocks into tan sand, spits of grass popping up throughout.

I follow Virginia and come to stand next to her where she’s paused outside the lighthouse. The white paint on the exterior of the building has chipped away, leaving the gray metal to rust in the salty sea air. It’s nothing they’d use for tours, but it is a lighthouse. A small, decaying one.

“We call this the End of the World,” Virginia says. “A bunch of us used to come here to hang out. Now it’s just me. The place was abandoned years ago after a jetty was put up to create the bay. No one even knows it’s here anymore. It’s not on any maps.”

“What happened to the people you’d come here with?” I ask.

“They died.”

I widen my eyes, alarmed, even frightened. Virginia walks ahead and climbs the steep steps to the front door. I touch my phone in my pocket for reassurance. I should tell Deacon where I am in case this place is cursed or dangerous. But again I wait, unwilling to break Virginia’s trust when I feel like I’m close to getting her help.

The white door has a big bolted padlock, and Virginia fishes through her keys until she finds a small one and slips it into the lock. She glances over her shoulder at me and shrugs guiltily.

“We put this lock on,” she explains. “We didn’t want anyone else finding it.”

“Makes sense,” I respond, although I’m scared of what’s inside.

Virginia works off the lock and then hooks it on the frame
before using her shoulder to push open the door. From out here it looks pitch black inside, and I’m in no rush to walk into spiderwebs or step on mice.

Virginia notices my reaction and laughs. “It’s not bad,” she says. “Promise.”

“No offense,” I say, making my way up the steps cautiously. “But maybe you can go in first.”

She smiles, amused, and then walks inside, disappearing from view. I cast an anxious look around the deserted area, suddenly wishing I weren’t alone with her—this girl who’s connected to so many deaths. But I am here. I am alone. And so the only thing left to do is follow her inside.

I step in the doorway and wait. Once my eyes adjust, I find that Virginia was right. The inside of the lighthouse is small and cramped but relatively clean. There is some sand buildup in the corners, but light filters in from the top of the spiral staircase, where there’s a circle of windows. Virginia stands on the first stair as she rummages through her purse until she pulls out a Sharpie. Then she starts up the stairs toward the top.

There is an eerie sense of calm to this place. It doesn’t feel abandoned, it feels claimed, and as I make my way up the stairs, I see why. There is writing on the walls—literally. Something like journal entries written in different-color markers and pens. They’re dated, going back to last year. I pause midway up the staircase when I notice the handwriting of one of the entries.

My breath catches, and I reach out to run my finger over the penmanship. I recognize it. It’s from Catalina—she was here. I
look accusingly at Virginia, as if my entire life is all somehow her fault. I find her on the top landing, scribbling notes on the wall. While she’s distracted, I turn back to Catalina’s note and read.

Isaac wants to help, but he can’t. I feel it now, just like Virginia said I would. She was right. It’s almost like a virus, the way it’s infected me. The way I’ve become obsessed with it. It’s like I’m twisting the knife in my chest to feel more pain. I invite more pain. I’m addicted to the pain. But what scares me most of all is that the more I feel, the more I want of it.

There’s a catch in my throat as I read the dying words of the girl I closed for. I feel the loss her family felt. What Isaac felt. Catalina was here, alive. Asking for help. When I turn to Virginia again, tears are stinging my eyes.

“You knew she was sick,” I say, my voice echoing. Virginia looks down at me, surprised, and I motion toward the writing. “You knew Catalina wanted to kill herself. Why didn’t you stop her? Why didn’t you tell anybody?”

Virginia lowers her arm that’s holding the Sharpie, her face going slack. “I don’t know who Catalina is,” she says. “But I’ve
read that note a million times. I’ve forgotten her, Liz. Just like Friday night. She’s part of my empty space.” She pauses and looks around at the words on the wall. “Just like all of these.” She tilts her head, examining me. “But . . . how do you know her? Who is she?”

I can’t tell her the truth, so I sidestep it. I glance around at all the notes. These would be pages and pages of journal entries, but with different handwriting, from different people. “What is this place, Virginia?” I ask her.

She straightens her posture defensively. “This is where I keep what’s left,” she says. “When I forget, I come here to read and remember. But it’s not enough. Can you imagine . . . ?” Her voice cracks. “Can you imagine what that’s like? I’m
disappearing
, Liz. Soon I won’t even know who I am anymore. I won’t even exist.”

Her words wound me, not only because they’re terrifying, but because I don’t have to imagine them: I’ve lived them.

Virginia points to the spot where she was writing. “This is about the party, the story you just told me. I’m going to keep it here so I won’t forget.”

I swallow hard and go up the stairs, keeping my distance from Virginia to glance at the writing. She has, indeed, written nearly word for word what I told her in the car. It feels suddenly strange, as if I’m the one on the wall. A ghost, like Catalina. I turn away to scan the other writings, all of them bleak. These are just memories—they’re horror and sadness. They’re desperation.

The walls surrounding me begin to take on a life of their
own. All at once I’m having trouble breathing. I put my hand on the railing to steady myself.

“Are you claustrophobic?” Virginia asks, concerned.

I shake my head no. At least, I didn’t think I was.

She comes over to where I’m standing and puts her arm across my shoulders. “There’s more room at the top,” she says, leading me up the stairs. “This place can be overwhelming at first.”

We get to the top, and I’m flooded with light. All around the circular platform are windows, and even on a misty Oregon morning the light shines through this small space. I take a breath. Virginia leans against the wall. Strangely, there’s no writing up here.

“I come to the End of the World when I feel like I’m missing a piece,” she says. “And when I see them all together, I realize I’m missing a lot. Half of these don’t make sense.” She points to the writing below. “They’re only a piece of a larger truth.”

She notices me scanning the bare walls around us.

“I don’t write up here,” she says, running her palm along the paint. “This is where I find hope.” She smiles, and turns to face out the window. “It’s a blank slate here, filled with possibility.”

The observation deck overlooks the dried-up land that used to be part of an ocean, a pile of huge rocks on either side redirecting the water. But this high up, it’s almost like we really are at the end of the world. Not a car or a person in sight. It’s lovely.

I turn to Virginia, seeing the hope she mentioned reflected
in her expression. And I can’t do this anymore; I can’t deceive her. I see now that she’s being put through something horrible, something cruel. I’m no better than Arthur Pritchard if I continue to lie to her. We can work together; we have the same goal. We want answers to our pasts.

“I’m sorry,” I say in a quiet voice. My heart begins to pound at the threat of my impending confession. Virginia’s eyes flick to mine.

“For what?”

“Lying to you.”

She flinches and takes her hand from the wall. She clenches it into a fist at her side. It’s an unexpected reaction that alarms me. “About the party?” she demands.

“No, that was all true. It’s me. My name’s not Liz, and I’m not from Eugene.” I swallow hard. “Last week I was in Lake Oswego, and I knew of Catalina because—”

“Lake Oswego?” Virginia repeats, taking in a sharp breath. “Did you know Mitchel Caprice?”

I’m stunned at the mention of Aaron’s last assignment, stunned that she remembers him but not Catalina. “Sort of,” I tell her.

“Do you know what happened to him?” she asks.

“Yeah. He . . . he killed himself.”

Virginia’s lips pull taut as she holds back the start of a cry. “I knew it,” she whispers. “Of course I knew it.” She shakes her head. “I just didn’t want to believe it.”

“You remember him?” I ask.

She nods. “Yeah,” she says miserably. “I do. I met Mitchel in Lake Oswego. We were dating, but I kept it from my dad. But then . . . Mitchel disappeared. Didn’t return my calls or texts. I suspected, but . . . now I know for sure.”

“I’m sorry to be the one to tell you,” I say, feeling guilty. As if she hasn’t been through enough today.

“I already knew,” she repeats. “Last week I had a feeling, a terrible feeling. I searched my father’s files and found his name. Saw that a closer was attached to his case. That’s how I knew he was dead. But I couldn’t show even an instant of pain. I was scared I’d forget him if I did. I was scared of getting the memory of him taken.”

She studies my expression, and I feel her grief. Hiding your pain—it’ll wear you down. Wear you away.

“But now,” she says, her voice taking on an edge, “I’m wondering what role you have in this. You knew Mitchel and Catalina.” She points to the note on the wall. “Did you know me?”