Unremembered (11 page)

I sniffle, rub the moisture from my cheeks and pull myself to my feet.

When I open the door, however, I’m startled to see the boy standing in front of me. His wavy dark hair is swept back. His forehead is creased in concern as his soft chocolate eyes take me
in. Then he tilts his head to the side, studying my current predicament.

Tears.

Snot.

No clothes.

It’s only then I realize I haven’t yet gotten dressed. Logic tells me that I should care. If people were meant to be seen in their underwear they wouldn’t have these dressing
rooms with locks on the doors.

But I don’t care.

The only thing that bothers me about this situation is the fact that it doesn’t seem to bother me. Not in the slightest.

Another item to add to my list of abnormalities.

But I grab the purple dress from the hanger and hold it over my exposed body anyway. Just for show.

He smiles at my attempt. As though he
knows
it’s an act. ‘I’ve seen it all before,’ he says. His smile quickly fades and is replaced with a look of sincerity.
‘And it’s still beautiful.’

I don’t know what to say. I don’t even know if I want to talk to him. I can’t deal with this right now.

I have to get out of here.

I throw the dress over my head and pull the hem down to my knees.

He watches the fabric fall around my legs. And his endearing smile returns. ‘It’s nice to see you in
something
other than those boring grey things you always
wore.’

The clothes I was wearing when they found me. The ones Kiyana packed up for me in a brown paper bag.

He knows about them.

But I don’t care. Regardless of what the note says, regardless of what the gate agent told me, regardless of the way his eyes seem to heat my skin and melt my insides, I don’t want
to do this. I don’t
want
to trust him. I don’t want to believe anything he has to say. I just want to buy some normal clothes, go home to a normal, loving family and try to
live a normal life.

I reach for the door. He doesn’t try to stop me. He simply says, ‘You went to the airport.’ As though it’s a well-known fact.

‘So?’ I mutter, pushing past him.

‘So now you know that I was telling you the truth. That you weren’t on the plane.’

‘No. I
don’t
know that.’ I move up the row of empty stalls, determined to get out of here. But something stops me. I turn around. ‘Wait a minute. How did you
know I went to the airport?’ My eyes widen in horror. ‘Have you been
following
me?’

He shrugs as though this is not important. ‘I had to make sure you were safe. It’s my job to protect you.’

‘Your
job
?’

‘Well,’ he says, ‘it’s not an official title. Just something I swore to do once. Even if you don’t remember it, I’m still determined to keep that
promise.’

I run my tongue over my front teeth as I try to control my temper. This boy, despite his ability to crawl into the deep back pockets of my mind and stay there, is really getting on my nerves. I
sigh. ‘Protect me from
who
? These people who are supposedly looking for me but whom I’ve yet to see?’

‘Yes.’ His face turns solemn. Like a cloud has passed over it. He gestures towards my left wrist. ‘The same people who gave you that.’

With a sharp inhale, I glance down at the razor-thin black line and try to conceal it with my other hand. ‘Just because you know about my tattoo doesn’t mean—’

‘It’s not a tattoo.’

I’m fairly certain I already knew that.

‘It’s a tracking device,’ he continues.

I shake my head. I know I should keep walking. Turn my back on this boy forever and keep trying to forget he even exists. But something compels me to ask, ‘Who are you?’

‘My name is Lyzender.’

Just as I suspected. This means nothing to me. ‘I don’t recognize that name,’ I say flatly.

I expect his face to drop. I expect to see disappointment in his eyes.

But I don’t.

He appears as determined as ever. He moves towards me, takes my hand, holds it, squeezes it. Despite my impulse to flee, I don’t pull away. His touch is warm. Comforting. Almost . . .
familiar.

‘You
wouldn’t
recognize that name,’ he consents. ‘You always called me Zen. You said it was because I brought you peace.’

A shiver runs up my legs. It weakens my spine. My body starts to crumple. I fight to stand upright.

Lyzender. Zen.
Z
.

Seraphina. Sera.
S
.

S
+
Z
=
1609.

My breath quickens. I try to speak but no words seem able to take shape. My mouth feels dry. Rough. I rub my tongue against the roof until I feel saliva start to form again.

I think of my conversation with Cody – the one we had on the bus to Los Angeles – and I manage to ask, ‘Are you . . . uh . . . were you my boyfriend?’

His almond-shaped eyes squint as he smiles. He squeezes my hand again. ‘I’d like to think I was more than that.’

‘What do you mean?’

I watch the colour of his face change. It doesn’t turn the same shade of red that I’ve witnessed on Cody’s skin so many times, but there is a clear tint of scarlet flushing his
cheeks. He casts his eyes downward. ‘You told me I was your soulmate.’

The way he says
soulmate
, I realize it means something. Something important.

Mate: one member of a pair.

Soul: the principle of life, feeling, thought and actions in humans; regarded as a distinct entity separate from the body.

I glance anxiously down at his hand on mine. ‘I don’t know what that is.’

He chuckles softly. Knowingly. ‘I had to teach it to you the first time too.’

The first time?

Has this happened to me before?

My mind flashes to the note. The one currently stuffed inside my top dresser drawer.

Trust him.

‘You had to teach me a word?’ I ask.

‘I’ve had to teach you a lot of things.’

‘Why?’

‘Sera,’ he urges, tugging faintly on my hand, ‘come with me. Right now. I promise to answer your questions. But it’s not safe here.’

‘Why?’
I repeat adamantly, ignoring his request. ‘Why did you have to teach me things?’

He rubs at his chin and looks over his shoulder. Then finally he sighs deeply. ‘They were very selective about what vocabulary you knew. I think it was how they attempted to control
you.’

‘
Who
?’ I demand, ripping my hand from his grip. My rage has finally boiled over. It’s taken control now. ‘Who are you talking about?’

He seems to have lost control of his emotions too. Because when he answers, his voice is much sharper. Commanding. Not to mention louder. ‘I’m talking about the people who made you
like this!’ He gestures to all of me.

‘Like what?’

‘Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed. Because I know you have. You’re not like everyone else. You’re different, Sera. Special. You have unique abilities that other
people don’t have. Does any of that sound familiar?’

It does. It sounds
way
too familiar.

But right now it’s the last thing I want to think about.

My brain feels as though it’s on fire. I close my eyes and rub my temples in small circles with the tips of my fingers. ‘I don’t want to be different,’ I whisper.
‘I just want to be normal. I just want to find my family.’

‘But you’re
not
normal,’ he maintains, his voice soothing once again. ‘I think you’ve figured that out by now. And as far as I know, you don’t
have
a family.’

I open my eyes and take two large steps back. ‘What are you talking about?’ I ask in a measured tone.

‘Sera,’ he begins, closing the gap between us. He places his hands on my shoulders. His touch is urgent. Heavy. ‘When I first met you, you were living in a
lab
.’

Lab: short for laboratory.

Laboratory: a building, part of a building or other place equipped to conduct scientific experiments, tests and investigations.

He keeps talking. ‘On a compound for a company called Diotech. They’re a massive technology conglomerate. You were involved in one of their research projects. They do everything from
aeronautics to experimental science to . . .’ He pauses and nods ambiguously in my direction. Then he seems to change his mind about continuing and instead says, ‘Listen. I’m
staying at 1952 Bradbury Drive, room 302. Meet me there and I will explain it all to you.’

I shake my head and cover my ears but it does nothing to block the sound of his voice. I look for something to count. Tiles on the floor. But there aren’t enough.

‘No,’ I resolve fervently. ‘You’re lying. This is all a lie!’

He reaches for my hand again but I pull it away so fast – so
unnaturally
fast – it blurs in front of my eyes.

‘Sera, please,’ he urges.

‘Don’t call me that!’ I roar. ‘That’s not my name! And you are not my . . . my . . .
soulmate
. You aren’t anything! I don’t
know
you!
And I don’t know why you keep telling me these awful things that aren’t true but I don’t want to hear any more. Please, just leave me alone!’

I whirl around and stomp towards the doorway, determined to find Heather and get out of here as fast as I can. I expect to hear footsteps behind me but all is silent. I fight the urge to turn
back and study his reaction.

Then, out of the stillness, comes his voice. Passionate and earnest. ‘“Let me not to the marriage of true minds admit impediments.”’

And before I can process what he’s saying – before I can even fathom what is happening – I feel my lips start to move. I hear my own voice speak. Almost as though it’s
coming from someplace else. An entity distinct from my body.
Separate.

‘“Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds, or bends with the remover to remove.”’

I skid to a halt, playing the words over and over in my mind. What do they mean? Where did they come from? How do I know them?

Did I recite that from . . .
memory
?

I turn and look at the boy again. The one who calls himself Zen. The one who calls himself my soulmate.

His eyes illuminate. His lips part. ‘Welcome back, Seraphina.’

My instincts take over and I do the first thing that comes to
mind.

I run.

I bolt through the doorway and zigzag frantically through the racks of clothing until I find Heather, standing at the cash register. ‘I need to go. Now.’

She peers at me in alarm. ‘Why? What happened? Is everything OK?’

No. It’s definitely not.

I nod. ‘Yes. I just want to go.’

Irina hands Heather three large bags and a receipt. Heather thanks her and then turns back to me. ‘OK. Let’s go.’

I follow close behind her as we head for the exit. I can see the boy watching me from the doorway where I left him. His eyes track my every footstep. My every move.

I feel my face grow hot with rage. My teeth clench.

I’m angry at him for lying to me. For clearly trying to take advantage of my memory loss, preying on my naivety. And I’m angry at myself for believing him. Even for a second.

‘I think we got some really cute stuff,’ Heather says as she starts the car and reverses out of the parking spot.

‘Yes.’ I stare vacantly out the window, trying to backtrack through all the things he’s told me and discount them one by one.

You were never on that plane. Lie.

Your name is Seraphina. Lie.

I gave you the locket. Lie.

You’re some kind of human science experiment for a company called Diotech.

Even I, the dysfunctional amnesiac, can recognize how ludicrous that sounds.

Heather peers at me. I must be clenching my teeth again because she puts a tender hand on my arm and asks, ‘Did something happen in the dressing room while I was gone?’

I cringe at the memory. ‘No.’

‘Was it those girls?’ She takes a guess. ‘Did they say something to upset you?’

If only it was as simple as that. If only I was a normal human being who couldn’t speak in foreign languages without knowing I was speaking them and solve unsolvable math problems without
remembering how. If only I didn’t have boys following me around, feeding me blatant insulting falsities. Then maybe my only problem would be girls in a dressing room.

But my life is not as simple as Heather would like it to be. I’m learning that far too quickly.

And now I just want her to stop asking questions.

I want to forget the boy and all the inexplicable things that have happened to me.

‘No,’ I assert again. ‘I’m fine. Nothing happened.’

I can sense Heather struggling. She wants to press on and investigate further but she can sense that I’m not willing to talk. I’m grateful when she remains quiet and leaves me
alone.

I feel desolate and lost. Without an identity. Without a home. Without anything.

I don’t know who I am or what I am.

I’m certainly not like those girls in the dressing room.

I’m not like the Carlsons.

And even Cody admitted I’m not like the other girls he knows.

So what am I like? Where do I fit in?

And the question that is truly beginning to plague me: if that boy – the one who calls himself Zen – is really lying, why do all his answers make sense?

As soon as we get home, I go straight to Cody’s room. When I open the door, he’s sitting on his bed reading a magazine.

‘I really have to install a lock on
this
side of the door,’ he mumbles. He’s clearly not happy with me. I suppose I can understand that.

‘I’m . . .’ I fumble with an apology but it’s apparent from the stilted nature of my voice that unlike math problems and foreign languages, apologies are not something
I’m inherently good at. ‘I’m . . . sorry . . . about—’

‘Yeah, yeah,’ he snarls. ‘Save it. What do you want now?’