The Face (5 page)

And tried to drift into the scene. Tried to slide
myself into the snow. Tried to see everything. To remember …

Whoa. Two cabins. I saw two cabins side by side.

Snow piled up against the cabin walls. Drifts sloping up to the curtained windows. The windows glowing golden, reflecting the bright sunlight.

The snow glowing too. Everything so bright and clear and cold.

Where am I? I wondered. Do I know these two cabins? Have I been there?

Is this real memory? A piece of memory coming back?

Or is it imagination?

I tried not to think. I just wanted to see.

And I did start to see. I saw some colorful figures, a bright blur in the shimmering, silvery snow.

So hard to see in the bright glare. As if the white light had formed a curtain, a curtain hiding their faces from me.

I concentrated harder.

I stared at the colors moving over the snow. The colors formed themselves into people.

I saw four girls.

“Hey—!” I cried out as I recognized the girl in front.

Me. I recognized me. Recognized my long blond hair poking down from my blue wool ski cap. Recognized my blue-and-white ski suit.

Concentrate. Concentrate.

I forced myself deeper into the scene. Deeper into the memory.

And my three friends moved through the curtain of light, moved through the snow, into clear view. Adriana, Justine, and Laura.

They were there with me.

I could see their smiles. Could see their red cheeks. Could see their breath streaming up in front of them as they walked, boots crunching in the deep snow.

And suddenly we were inside the cabin.

Warm and bright. An orange fire blazing in the stone fireplace. Mugs of hot apple cider.

Yes. The four of us were sitting around the table. I could see the red-and-white-checkered tablecloth. The white mugs. They stuck to the plastic tablecloth when we lifted them.

The fire leaping, making our faces so golden.

And then a knock on the door. The wooden chairs scraping against the wooden floor.

Shouts from outside. More pounding on the door.

Who is it?

All four of us jump up. Adriana gets to the door first.

I can see her so clearly now.

She's wearing a bright yellow sweater, pulled down over navy ski pants. She has a headband in her black hair. Her face is still red from the cold.

She pulls open the cabin door. A blast of cold air. Sparkly crystals of snow in the air.

I see it all so clearly.

But who is at the door?

Aaron?

Yes. I see Aaron. I recognize his black, down ski parka. The black cap pulled over his dark hair.

Aaron is there. And two other boys.

Yes. Two boys.

But I can't see them. I can't see their faces.

The other two boys—why can't I see them?

I blinked. And the scene vanished.

As if someone had clicked off the light.

The boys. My friends. The orange fire. The mugs of cider. The cabin. The snow. All vanished.

I blinked again, then shut my eyes. I wanted to go back, back to the cabin. Back into my memory.

But I saw only swirling blackness.

I opened my eyes and lowered them to the desktop. “Huh?” I uttered a low cry when I realized I'd been drawing on the pad the whole time.

Without even realizing it, I had been sketching.

I raised the pad and studied it.

And saw to my horror that I had drawn the face again.

T
he next morning, a blustery gray Monday, I woke up in time for school. Then remembered I had the day off.

I tried to get back to sleep, but couldn't. When I dragged myself up at about nine, I discovered Rooney curled up and sleeping soundly at the foot of the bed.

“Have you been there all night?” I asked her.

She didn't stir.

I spent the morning doing some errands for my mother. When I returned home a little after noon, I found Laura waiting for me in the kitchen.

“Hey—hi!” I couldn't hide my surprise. “What's up?”

She narrowed her perfect, blue-gray eyes at me.

“Did you forget? You promised you'd come with me today.”

I stared hard at her, trying to remember.

Was my memory playing more tricks on me?

Laura wore a black leather vest, open over a dark brown turtleneck. The sweater came down nearly to her knees, over her loose black jeans. Her black hair was pulled into a simple ponytail that fell halfway down her back.

“The photo shoot,” she said impatiently. She pulled open the refrigerator door and lifted out a small bottle of club soda. “Remember, Martha? You promised to come with me?”

“Oh, yeah. Right.” It was starting to come back to me. Laura and I had made this plan weeks ago.

“I've never worked with this photographer before. And he has a studio in a crummy part of town in the Old Village. And my parents were too busy to take me, of course,” Laura rattled on. “So I'd really feel better if you came with me. Okay?”

“Yeah. No problem,” I replied.

I always felt like a Wordless Wonder next to Laura. She spoke in
avalanches.
The words tumbled out—and kept tumbling out until I felt snowed under!

She took a short sip from the club soda bottle. “Yuck. I hate this stuff. But at least it's no calories.”

“There's some Diet Coke in there,” I offered.

She shook her head. Took another sip. Then she brushed back her hair. “They told me not to do
anything with my hair, so I just pulled it back. I guess they want to style it when I get there.”

She set down the bottle and gazed at me. “Did you do something different with
your
hair today?”

I laughed. “No. The wind blew it when I went out. I forgot to brush it.”

We both laughed.

“How's it going?” Laura asked, her expression turning serious. But she didn't wait for me to answer. “We'd better get going. I like to be early when I haven't worked with someone before. I mean, I know we'll just stand around waiting, anyway.”

She sighed. “It takes these guys
hours
to get the lights right. And then some fuse always blows. But I don't want to be the one who causes the delay. I mean, I don't want anyone to complain to the agency. They've gotten me some good jobs so far.”

She finally took a breath.

“Want to take my car?” I asked.

She took a final sip of club soda. “Yeah. Sure. Thanks.” She pulled her dark blue parka over her shoulders. “Thanks for coming with me, Martha. It's great we'll have a chance to talk.”

She'll
have a chance to talk, I thought.
I'll
have a chance to
listen!

A cold drizzle started to come down as we drove to the Old Village. The wipers scraped back and forth over the windshield. Some of the streets had iced up. But my old Volvo didn't slip or slide.

Laura told me about some new outfits she'd
bought at Dalby's Department Store. “I probably bought too much. But Dad says they're tax deductible if I wear them for a shoot. Did I tell you I may be up for a TV commercial in New York? A cousin of mine. Artie? I don't think you've met him. He knows a talent guy at some big agency there. He thinks he can get me an audition for a commercial, if I can get my portfolio in better shape.”

The word
portfolio
made me think of my drawing pad. Of the face I had been drawing again and again. I wondered if Laura would recognize the face.

Last winter Dr. Sayles told my friends not to try to help me get my memory back. “It has to come back naturally,” he told them. “Do not try to give Martha hints. Her mind must return to what happened in its own time.”

But still I wondered if Laura would recognize the boy in my drawings.

The shoot went well. I watched from the side of the studio as Laura posed.

The photographer was a funny little man, skinny as a pencil, with a mop of white hair on his head. Dressed all in faded denim. He kept talking to himself, never stopped talking the whole time we were there. With his constant chatter, mostly under his breath, he even managed to get Laura quiet!

The photos were for a T-shirt company. Laura had to wear six different styles of T-shirts. The photographer's assistant, a pleasant young woman
not much older than us, acted as stylist. She changed Laura's hair for each shot.

Laura looked beautiful, of course. And she appeared so comfortable in front of the camera. As if she'd been doing it her whole life.

She kept glancing over at me the whole time. “Martha—sure you're not bored?”

I assured her I was having a great time. This is as close as
I'll
ever come to a modeling studio! I realized.

Afterward, I drove Laura home. The drizzle had stopped, but the roads remained icy. The sky was as gray as evening.

“I went to a party last night,” Laura told me, brushing her hair out, staring at herself in the little mirror in the window visor.

“I called you,” I replied. “I wondered where you were.”

“It was at Gary Brandt's house. His parents were away.” She rolled her eyes. “Of course it got out of control.”

“What happened?” I asked.

She dropped the hairbrush into her bag and pushed up the visor. “Ivan was there.”

I glanced at her. Nearly went through a stop sign. “Really?”

“Ivan is really messed up,” Laura groaned. “I mean, you wouldn't believe it. He drank so much beer—”

“He was drinking again?” I shook my head. Poor Ivan. I felt so bad for him.

“He drank so much, he started dancing—and he passed out,” Laura reported.

She frowned, “He just fell over. Onto all the chips and food on the coffee table. And then he just lay there. In the food. What a mess. Stuff spilled all over the rug.”

She tsk-tsked. “Gary and Bobby Newkirk and some of the other guys had to pick him up and stretch him out on the couch. I mean, he was really totaled.”

“Wow,” I murmured. “Bad news.”

Laura made a disgusted face. “I can't believe I went out with him. I mean, what did I like about him? He's such a total jerk.”

“Adriana says he's messed up because of you,” I blurted out. “Because you dumped him.”

Laura's mouth dropped open. Her pale cheeks turned crimson. “Whatever,” she murmured.

“Don't you care?” I demanded.

She shook her head. “No way.” Then she added, “He'll get over it.”

I decided to change the subject. “Justine called me late on Saturday night. We talked for a long time. She seems really depressed, really down.”

Laura turned in her seat to face me. “What did you tell her?” she demanded.

“Not much,” I replied, pulling the car up Laura's driveway. “What could I tell her?”

Laura pushed open the car door and climbed
out. But instead of saying goodbye and closing the door, she leaned back into the car.

I was startled to see a strange, tense expression on her face. “Hey, Martha,” she said, lowering her voice almost to a whisper.

“What?”

“Watch out for Justine.”

T
he next day I paid my weekly visit to Dr. Sayles.

Dr. Sayles is young looking, with long, wavy blond hair, pale blue eyes, and a dimple in each cheek. He wears Polo shirts and chinos. He has broad shoulders and powerful-looking arms. I guess he works out.

He doesn't look like a shrink at all. I think he looks more like a surfer dude on
Baywatch.
But he's very smart, and he has helped me a lot.

His office isn't what I expected, either. He has a poster of Jimi Hendrix on the wall behind his desk. And he doesn't have a couch. Instead, he has two comfortable leather armchairs that face each other—one for the patient and one for him.

I like Dr. Sayles. But I can't say that I look forward to my sessions with him.

They're painful. Not because of what I remember about last November. But because of what I
can't
remember.

Sometimes I feel embarrassed by how little progress I've made. I mean, when I tell Dr. Sayles that I still don't remember anything, I feel as if I'm letting him down.

So today I felt excited. Today I sat tensely in the small waiting room, eager to get into the office.

Today I finally had something to tell him.

“I—I think my memory is starting to come back,” I said as soon as I sat down. I felt so excited, so nervous, I stammered. I spread my clammy hands over the warm leather chair arms and silently instructed myself to calm down.

“Really?” Dr. Sayles swept his hand back through his blond hair. Then he tapped his pencil against the long yellow pad in his lap.

“Yes. I … saw something. A picture in my mind,” I continued.

He leaned forward. His pale blue eyes searched my face, as if trying to read my thoughts. “What did you see, Martha?”

I swallowed. My mouth suddenly felt dry. I squeezed the chair arms. “I saw two cabins,” I told him. “In the snow. I mean, it was very snowy. Snow on the ground. Snow on the cabin roofs. The cabin—it was on top of a hill. A very steep hill.”

He nodded.

I instantly felt disappointed.

I don't know what I expected him to do. Jump out of his chair? Run over and hug me? Shout, “Yes! Yes! That's wonderful!”

I don't know what. But I expected more than a nod.

“That's good, Martha,” he said finally. He nodded again. Then he scribbled something on the pad.

“Is it a real memory?” I asked eagerly. “Were there two cabins on top of a snowy hill? Did they have something to do with … with what happened?”

He ignored my questions. “What else did you see?”

I sighed. Why wasn't he more excited? Why wasn't he being more helpful?

“What else was in the picture?” he demanded quietly, tapping his pencil on the chair arm now.