Unremembered (5 page)

Obviously it’s what
I
wear.

But for some reason now it feels all wrong. The clothes fit
physically
but the longer I wear them, the more uneasy I become. Suddenly I have a desperate urge to shed them as quickly as
possible. I throw the shirt over my head, yank the pants down and kick them from my ankles, feeling better almost immediately.

I stand in my underwear breathing heavily for a moment before putting on a pair of pink cotton pyjamas that Heather loaned me to sleep in.

It isn’t until I’m bending down to scoop up the discarded grey garments from the floor that I notice the small white flap attached to the inside lining of the pants.

I pick them up and examine the flap closely.

It’s a pocket.

And after rubbing the fabric between my fingertips, I conclude that there is definitely something in there.

I squeeze my fingers inside and draw out a crumpled and tattered piece of yellowed paper. The stale texture tells me that it was in the water with me.

I bring the paper over to the dresser and work to unfold it, smoothing it against the wooden surface.

I lean forward and squint at the shaky, faded letters, handwritten in thick black ink. The salt water certainly took its toll but I still manage to make out the only two words visible on the
page.

A lump forms in my throat but I quickly swallow it back. I read the note over and over again, feeling more discouraged with every pass.

Trust him?

Trust
who
?

Who wrote this?

I squeeze my eyes closed, trying to shut out the frustration that is welling up inside me but it’s pointless. Emotion takes over. Scratching underneath my skin. Burning me from the inside
out.

Why does everything have to be so cryptic? Why can’t anything just make sense?

I crumple up the note and bury it in my fist. Then I grab the locket from the top of the dresser and sit down in the chair that rocks. I sway until the exasperation has subsided.

I open the heart-shaped charm and stare into the emptiness, thinking about what might have been inside. What might have been lost at sea along with the memories of my favourite foods, car rides
and summer camp.

Something Heather said as I was helping her wash dishes after lunch today is echoing in my mind.

‘We’re not here to replace your real family,’ she explained to me. ‘I want you to know that.’

I told her I already knew.

‘We’re just here to help out until they can be found. And I’m 100 per cent positive that they
will
be found. But we’re here for you as long as you need
us.’

I thanked her and placed the plate in my hand into the dishwasher like she’d shown me a few minutes earlier. I liked how each dish had a place that was made especially for it. A perfectly
sized slot.

As I hold my locket in my hand and read the inscription again,
S
+
Z
=
1609
, I find myself wondering if such a place exists for me. Maybe it did. But maybe it, too,
was forever lost.

Everyone around me is so confident that one day I will remember. That my family will be found, my memories will be restored and my life will be returned to me.

But unfortunately I don’t share this conviction. I don’t believe what they so strongly believe. Because for some reason, my memories don’t feel temporarily misplaced. They feel
gone
.

And if that’s the case, then my only chance of having a life that I can call my own is to create one myself.

I place the crumpled piece of yellowed paper inside the locket and snap it closed. Then I stand up and walk back to the dresser. I pull open the top drawer and slide the necklace inside, vowing
to forget it along with everything else from my past.

Vowing to move forward to find my new perfect place.

I am back in the crowd. Trying to leave the hospital but I
can’t get through. The swarm of people is too thick. They ask me questions. Pull at my
clothes. Grab my arms and legs and hair. They yank me in different directions.

My escort has been swallowed up ahead of me. I am alone.

I try to fight them off. But they are too strong. Because there are so many of them.

I plead, begging them to let me go. But they don’t answer. I try to capture somebody’s attention, but one by one they fade before my eyes. Until they have all blended into one giant,
dark stranger. With cold, ruthless blue eyes and a wide, sinister smile. His features are cast in shadow but I know he’s watching me.

Always watching.

He doesn’t speak. He never speaks. He only observes.

There’s a hunger in his presence. A greed. He wants me. He anticipates me. And every day his desire for me grows stronger.

I squirm under his gaze, eager to get away. But there is nowhere to go. I am trapped. His prisoner.

His voice emerges from the darkness like a snake slithering into the light. ‘When will she be ready?’ he asks.

I scream and wake up.

This is my first dream.

Today Heather has to go to something called a supermarket
to buy food for Cody’s return. Scott is at work and she doesn’t want to leave me home
alone so she takes me with her, promising that no one will recognize me.

I still feel better when she offers to lend me a navy-blue hat with a white logo on the front. ‘Scott’s favourite baseball team,’ she explains as she pulls the rim down to my
eyebrows, cloaking most of my face in shadow. Then she slides something she calls sunglasses over my eyes and the world becomes a few shades darker.

‘Now I can imagine how all those celebrities must feel,’ she says with a laugh as I get out of the car.

Heather has loaned me a few more articles of clothing to wear until we have a chance to buy some for me. The pants are too big and have to be held up by a belt and the green collared shirt is
long but it covers the belt.

We enter the store and I immediately stop and take in the overwhelming site.

Market: a location to buy and sell merchandise.

Super: very large.

Heather places her hand gently on my elbow. ‘It’s all right. Just stay close to me.’

I do as she says, watching with immense curiosity as she places item after item in the cart. She adds commentary along the way about Cody’s love of certain foods and his allergy to others.
She makes guesses about what I might like, referencing things she’s heard or seen on TV about what teenage girls prefer to eat.

Despite its daunting size, I quickly decide that I like the supermarket. There are words to read and things to count everywhere. I appreciate that someone has taken the time to label everything.
Every aisle. Every package. Every ingredient. It’s extremely helpful for someone like me. I devour the words hungrily. Some of the simpler labels make sense. Like eggs and milk and orange
juice. I have a hard time extracting meaning from others. Like Apple Jacks and root beer and Thousand Island dressing.

‘I would buy you some make-up,’ Heather says as we stroll down an aisle identified as Beauty Products, ‘but I swear you don’t need any. Your features are so
flawless.’

Then she chuckles softly to herself. ‘Funny, that’s what my mother used to say to me when I was a teenager. I always hated it.’ She plucks a few packages from a rack and tosses
them into the cart.

‘Do you eat meat?’ she asks as we approach a large glass case filled with an assortment of fleshy red slabs.

I peer through the glass, reading the variety of offerings. ‘It doesn’t look familiar,’ I admit, feeling a bit queasy all of a sudden.

‘Well, it doesn’t look like that when you eat it,’ Heather explains. ‘You cook it first and it turns brown.’

I nod. ‘Oh. Right.’

‘Well, you can try it and see,’ she offers. ‘If you don’t like it, you don’t have to eat it. A lot of people around here don’t eat meat. It’s called
being a vegetarian. Perhaps you were one.’

I shrug. ‘Perhaps.’

Once our cart has been filled to the top, Heather pushes it towards the front of the store and parks it behind another person. I observe the woman in front of us as she empties the contents of
her own cart on to a moving conveyor belt. A young female cashier takes each item and swipes it along a metal surface, eliciting a
beep
. I notice a small screen that displays a name and
number after each swipe.

Beep.
Grape jelly: $2.99.

Beep.
Raw sugar: $4.79.

Beep.
Oatmeal: $5.15.

‘Is that all?’ the girl asks several minutes later, after the cart is empty.

The woman nods. ‘That’ll be it for today. What’s the total?’

The cashier presses a few buttons on a machine in front of her and I hear a soft voice whisper, ‘$187.22.’

It isn’t until this very number appears on the screen and the girl repeats it that I realize the voice I heard was my own. The realization takes me by surprise although I’m not sure
why. I suppose it’s because I wasn’t aware I’d been counting.

Heather gives me a look of admiration. ‘Impressive.’

She pushes the cart forward and starts to unload it. ‘Scott can add large sums in his head too,’ she says. ‘Math was never my strong suit. Looks like we discovered your
favourite subject in school.’ She turns and gives me a wink.

The cashier starts to scan our items.

Beep.
Canned tomatoes: $1.29.

Beep.
Doritos: $2.79.

Beep.
Pop-Tarts: $3.85.

Another conveyor picks up the items on the other side of the metal scanning slate and a young man in a red apron places each one into a bag. It looks like the bag Kiyana used to pack up my dull
grey clothes.

Beep.
Green chillies: $0.99.

The cashier places the can of green chillies on the second conveyor but it gets caught between the edge of the metal and the beginning of the belt. I watch in fascination as the small can spins
in helpless circles, trying to free itself.

‘Um, would you mind getting that for me?’

I look up to see the young man in the red apron gesturing towards the revolving can.

‘Yes, sorry,’ I say. But when I reach out to grab it, I’m stopped by a startling high-pitched sound.

BEEEEEEEEEEEEP!!!!

The noise takes me, Heather, the young man and the cashier by surprise. I drop the can of green chillies and quickly withdraw my hand.

The register continues to shrill while the cashier bewilderedly punches buttons on her keyboard to no avail. The screen displays the words
Error. Unreadable.

‘That’s strange,’ she says. ‘It must have malfunctioned. I have no idea what happened. Let me just call my manager.’

As she picks up a nearby phone, I surreptitiously glance down at my left arm. The one that was extended directly over the scanner when the noise started.

I turn my hand over and study the inside of my wrist. The skin around the tattoo is pulsating. I run my thumb across the thin black marking. It feels hot. Strangely hot. I recoil swiftly, a
small gasp escaping my lips.

‘What’s the matter?’ Heather asks, looking at me with her eyebrows pinched together.

I shake my wrist. The subtle stinging sensation has already started to fade. ‘Nothing.’

The register finally falls silent and the cashier hangs up the phone. ‘Sorry about that.’ She picks up the next item and scans it.

Beep.
Frozen pizza: $4.82.

It travels down the conveyor and into the awaiting brown bag.

Everything appears to be back to normal.

‘Your total is $102.49,’ the cashier says brightly.

The man in the red apron places the bags into our now-empty cart as Heather swipes a small plastic card through a machine mounted on the counter and punches a series of numbers into the keypad.
This seems to finalize the transaction. She thanks the cashier and beckons me forward, pushing the cart in front of her.

We walk to the parking lot in silence. The fresh air feels good. Heather presses a button on her key chain and the trunk of the car opens. She begins to transfer the bags of food from the
cart.

‘Oh!’ she exclaims suddenly, throwing her hands in the air. ‘I forgot the sour cream for the onion dip. Do you want to finish loading the groceries and I’ll just run in
and get it?’

I shrug. ‘OK.’

‘I’ll be two minutes,’ she promises, and then scurries away, heading back into the store.

I lift a bag from the cart and place it carefully inside the car, just as I observed Heather do a few seconds ago. I position it against the far wall to maximize space. When I turn to reach for
the next one, I notice someone standing behind me.

I jump and inhale a sharp breath.

I recognize him immediately. It’s the boy. The one who was in the crowd yesterday. And in my hospital room.

The one I still think I could easily have hallucinated.

But now he’s here. Close. I could reach out and touch him if I wanted to. And for some incomprehensible reason, I
do.
I feel my fingers tremble with the anticipation of it. But I
force my hands to stay where they are.

‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘I didn’t mean to scare you.’

He’s staring at me with a funny loose smile. His eyes are sparkling. He takes a step towards me and I suddenly feel queasy.

I step back, reminding myself that he lied. He’s one of
them.
The media-hungry fakes. A fraud.

‘Who are you?’ I demand.

I watch the smile vanish from his face. Replaced by a dismal frown. His thick brown eyebrows knit together, forming a deep crease in his forehead. ‘It’s true, then, isn’t
it?’

I don’t know what he’s talking about so I stay quiet.

He runs his fingers through his thick hair. ‘I can’t believe this is happening.’ His voice cracks. He looks to the ground. When he speaks again it’s barely a whisper.
‘You really did lose everything.’