Memories in the Drift

by Payne, Melissa

  I smile, amused, and hold up my notebook. “Well, I’m trying.”

  “I mean with the other, oh”—he clears his throat—“it’s in your notebook, I’m sure.”

  My whole body stiffens, clueless as to what he’s talking about, so I turn to my notebook and my eyes widen. My mother lives in Whittier now. The idea shortens my breath. Is that why Hank seems uneasy? I keep reading, desperate to figure it out before he knows how in the dark I am, and I see another note to myself. Tate is in Whittier too. Now I can’t hide my surprise, because I can feel it in the tips of my ears. “Oh, are you talking about Tate Dunn? Yes, I know about that.” I rock back and forth on my heels. Hank certainly remembers how close I was with Tate. Caught us stealing two backpacks full of chips and soda from the market when we were sixteen. Afterward, he made us work for him for free for an entire week to pay him back. I don’t like remembering how little care we had for how we affected others, like Hank. I scrunch my nose. “Have I ever apologized to you for how I behaved as a kid?” His market was the victim of more than one of our shoplifting attempts, and we got caught only that one time.

  Hank’s eyebrows shoot skyward, as though my question surprises him. “Ah, Claire, that was a long time ago. You and Tate were just kids, and you both turned out all right, didn’t you? And you can bet that Vance made sure you apologized to me.”

  I smile. Of course he did. “Well, I’m sorry now, too, if that makes any difference.”

  Hank holds his hands out. “You have nothing to be sorry for; Vance raised you . . .” He drops his gaze, folds the paper that’s on the counter. “He raised you right, Claire.”

  The bell above the door chimes.

  “Hello, Hank,” Ruth says and I turn to see her in her post-office uniform of blue pants and a pressed and starched button-down shirt. “Hi, Claire. Hey, I meant to ask you yesterday . . .” She purses her lips. “Can you please do something to help Sefina stay on the beat?”

  I make a face. I don’t have to recall what she’s talking about to know it has to do with Sefina and her dancing. “She’s a lost cause, don’t you think?”

  Ruth laughs. “I wouldn’t tell her that. But you might want to head on over to the clinic now. Sefina needs to close a bit early today.” She seems to measure me up. “Would you like for me to walk you over?”

  I tilt my head, confused by her question because the city offices are in BTI, just down the hall. “No, Ruth, I think I can—”

  She hands me a note card. The city offices have moved. They are in the new building with the blue roof, across from Whiskey Pete’s.

  I shrug, try to act like this information doesn’t shift the landscape of my memory. Still, I know where Whiskey Pete’s is located, and it’s only a short walk. “Oh, no, I’ll be just fine. Hard to lose my way around here, right?” I check my phone and slide the market reminder left to clear it, leave the pharmacy reminder up on my screen. “See you later, Hank.”

  “Bye, Claire. See you tonight,” Hank says. I leave but the door to the market doesn’t close all the way, and I hear Hank speak quietly to Ruth, who murmurs something in return, and part of me wants to go back and demand to know what they’re talking about. But then the part of me that doesn’t want to acknowledge how little I remember wins and I walk away.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  It takes only a few minutes to get to the clinic. A warm breeze brushes over me, and I unzip my jacket, enjoy the warmer temperature. Up the hill and to my right stands the Buckner Building. I feel a pang when I glance up at the long stretch of concrete blackened by mold, shattered windows empty and dark. I’m even more like that building now. Once useful and moving forward and now forever frozen in time, a relic of my own past.

  As soon as I enter the clinic, I’m met with the powdery smell of latex laced with Vicks VapoRub. Sefina is behind the counter, her straight black hair pinned up on the sides, arms crossed. “I hear you think I’m a lost cause when it comes to dancing. I’ll have you know that I am going to start practicing every free minute I get, and then I will challenge you to a Jazzercise dance-off.”

  One of the reasons I’ve always loved Whittier—it’s as small town as small town gets. I went to college in Anchorage, and while I enjoyed the coffee shops and stores and learning how to be anonymous among so many people, I missed Whittier and the sense of belonging I’ve always felt here. I hold out my hands. “I’m sorry but I have no idea what you’re talking about. I have a significant memory-loss issue, you know.” I smile.

  She laughs. “Fine, you got me. But I’m still practicing.”

  I scan my notebook. “So I think the headaches have been worse lately.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, and”—I pause, scan the medical file I’ve brought along with me—“do you think it could have anything to do with the new meds I’m taking?”

  “I’m not sure, but I’ll put in a call to your doctor’s office, okay?” Her face softens. “Have you seen Tate again?”

  The question turns my knees to jelly. I ran into Tate? Here? I try not to show it as I flip the pages until I find the notes about our conversation, brief and to the point: Tate Dunn is back and he knows everything. My shoulders relax at that, but my mind spins trying to envision how I acted. Was I awkward? Embarrassed?

  Sefina waits while I read. “It doesn’t look like I’ve seen him again.” I feel a jolt of disappointment, a flutter of shame. He probably doesn’t want to see me like this. Can I blame him? Then I stiffen. “He’s married.”

  Sefina shakes her head. “Not anymore.”

  I nearly smile at the news but quickly cover it up with a cough. “What happened?”

  “From what Ruth said, it didn’t last very long. She said the woman was no good to begin with.” She waggles her eyebrows. “That’s good for you, though, huh?”

  My cheeks warm. It’s a ridiculous thing for her to say, and it bothers me that she speaks so flippantly, as if I’m normal. “Sefina,” I say quietly. “Who would ever want to be with someone like me?” I hold out my notebook and phone, see my hands tremble in the air because it upsets me that she even suggested it.

  “You are strong and smart and amazing, Claire. If I were gay, I would totally hit that.”

  And just like that my anger fades because I’ve never been able to stay mad at Sefina.

  She staples the top of a small white bag, smiles. “Hey, Leilani said she saw a flyer on the community board about guitar lessons with you. I had no idea you were thinking about something like that, but I think it’s fantastic!”

  I’m already flipping through the pages, irked that I can’t find anything related to guitar lessons. I can feel myself start to sweat, a twisting in my gut at the idea that I can’t develop a system big enough to cover everything I forget. I chew on my nail, thinking about a spreadsheet layout or some kind of innovative design to help me keep better track of things when Sefina speaks.

  “Claire?”

  “I can’t teach, Sefina.” My voice is quiet, bitter.

  When she doesn’t respond I look up to find her watching me, head tilted, her eyes soft. “Do you remember how you called Leilani your magical sprite? You’re still her favorite teacher, you know. I have no doubt that if you could handle Leilani, you can do anything.” The skin around her eyes crinkles. “And she was quite a handful.”

  Sweet memories surface of my early teaching days. It dulls my anxiety. I easily recall Sefina’s daughter, Leilani, a perfectly tiny version of her mother—dark haired and mischievous—and I was an enthusiastic and inexperienced newbie, completely in love with teaching. “She was just spirited, but I managed her okay,” I say, smiling now. “Except for that one time.”

  Sefina puffs her cheeks out with air. “She’ll never forget that day. Wasn’t it your first week teaching?”

  I laugh, enjoying the freedom of remembering. “I had playground duty. One minute Leilani was sitting beside me eating a sandwich. She asked me if I liked Spam and offered me a bite.”

&n
bsp; Sefina moans. “That girl and Spam. I’ll never understand it.”

  It’s as if I’m standing in the indoor playground, my boots digging into the coarse sand—Sefina fades as I let the memory become a movie I’ve watched a dozen times. Leilani was barefoot and hanging upside down on the monkey bars. Her waist-length hair fell like a waterfall over her head, shimmering in dark waves with her giggles. But even from across the playground, I saw her legs slipping, and we both screamed out. By the time I got to her, she’d fallen and landed with her arm at an unnatural angle. I knelt beside her and held her until help came, telling her jokes and stories to keep her tears at bay. I was pregnant but not really showing then, except I can remember the heartache at not protecting a child in my care. The worry that overwhelmed me at being a single mom. The guilt I felt. Would I be able to protect my own child if I couldn’t even protect little Leilani? I rub my stomach up and down, like I did when the baby was rounded out in front of me. My hand drops and I shift my weight. Sefina watches me, her eyes wet.

  “Talk about a failure of a first day,” I say. “Poor girl.”

  Sefina laughs. When she first moved here, Sefina was waif thin and unsmiling. Whittier gave her something good back. “Don’t give it a second thought, Claire; that broken arm was a badge of honor for Leilani.” She holds out a white paper bag. “Make sure you take these with food. Last time you mentioned that you were feeling a bit nauseous. Even a couple of crackers can make the difference.” She uncaps a black pen, writes across the bag. “It’s on the bag now too.”

  My phone buzzes. Go for a walk.

  I smile. It must be a nice day today if I scheduled a walk. I leave the clinic and head toward the harbor, inhaling the fresh air. I’m going for a walk. I’m going for a walk. I also have a reminder that buzzes me on my phone. You are taking a walk. The cool breeze feels good on my skin, and the clear sky is pale blue above the snowcapped mountains. I keep to the same path when I walk in town, through the pedestrian tunnel that runs under the railyard, down the boardwalk along the harbor, to the inn, turn around, go back through the tunnel, take a left down Whittier Street, past Whiskey Pete’s, and up Blackstone Road to the Buckner Building. It’s not a long walk, but it’s enough to stretch my legs and something I can easily do on my own.

  I don’t know what it is about the Buckner Building, but I feel a pull to it, a kinship. It was a place I started going to after Mom left, where Tate and I went often because it was the only place we could truly be alone. And now it’s just a nice way to end my walk. I reach the top of the hill, stand outside, and look up at the Buckner, a long stretch of concrete stained black, the building stark and pale against the deep-green vegetation that surrounds it. It took several years to build the nearly 275,000-square-foot military building, which included everything from barracks, a movie theater, a bowling alley, hospital, jail cell, even a bakery and a radio station, all connected by elevators and wide stairwells. It was completed in 1953, cost millions of dollars to build, and seven years later it was abandoned when the military deemed the Whittier port strategically unnecessary. I did a project on it in high school, and even now I can remember trying to wrap my mind around why adults would build something so big, so substantial, so useful and then walk away like it meant nothing. Then again, I could relate, and instead of buying into the rumors that it was haunted, I felt sad for the building and for every year it stood there empty and alone.

  From inside comes the drip of water and a shuffling sound like wildlife. The hair on the back of my neck stands on end, and I turn to see a bear sitting on the road that winds up and past the Buckner. My heart beats against my ribs. Bears are a common sighting here—they find this building a good place to hunker down on occasion—but I’m still awed by their wildness. Indecision freezes me in place. Should I turn and go or be still and let the bear go on its way? He sits back on his haunches, stares directly at me, and even from this distance I can see his black, pointed ears, the caramel fur around his muzzle, and his eyes, and all I can think about is Dad because he’s big and strong like a bear but also kindhearted and gentle too.

  Suddenly, I’m not scared, even as my pulse thunders in my ears. The bear gets to his feet and shakes his shiny black coat before sauntering up the road, then breaking into a run. He’s beautiful when he moves, and I watch him disappear when the road curves to the right. I’m oddly calm; the experience seems fitting here, in front of the building that stares down at me, empty and alone. I’m turning to leave when a small form darts from around the other side of the building.

  It’s a child—a girl—with her hair pulled into what I think is a poorly executed beehive, which, combined with her cat-eye glasses, gives her the look of someone who might have roamed this building in its heyday. She’s running straight toward me as though she’s been waiting for me. Do I know her?

  “Oh, crap, Ms. Claire, this place is freaking creepy!”

  Question answered: I do, in fact, know her.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask, keeping the question general enough to get an answer that might help me connect the dots.

  The girl stands with her hands on her hips, her cheeks red, her breathing heavy and exaggerated like she just ran a half marathon. I smile. She’s cute.

  “I want to go inside, but I’m not allowed to ’cause it’s too dangerous.”

  “Why do you want to go inside?”

  She gives me a look like I’m made of something dense.

  “I want to see what’s in there! Then I saw you walking up here, so I ran as fast as I could, ’cause you’re a really tall adult and a teacher, and you could take me in, right?”

  The dots are getting easier to connect, but that doesn’t mean I understand them any better. “You followed me here?”

  She flattens her mouth into the sheepish kind of look I remember seeing on kids’ faces when they’d been caught doing something they shouldn’t. “Yeah, well, this building is creepy, but it’s all alone and I think that’s kinda sad ’cause nobody wants it, you know?”

  “Yeah, actually, I do know. I think the same thing.” I smile at the girl’s insight.

  “See? So we should go inside together. Can we? Please?”

  I’m already shaking my head no when my phone buzzes. You are taking a walk. “Trust me; it’s too dangerous inside.”

  Her eyes widen. “Do you know that ’cause you’ve been inside?”

  “Yes—I mean no. It was built a long time ago, so we have no idea what kind of bad materials could be inside.”

  “Like what?” She’s a curious one.

  “Like asbestos, which is really bad for our lungs.”

  “Like you can’t breathe in there or you’ll die?” Her voice is awed.

  I smile. “Not exactly, but it’s a good idea to stay out.” I hold up my buzzing phone. “I need to get back and so should you. The bears are still out, and they love this building. You shouldn’t be outside alone, okay? Walk back with me.”

  I start to walk and realize the little girl isn’t beside me; I stop and turn to find her where we’d been standing.

  “It seemed like you remembered, but you didn’t,” she says. “You’re good at pretending, aren’t you?”

  Her words are spot on, and I wonder how many times we’ve interacted. I don’t have to wait, though, because the girl has started counting off.

  “I’ve seen you lots since I moved here.” She holds up a finger. “I helped you in the gardens once.” Raises a second finger. “I read you my story during quiet activity time at school.” And a third. “Last Wednesday you caught me trying to grab Oreos out of the vending machine, ’cept my arm is too short, and anyways you told me it was stealing.” A pinkie finger. “Once I brought up a basket of your laundry ’cause you forgot what you were doing and started to go back upstairs without your basket, so I followed you and gave it to you at your apartment. It was heavy.” She stands taller, obviously proud of herself. “You gave me a dollar and said it was a very nice thing for me to do.” S
he raises her thumb. “And now this time.” She purses her lips, scrunches her nose. “But you don’t remember me, do you? I’m Maree, like Mary with a y ’cept with two e’s ’cause I love Anne of Green Gables, and she put an e at the end of her name, and I think that’s really cool.”

  I’m writing everything she’s saying as fast as I can, which is a challenge because the child speaks as though it’s all one long sentence. But now all the dots are laid out in a way that I can connect a few, and I look up from my notebook to find the girl staring at me, head tilted, upper lip sucked in.

  “Do you always have to do that?”

  “Do what?”

  “Write everything down? Can’t you ever just, you know, do things without having to write it down? ’Cause you rub your hand a lot like it hurts.” Her eyes roll to the sky. “And also”—she starts to hop up and down on her feet—“it’s really cold out here, and we could have been back to BTI by now if you didn’t have to write so much down.”

  I want to respond, I want to say something to negate her words, but the truth of them strips me down, exposes my farcical system that can’t even make a little girl think I’m normal.

  She blows air through her lips until they flap. “Oh man; I’m sorry, Ms. Claire. I shouldn’t have said that. That’s probably a hard thing for you.” She shakes her head. “I’m too repulsive.”

  I’m taken aback and then suddenly laughing because the girl is sincere and yet her words don’t fit at all. I cover my mouth to stop myself. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”

  She shakes her head and her glasses slide down. “No, that’s not it. Ms. Kiko says I can be impossible—no, I mean impulssible—no, not that one either.”

  Another giggle tries to surface, but I push it down. The girl is so earnest in her attempt to apologize. “Impulsive?”

  “Yeah!” She pushes her glasses up with one finger. “That one! You’re really smart.”

  “Thanks.”