Unremembered (6 page)

‘I’m sorry,’ I say, trying to make my voice rigid as I pull the brim of my hat further down and adjust my sunglasses, ‘but I don’t know you.’

It’s the truth,
I tell myself.

‘You do though,’ he insists. ‘You just have to try harder.’ Even through the dark glasses, his eyes lock on to mine, making me feel funny. Dizzy almost. ‘Do you
remember me?’ he asks. Slow. Purposeful. Pronouncing each syllable as though it’s a key that unlocks a secret door.

And then I hear another voice. Distant. Faint. Smothered.

Yes.

Always yes
.

I shake my head, breaking his gaze. ‘No,’ I mutter, turning to grab another bag. I place it in the car, rotating the others so that they all face the same direction.

I hear a sigh behind me. And then, a few moments later, a faint laugh. ‘You’ve always been stubborn. Hard-wired to distrust, I suppose.’

I do my best to ignore him.

‘But if I have to start all over again, I will.’

Cart. Bag. Trunk.

He speaks again. There’s desperation in his voice now. It pierces something inside me. Something I can’t pinpoint. ‘Please, Sera.
Try
.’

I spin back around slowly. ‘What did you call me?’

‘Sera,’ he whispers. ‘That’s your name. It’s short for Seraphina.’

I wait for a reaction. Certain that if he was telling the truth, my real name would cause me to feel
something
.

But it doesn’t.

‘Do you remember
any
of it?’ he asks. ‘What we discovered? Why we fled? How you ended up here?’

‘I survived a plane crash,’ I say flatly.

He releases a low guttural laugh. ‘Oh, come on. You were never on that plane and you know it.’

I swallow, feeling a swelling in my chest. We’re both silent for a long moment. His eyes challenge me to negate him. To look away.

I can’t do either of those things so I just say, ‘I want you to leave.’

It’s the truth,
I tell myself again. But this time it sounds far less convincing.

I don’t know him. I don’t remember him. I can’t trust him.

I clear my throat. ‘I know you’re an impostor trying to get on the news.’

‘If that was true,’ he says, ‘then I would have gone straight to the press. Not come to you.’

I turn my back to him, reach deeper into the cart. I’m running out of bags.

‘And,’ he continues, ‘I wouldn’t know about the locket.’

I freeze. Blinking again and again. The surrounding cars grow blurry.

He’s close behind me. I think I feel his breath on my neck but I convince myself it’s just a passing breeze. A beautiful, sweet summer breeze.

‘But I
do
know about it,’ he presses on. ‘Because I’m the one who gave it to you.’

I turn and open my mouth to reply even though I don’t have the slightest idea what to say. The warmth between my eyes returns. It quickly grows hot.

What
is
that?

Cringing, I tear my sunglasses from my face. I push up my hat and place my finger to my forehead.

He notices and a strange, knowing smile surfaces on his lips. His eyes begin to sparkle again. ‘So you
do
remember,’ he says. ‘At least some part of you
does.’

He reaches towards my face. I panic and pull away. My breath quickens and despite my efforts I can’t seem to get it under control.

I see the supermarket doors open. Heather exits, carrying a small plastic tub in one hand – the sour cream she mentioned, I presume – and a receipt in the other.

This time I really do want him to leave and I know that she will make sure he does.

He follows my gaze across the parking lot and I watch his expression shift. His palpable calmness suddenly turns to alarm. Which only confirms what I’ve been trying to tell myself all
along.

He’s a fraud.

‘OK,’ he says hurriedly. ‘I was hoping to have more time, but apparently I don’t, so please listen.’

He focuses back on me, his gaze gripping mine so intensely it stops my breath. ‘Sera, you’re in danger. You’re not who you think you are. There are people looking for you, and
trust me when I say, you do
not
want them to find you.’

I shake my head dazedly. What is happening? Why is he saying these things? Why do I feel so woozy?

I don’t know him. I don’t remember him. I can’t trust him.

I repeat it over and over again. Like a mantra.

‘Which is why,’ he says emphatically, ‘it’s very important you don’t attract any attention to yourself. And especially not any press. Or photographers. Keep wearing
the hat. Do whatever you need to do to conceal yourself.’

What is taking Heather so long? She should be here by now.

I look up to see that she’s stopped halfway across the parking lot to talk to a woman carrying a baby. Judging by their body language, I assume they know each other. Heather reaches out to
tickle the small child, who laughs giddily in response.

‘I know you won’t believe anything I say,’ the boy continues, pulling my attention back to him. ‘At least not until you figure it out on your own. And I know you’re
going to try to talk yourself out of whatever you’re feeling right now. That’s simply the way you are. But I also know the memory is in there somewhere.
I’m
in there
somewhere.’

I drop my gaze to the ground, but he bends his head to catch it.

‘You just have to find it,’ he urges.

His voice is grave. Pleading. It makes my hands shake.

Heather has finished her conversation and is making her way towards us. She studies our interaction carefully, seemingly noticing the boy for the first time. She doubles her pace.

He glances in her direction, then back at me. ‘Sera, you need to
try
to remember.’

I can’t take it any more. The tingling skin. The heat. The eyes. It’s too much. I turn away from him and grab the last bag from the cart. I place it in the trunk, trying to block out
the sound of his voice. But it continues to infiltrate all my mental barriers.

‘Don’t trust anyone,’ he urges. ‘Try to remember what really happened. Try to remember
me.
’

I focus on a box of frozen pizza that’s peeping out from the top of one of the bags.

290 words.

1,432 letters.

The counting seems to be working. I can no longer hear him. My forehead is starting to cool.

108 instances of the letter
A
.

87 instances of the letter—

‘Who was that?’ I hear Heather’s voice behind me and I swivel around.

‘Who?’

‘That boy who was just here talking to you.’

I think about telling her the truth. Repeating everything he said to me. But his voice still rings in my ears.

‘Don’t trust anyone.’

I peer up at Heather’s kind, gentle face. I may not remember much about anything, but I have a hard time believing she could possibly be dangerous.

Still, for some reason I find myself saying, ‘He recognized me from the news. I told him to leave me alone and he left.’

Maybe it’s because that’s what I want so desperately to believe myself.

She seems satisfied with my response and reaches up to close the trunk. I subtly scan the parking lot, searching for some trace of the boy, but I don’t see him anywhere. If Heather
hadn’t asked about him, I might finally have been able to convince myself that he never even existed.

But he did.

And more than that, he knows about the locket.

Heather opens the car door for me and I nearly fall in, grateful to have something sturdy underneath me.

‘Well, Violet,’ Heather says with a chuckle as she gets in on the driver’s side and fastens her seat belt, ‘you survived the supermarket. You can pretty much conquer
anything now.’

I smile politely and turn to gaze out the window.
Violet,
I repeat silently, the temporary name suddenly feeling as ill-fitting as my borrowed clothes.

Heather and Scott’s son is home when we return from the
supermarket. He’s smaller than I thought he would be. His photograph made him appear bigger
somehow. But standing up, he’s only as high as my shoulder. His arms are skinny. His face is young. Childlike. Although I don’t technically know what thirteen is supposed to look like,
Cody does not strike me as someone who is only three years younger than me. But perhaps a person does a lot of growing between the ages of thirteen and sixteen. His hair is dark blond. It sprouts
in many different directions. Round wire-rimmed glasses sit across a round face that’s pocked with brown and orange freckles.

‘Mom,’ he says, sounding agitated as he pats down his disorderly curls, ‘you didn’t tell me she was
hot
.’ Judging by his hushed tone and the way he turns
his face away from me when he speaks, I don’t believe he meant for me to hear this. But I do.

Heather laughs and ruffles the same hair that Cody has just attempted to smooth. ‘What does it matter what she looks like?’

His eyes dart towards me and then away again. ‘It
matters
,’ he says, his teeth clenched tightly.

‘Violet,’ she says with a smile, ‘this is our son, Cody, who apparently thinks you’re “hot”.’

‘Mom!’ His eyes grow wide and his face turns a curious shade of red.

‘I feel a normal temperature,’ I reply, slightly confused by the exchange.

Heather laughs again. ‘Violet still hasn’t regained her memories,’ she explains delicately. ‘She’s not familiar with a lot of slang.’ She puts her arm around
Cody’s shoulder. ‘Maybe you can teach her the “hip” words teenagers are using. Help her become cool.’

Cody’s eyes roll upward. It’s an expression I’ve never seen before but make a mental note to attempt in front of the mirror later. ‘First of all, Mom,’ he says with
a groan, ‘no one uses the word
hip
except you, and second of all, I’m the last person in the world anyone should go to for tips on how to be cool.’

‘Well, that’s just not true,’ Heather argues. ‘You’re cool to me.’

Cody’s eyes roll again. ‘Oh, great,’ he says, his voice sounding hoarse and insincere. ‘My
mother
thinks I’m cool. I’m sure the freshman chicks are
going to fall all over themselves.’

Heather turns to me. ‘Cody is starting high school in a couple of weeks. He’s a bit nervous.’

‘Mom!’ He pushes her arm from his shoulder.
‘Stop!’

I watch him toss the strap of a large backpack over his arm and walk up the stairs. I’m intrigued by how much louder his footsteps are than anyone else’s in the house. Particularly
in proportion to his size.

‘You’ll have to excuse him,’ Heather says as she finishes emptying the bags of groceries. ‘He’s at an awkward age.’

Awkward age.
I dissect the phrase, trying to make it fit with what I just witnessed. Is she referring to his small size? Or the fact that he changes colour so frequently? I’m about
to ask her to elaborate but she does so without prompting.

‘Thirteen is hard. You don’t know who you are yet. Who your real friends are. Who you can trust. You don’t yet know what you’re capable of.’

I absorb her definition, mulling it over. ‘I suppose I’m at an awkward age too, then.’

She smiles. I like the way it crinkles the skin around her eyes. And slightly softens them. She closes a cabinet door and looks at me. ‘Thank you,’ she says.

‘For what?’

‘You have a good heart.’

I think back to the hospital, remembering what Kiyana said about my vitals, and assume that’s what Heather is referring to. Although I don’t understand how it relates to this
conversation.

‘Anyway,’ she says, rinsing her hands in the sink, ‘I suppose it doesn’t help that Cody is only interested in math and science. It’s been a long time since I was a
teenager but I know those kinds of hobbies never help one’s social situation in school. Plus, he’s a bit on the small side. But his father didn’t hit his growth spurt until he was
fifteen.’

I listen to everything that Heather is saying even though I don’t comprehend the meaning of all of it. I have a feeling, however, she doesn’t need me to.

‘You’re a lucky girl to be so pretty so young,’ she says to me. ‘I’m sure wherever you’re from, you didn’t have any trouble getting dates or making
friends.’

I wonder if that could be true.

She wipes her hands on a towel. ‘Anyway, if Cody acts strangely it’s because he gets nervous when he’s around pretty girls. Give him some time to get used to you being here.
He’s a very sweet boy.’

I nod and smile, unsure of what to say next.

Heather suggests I go upstairs and rest, promising to call me when dinner’s ready.

I don’t argue. I’m anxious to be alone. I climb the steps quietly and retreat to my room, closing the door behind me.

I sit in the rocking chair and sway back and forth. The movement calms me. The range of motion is limited. Confined. It fits in a box.

I like things that fit in boxes. Especially boxes that have labels.

It’s the misshapen, unmarked containers with unknown contents that bother me.

Although I tell myself not to, I think about the boy. I can’t help it. He fascinates me. And infuriates me at the same time.

What does that mean?

Maybe nothing.

Maybe everything.

He wasn’t like Cody. He was tall. Taller than me. His face was long and oval-shaped. His arms were not scrawny, but loosely defined by muscle. I assume this signifies he’s already
hit his ‘growth spurt’, as Heather called it. Which means he’s older than thirteen. I find myself wishing I had a better frame of reference.

For everything.

Is it possible he really knows things about me? Where I’m from. What I’m like. Who I am.

‘Sera. That’s your name. It’s short for Seraphina.’

Seraphina.

I walk over to the mirror and stare at my reflection while I repeat the name aloud, dissecting it in my mind.

‘Sera. Short for Seraphina.’

Seraphina . . . Sera . . .
S
.