Unremembered (2 page)

I know words and cities and numbers. I like numbers. They feel real to me when everything around me is not. They are concrete. I can cling to them. I can’t remember my own face but I know
that the digits between one and ten are the same now as they were before I lost everything. I know I must have learned them at some point in my eclipsed life. And that’s as close to a sense
of familiarity as I’ve gotten.

I count to keep myself occupied. To keep my mind filled with something other than abandoned space. In counting I’m able to create facts. Items I can add to the paltry list of things that I
know.

I know that someone named Dr Schatzel visits my room every fifty-two minutes and carries a cup of coffee with him on every third visit. I know that the nurses’ station is twenty to
twenty-four footsteps away from my room, depending on the height of the person on duty. I know that the female newscaster standing on the kerb at Los Angeles International Airport blinks fifteen
times per minute. Except when she’s responding to a question from the male newscaster back in the studio. Then her blinks increase by 133 per cent.

I know that Tokyo, Japan, is a long way for a sixteen-year-old girl to be travelling by herself.

Kiyana enters my room and frowns at the screen. ‘Violet, baby,’ she says, pressing a button on the bottom that causes my face to dissolve to black, ‘watchin’ that
twenty-four-hour news coverage is not gonna do you any good. It’ll only upset you more. Besides, it’s gettin’ late. And you’ve been up for hours now. Why doncha try to get
some sleep?’

Defiantly I press the button on the small device next to my bed and the image of my face reappears.

Kiyana lets out a buoyant singsongy laugh. ‘Whoever you are, Miss Violet, I have a feelin’ you were the feisty type.’

I watch the television in silence as live footage from the crash site is played. A large rounded piece – with tiny oval-shaped windows running across it – fills the screen. The
Freedom Airlines logo painted on to the side slowly passes by. I lean forward and study it, scrutinizing the curved red-and-blue font. I try to convince myself that it means something. That
somewhere in my blank slate of a brain, those letters hold some kind of significance. But I fail to come up with anything.

Like the slivers of my fragmented memory, the debris is just another shattered piece that once belonged to something whole. Something that had meaning. Purpose. Function.

Now it’s just a splinter of a larger picture that I can’t fit together.

I collapse back against my pillow with a sigh.

‘What if no one comes?’ I ask quietly, still cringing at the unfamiliar sound of my own voice. It’s like someone else in the room is speaking and I’m just mouthing the
words.

Kiyana turns and look at me, her eyes narrowed in confusion. ‘Whatcha talkin’ about, love?’

‘What if . . .’ The words feel crooked as they tumble out. ‘What if no one comes to get me? What if I don’t
have
anyone?’

Kiyana lets out a laugh through her nose. ‘Now that’s jus’ foolishness. And I don’t wanna hear it.’

I open my mouth to protest but Kiyana closes it with the tips of her fingers. ‘Now, listen here, Violet,’ she says in a serious tone. ‘You’re the mos’ beautiful
girl I’ve ever seen in all my life. And I’ve seen a lotta girls. You are special. And no one that special ever goes forgotten. It’s been less than a day. Someone’s gonna
come for you. It’s jus’ a matter of time.’

With a satisfied nod of her head and a squeeze of her fingers, she releases my lips and goes back to her routine.

‘But what if I don’t remember them when they do?’

Kiyana seems less concerned with this question than the last one. She smooths the sheets around my feet. ‘You will.’

I don’t know how she can be so confident when I couldn’t even remember what a television was. ‘How?’ I insist. ‘You heard the doctors. All my personal memories are
completely gone. My mind is one big empty void.’

She makes a strange clucking sound with her tongue as she pats the bed. ‘That doesn’t make any difference. Everybody knows the memories that really matter don’t live in the
mind.’

I find her attempt at encouragement extremely unhelpful. It must show on my face because Kiyana pushes a button to recline my bed and says, ‘Don’t be gettin’ yourself all
worked up, now. Why doncha rest up? It’s been a long day.’

‘I’m not tired.’

I watch her stick a long needle into the tube that’s connected to my arm. ‘Here, love,’ she says tenderly. ‘This’ll help.’

I feel the drugs enter my bloodstream. Like heavy chunks of ice navigating a river.

Through the mist that’s slowly cloaking my vision, I watch Kiyana exit the room. My eyelids are heavy. They droop. I fight the rising fatigue. I hate that they can control me so easily. It
makes me feel helpless. Weak. Like I’m back in the middle of the ocean, floating aimlessly.

The room becomes fuzzy.

I see someone in the doorway. A silhouette. It moves towards me. Fast. Urgently. Then a voice. Deep and beautiful. But the sound is slightly distorted by whatever substance is pumping through my
blood.

‘Can you hear me? Please open your eyes.’

Something warm touches my hand. Heat instantly floods my body. Like a fire spreading. A good kind of fire. A burn that seeks to heal me.

I fight to stay awake, wrestling against the haze. It’s a losing battle.

‘Please wake up.’ The voice is far away now. Fading fast.

I can barely see the face of a young man. A boy. Hovering inches above me. He blurs in and out of focus. I make out dark hair. Damp against his forehead. Warm maple eyes. A crooked smile.

And without thinking, without intention, I feel myself smiling back.

I open my mouth to speak but the words come out garbled. Half formed. Half conscious. ‘Do I know you?’

He squeezes my hand. ‘Yes. It’s me. Do you remember?’

The answer comes before I can even attempt to respond. It echoes in some back corner of my mind. A faraway flicker of a flame that is no longer lit. A voice that is not my own.

Yes.

Always yes.

‘This wasn’t supposed to happen.’ He speaks softly, almost to himself. ‘You’re not supposed to be here.’

I struggle to make sense of what is happening. To cling on to the unexpected surge of hope that has surfaced. But it’s gone just as quickly as it came. Extinguished in the dark void of my
depleted memory.

A low groan escapes my lips.

I feel him moving around me. Fast, fluid motions. The tube that was in my nose is removed. The IV is gently pulled from my vein. There’s a faint tug on the cord attached to the suction cup
under my gown and then a shrill beeping sound fills the room.

I hear frantic footsteps down the hall, coming from the nurses’ station. Someone will be here in less than fifteen steps.

‘Don’t worry,’ he continues in a whisper, lacing his warm fingers through mine and squeezing. ‘I’m going to get you out of here.’

I suddenly shiver. A chill has rolled over me. Slowly replacing every spark of heat that was lingering just under my skin.

And that’s when I realize that the touch of his hand has vanished. With all my strength, I reach out, searching for it. Grasping at cold, empty air. I fight to open my eyes one last time
before the darkness comes.

He is gone.

I wake up the next morning feeling drowsy. The drugs
linger in my system. My arms and legs are heavy. My throat is dry. My vision is blurred. It takes a few
moments for it to clear.

Kiyana enters. She smiles upon seeing me. ‘Well, look who’s awake.’

I push the button on the small box next to me. The back of the bed rises until I’m sitting upright.

Kiyana retreats to the hallway and returns a few seconds later with a tray. ‘I brought you some breakfast. Do you wanna try eatin’ some real food?’

I look at the items on her tray. I can’t identify a single one. ‘No.’

She laughs. ‘Can’t say I blame you. That’s hospital food for you.’

She takes the tray back out to the hallway and returns, writing things down on her clipboard. ‘Vitals are good,’ she says with a wink. ‘Like always.’ Her fingertip does a
tap tap tap
on the screen of the heart monitor next to my bed. ‘A good strong heart you’ve got there.’

The machines.

The cord.

There was a boy in my room.

I reach up and touch my face. The tube in my nose is intact. I glance down at my arm. The IV has been reinserted. I peer around the room. It’s empty except for Kiyana.

But he was here. I heard him. I
saw
him.

Who was he? Did I know him? He said I did.

I feel the warmth in my stomach again. Hope on the rise.

‘Kiyana?’ I say, my voice inexplicably wobbly.

‘Yes, love?’ She flicks her pen against the bag filled with clear liquid that’s attached to my IV.

I swallow dry air. ‘Has anyone . . . ?’ My lip starts to quiver. I bite it quickly before trying again. ‘Did anyone come in here last night? Like a visitor?’

Her face scrunches up as she flips a page on her clipboard. Then she slowly shakes her head. ‘No, love. Jus’ the night nurse. When you knocked out your IV in your sleep.’

‘What?’ My throat constricts but I push past it. ‘
I
did that?’

She nods. ‘I don’t think you took well to the drugs.’

I feel my face fall. ‘Oh.’

But the image of the boy is so clear in my memory now. I can see his eyes. And the way his dark hair fell into them as he leaned over me.

‘But listen,’ Kiyana says pointedly, her gaze darting discreetly towards the open door, then back to me. A cunning grin erupts on her face as she bends down and whispers, ‘I
did hear some good news this mornin’.’

I peer up at her.

‘They started interviewin’ some people who claim to be your family.’

‘Really?’ I sit up straighter.

‘Yeah,’ she confirms with a
pat pat pat
on my blanketed leg. ‘Hundreds of people have been callin’ after that newscast yesterday. The police have been
interviewin’ them all night.’ She steals another glance at the hallway. ‘But I’m not supposed to tell you that, so don’t be getting me in any trouble.’

‘Hundreds?’ I ask, suddenly confused. ‘But how could there be hundreds?’

Her voice is back to a whisper. ‘So far, they’ve all’ve been impostors. Media-hungry fakes.’

‘You mean people have been
lying
about knowing me?’

The boy’s face instantly dissolves. Just like the warm touch of his hand on my skin.

She shakes her head in obvious disapproval. ‘Well, I’ll tell you. I blame that news coverage. You’ve become a celebrity overnight. People can be so desperate for
attention.’

‘Why?’

‘Now that’s a question that needs a whole heap of an explanation, love. One that I don’t know if I can give you. But I’m sure that one of those calls will prove to be the
real thing.’

I feel my shoulders sink and my body slouch. Like my spine has given out on me.

Impostors.

Liars.

Fakes.

Was that really what the boy was? Someone trying to meet the famous survivor of flight 121? The thought fills me with a surge of emotion. The idea that he was able to make me feel a sliver of
hope –
false
hope – leaves me feeling foolish. And furious.

But then again, maybe he was never here at all. The drugs could have caused me to hallucinate. Invent things.

Invent people.

I fall back against my pillow, deflated. I reach for the remote control and turn on the television. My photograph is still on the screen, although it’s been resized and placed in the top
right corner. A new female reporter is standing in front of the same Los Angeles International Airport sign.

‘Once again,’ she is saying, ‘anyone with information about this girl’s identity is encouraged to call the number on the screen.’ A long string of digits appears
below the woman’s chest. The same ones as yesterday.

And I’m struck with a thought.

‘Kiyana?’

She’s writing something on her clipboard and pauses to look up at me. ‘What’s that, love?’

‘How do they know the callers are impostors?’

She glances back down at her clipboard and continues scribbling notes, answering my question distractedly. ‘Because none of them know about the locket.’

My gaze whips towards her. ‘What locket?’

She still doesn’t look up, oblivious to the alarm in my voice. ‘The one you had on when they found you.’ Her voice slows as she comes to the end of her sentence and notices the
ghastly expression on my face. Something she clearly wasn’t expecting to see.

Her hand goes to her mouth, as though to recapture the words that she has inadvertently set free.

But it’s too late. They’re already imprinted on my barren brain.

I feel my teeth clench and my eyes narrow as I turn my glaring expression on her and seethe, ‘No one told me anything about a locket.’

‘The only reason we didn’t tell you about it,’ Dr Schatzel
says as he dances his hands around in some kind of apologetic gesture, ‘is
that we didn’t want to overwhelm you.’

This
overwhelms me. I hear the faint, rhythmic beeping of my heart monitor start to speed up. ‘You had
no
right to keep it from me. It’s
mine
.’

The doctor puts a hand on my arm in an act I assume is meant to calm me. ‘Relax,’ he coaxes. ‘The police are having it analysed in the hope that they can possibly identify
where it was made or purchased. They thought maybe it could help us locate your family. Don’t forget that we’re all on the same side here. We’re after the same goal. And
that’s finding out who you are.’

I can feel the rage building up inside me. ‘I don’t believe you!’ I cry out. ‘If we were all on the same side, you wouldn’t be stealing my stuff and not telling me
about it. You wouldn’t be making me lie in this bed for two days when there’s absolutely nothing wrong with me.’ I shove the covers off my legs and sit upright.