Unremembered (3 page)

‘Violet,’ he urges, ‘you really need to calm down. It’s not good for you to be getting so worked up. We were going to bring you the locket once you had stabilized more.
You’ve been through a very traumatic experience and your system is—’

‘My
system
,’ I interrupt, fuming, ‘is fine! I’m already perfectly stable! In fact, I’ve
been
stable since the moment I arrived here.’ I
launch to my feet. ‘See!’ I yell, motioning to my fully functioning body, covered by a wispy piece of pale blue fabric. ‘Perfectly healthy.
You
and your parade of nurses
and specialists are the only things that have been making me
un
stable. And yet you insist on keeping me here anyway. When are you going to start believing me? THERE IS NOTHING WRONG WITH
ME!’

I yank the suction cup from my chest. The machine next to my bed screams in protest. Kiyana looks anxiously to Dr Schatzel, who eyes the emergency call button on the wall.

I point at the IV needle in my arm. ‘This?’ I tug the cord free and let it fall to the ground. ‘Completely unnecessary.’ Then I pull the air tube from around my face.
‘And this is ridiculous. I can breathe perfectly well on my own. Better, now that I don’t have a tube up my nose.

‘And what is the purpose of this?’ I flick my finger against the strip of white plastic wrapped around my wrist.

‘Hospital ID bracelets are standard procedure for all patients,’ Dr Schatzel responds.

‘Well, then,’ I say, ripping furiously at the flimsy button clasp. ‘I won’t be needing it any more, will I? Since I’m clearly not . . .’

My voice trails off as the plastic snaps and the bracelet falls from my wrist, revealing the small patch of skin underneath. It’s pink and slightly tender from my struggle but that’s
not the part that concerns me. That’s not the reason I gasp in horror and collapse back on to the bed the moment my eyes catch sight of it.

‘What is this?’ I ask, my voice no longer thunderous. It’s now weak. On the verge of breaking.

Kiyana leans forward and examines the inside of my wrist. I expect her to react as harshly as I did, but her expression remains neutral. ‘It looks like a tattoo,’ she says
casually.

‘A
what
?’

‘Relax,’ Dr Schatzel assures me. ‘It
is
a tattoo. No reason to get hysterical.’

I gaze downward once again and run a fingertip across the inside of my wrist. Across the strange black line that stretches horizontally parallel to the crease of my palm. It’s about an
inch and a half long and razor thin. And it seems to be etched right into my skin.

‘What’s a tattoo?’ I ask, glancing hopefully between them.

‘It’s a permanent marking of sorts,’ the doctor is quick to explain, sliding back into his professional and informative demeanour. ‘Some people choose to decorate their
bodies with them. Oftentimes people choose favourite animals, or Chinese characters with a special significance, or names of people who are important to them. Other times, people choose designs
that are –’ his chin juts ambiguously in the direction of my wrist – ‘more obscure.’

I look at the mysterious marking. ‘So that’s all this is then,’ I reply, infusing my voice with certainty. ‘A decoration. Something I
chose
at some point in my
life.’

Dr Schatzel offers me a half-smile. ‘Most likely.’

But I can tell he doesn’t believe that. I can tell, from the way he averts his gaze and nervously shifts his posture, that he’s already considered this option . . . and ruled it
out.

Because if he’s even half as reasonable as he looks, he’s probably come to the same conclusion that I’m coming to right now. As I examine this strange black mark that’s
stamped into my skin like a label. Like a
brand
.

It certainly doesn’t look very decorative.

It takes a little over an hour, but my locket is finally brought
to me in the late morning. Dr Schatzel sets it down on the tray next to my bed and rotates the
swinging arm so that the tabletop is directly under me.

‘Unfortunately the police weren’t able to figure out where it was purchased so I’m afraid it’s another dead end,’ he explains, taking a step back as though to give
me time alone with my one and only known possession on this earth.

I carefully reach out and lift the necklace by the chain. I extend my finger, allowing the glossy black heart-shaped charm to swing like a pendulum in front of my face.

I study it carefully. On one side of the amulet’s surface is a curious symbol carved out of a matte silver metal. It’s a series of interwoven loops, swirling around each other, with
no beginning and no end.

I turn the locket upside down but the design doesn’t change.

‘What kind of symbol is this?’ I ask the doctor.

‘It’s actually an ancient Sanskrit symbol. Called the eternal knot.’

‘Does it represent something?’ I ask, disliking the contemptuous quality of my voice.

He forces a smile. ‘The Buddhists believe it symbolizes the interweaving of the spiritual path, movement, and the flowing of time.’

I frown, feeling disappointed. I was hoping his answer would be more helpful than that.

‘But to put it simply,’ he offers, almost sounding sympathetic, ‘it represents eternity.’

Kiyana squints at the locket. ‘It almost looks like two hearts,’ she asserts with a confident nod of her head. ‘One on top of the other.’ She smiles.
‘Pretty.’

I stare at the symbol, trying to see what Kiyana sees. It
does
kind of look like two hearts. One upside down and the other right side up. Intersecting at the cores. ‘It is
beautiful,’ I agree.

‘Yes,’ Dr Schatzel concurs, although the sharpness in his voice is back. ‘At first the police believed it might be an antique. But I’m told it wasn’t registered in
any databases so that can’t be confirmed.’

Like me
, I think, instantly feeling a special affinity to the necklace.

I reach for the tiny clasp on the left side and manage to pop open the locket with the edge of my fingernail. My hopes fall once more when I see that the hollow space carved inside is empty.

‘Was there something in here?’ I ask, shooting an accusatory look at Dr Schatzel.

He shakes his head. ‘It was empty when they brought you in. I assume if there was anything inside it must have fallen out during the crash.’

Another piece of me. Lost.

I close the locket and give it a flick, sending the empty heart into a spin. The silver-link chain twists and wraps around itself, winding all the way up, threatening to strangle my finger.

It’s not until it slows and eventually starts to unwind that I notice something on the other side.

An engraving.

I catch the charm midtwirl and bring it closer to my face so I can read the small calligraphic characters etched into the back.

S
+
Z
=
1609.

Kiyana and Dr Schatzel watch me carefully, awaiting some kind of reaction.

‘What does this mean?’ I ask.

The doctor appears disappointed. ‘We were hoping you could tell us that.’

I can feel the frustration start to build up inside me again. ‘Why does everyone keep saying that to me!?’ I yell. ‘Does no one around here have
any
answers to
anything?’

He shakes his head regretfully. ‘I’m sorry. It’s not a mathematical or scientific formula that we’re familiar with.’

‘S + Z = 1609.’ I enunciate carefully, reading the text letter for letter, number for number, hoping it will trigger
something
in my memory. Something in this black void I
have in place of a brain.

And after five long, quiet seconds, it does.

‘1-6-0-9,’ I repeat slowly. Familiar images start to snake into my mind. Rapid flashes of faces.

I can feel excitement building in the pit of my stomach.

Am I having a memory? Is this what it feels like?

Yes! I remember. I remember water. I remember bits of floating debris. Bodies. A bright white light. Voices.

‘What is your name? Do you know where you are? Do you know what year it is?’

And then suddenly, like a
whoosh
of air exiting the room, the excitement is gone. Thrust out of me by a single disheartening realization.

I’m recollecting what happened
after
the crash.

After I awoke among the wreckage of a plane that I don’t remember boarding.

‘That number, 1-6-0-9 – does it mean anything to you, love?’ Kiyana asks, interpreting the strange progression of emotion that must be registering across my face.

‘Yes,’ I answer with an unsettling sigh. ‘I think it’s a year.’

It’s been five days since the crash and they’ve finally agreed
to release me. Inevitably coming to the same conclusion that I’ve already come
to: I’m fine. That despite inexplicably surviving a ten-thousand-foot plunge from the sky, there’s nothing wrong with me. They’ve assured me that my memory will eventually start
to return and when it does I’m expected to call the hospital or the chief of police immediately.

I smile and agree even though I’m exceedingly less confident.

I would be happy simply remembering my real name.

Violet seems to have stuck though. Now pretty much everyone is calling me that. I don’t mind. I suppose it’s as good a name as any.

A woman from Social Services arrives and brings me some clothes to wear out of the hospital. A pair of blue pants that she calls jeans, a plain white T-shirt, a bra that Kiyana has to teach me
how to clasp behind my back, underwear with red-and-orange stripes on them, socks, and white lace-up shoes with pink lightning bolts on the sides. None of the items seems to fit right except for the
socks. Something the woman apologizes profusely for, muttering, ‘Sorry, I had to guess on all the sizes.’

I don’t mind, however. I’m just glad to be out of that flimsy paper dress.

Mr Rayunas, the man who was unsuccessful in finding anyone related to me (although he promises they have not given up), tells me that I’m to be transferred to the care of a state-appointed
‘foster-family.’

I have no idea what that means. But the significance becomes obvious when a man and woman enter my room later that afternoon and introduce themselves as Heather and Scott Carlson. They show me
pictures of a house that exists one hundred and seventy-five miles north of here, a front yard with a rope swing hanging from a tree, and a young boy with big blue eyes and messy blond curls whom
they introduce as their thirteen-year-old son, Cody.

These are the pieces that will make up my temporary family. My temporary life. This is where I’m expected to feel at home, until a real one can be located.

I take in their kind-hearted smiles and warm, engaging body language and decide there are worse places I could be asked to go. Plus, no one appears to be giving me a choice in the matter and
I’m just anxious to get out of this hospital room.

‘We’ve chosen the Carlsons because of their remote location,’ Mr Rayunas explains. ‘They live in a small town called Wells Creek. It’s on the central coast of
California. No one outside of this room will be given the specifics of your whereabouts. As you’ve probably guessed from watching the news, this has turned into something of a media circus.
And we want to give you the best possible opportunity to take things easy. Heather and Scott will make sure you’re able to keep a low profile. In the meantime, we’ll be doing everything
we can to find your family.’

He signs a document attached to a clipboard and hands it back to Dr Schatzel, who looks disgruntled. I have a feeling that if it was up to him I wouldn’t be going anywhere until this
mystery was solved.

I’m glad it’s apparently not up to him.

‘Do you have anything you’d like us to help you pack up?’ the woman identified as Heather Carlson asks me, stepping towards my bed and offering another smile.

I shake my head and indicate the heart-shaped black locket I’ve been clutching in my hands. ‘This is all I have.’

Heather presses her lips together and retreats to her husband’s side, looking sorry she asked.

Kiyana enters my room, carrying a bag made of brown paper. ‘These are the clothes they found you in.’

I peer inside and see a bundle of dark grey fabric, neatly folded into a tight square. I make a mental note to sort through it later.

‘Although,’ she continues, ‘I’d get some new ones if I was you.’ She nods towards the bag in my arms. ‘They’re not the most flatterin’ things I
ever saw.’

‘We’ll take you shopping for new clothes,’ Heather promises eagerly.

I try to smile. ‘Thank you.’

‘We’re gonna miss you around here.’ Kiyana steps close and wraps her arms tightly around me. She squeezes hard. I stiffen. It’s the first time she’s touched me with
so many body parts at once. The first time
anybody
has. Normally she brushes her hand lightly against mine. Or grazes the side of my face with her fingertip. But now she’s
everywhere. Her arms suffocate me. Her hair irritates my cheek. Her scent overpowers me. I can’t move. I feel the sudden urge to break free. To shove her to the ground.

Then a pleasant sensation begins to travel up my legs. It tingles, relaxing me nearly instantly. My eyelids begin to feel heavy. As though I can’t keep them open. Or don’t want to.
They sag. Along with my torso. And right as they’re about to close, Kiyana releases me and steps away.

‘What was that?’ I ask, somewhat dizzy from the encounter.

She laughs and touches my hair. ‘It’s alrigh’, darlin’,’ she whispers so no one else can hear. ‘It’s just a hug.’

It isn’t until we step out the front doors of the hospital that I fully understand the meaning of the term
media circus
.

I blink against the strange flashes of light. They blind me again and again. It takes my eyes a moment to adjust. It takes my mind a second longer to translate what I’m looking at.