The Epidemic

by Suzanne Young

  The white door has a big bolted padlock, and Virginia fishes through her keys until she finds a small one and slips it into the lock. She glances over her shoulder at me and shrugs guiltily.

  “We put this lock on,” she explains. “We didn’t want anyone else finding it.”

  “Makes sense,” I respond, although I’m scared of what’s inside.

  Virginia works off the lock and then hooks it on the frame before using her shoulder to push open the door. From out here it looks pitch black inside, and I’m in no rush to walk into spiderwebs or step on mice.

  Virginia notices my reaction and laughs. “It’s not bad,” she says. “Promise.”

  “No offense,” I say, making my way up the steps cautiously. “But maybe you can go in first.”

  She smiles, amused, and then walks inside, disappearing from view. I cast an anxious look around the deserted area, suddenly wishing I weren’t alone with her—this girl who’s connected to so many deaths. But I am here. I am alone. And so the only thing left to do is follow her inside.

  I step in the doorway and wait. Once my eyes adjust, I find that Virginia was right. The inside of the lighthouse is small and cramped but relatively clean. There is some sand buildup in the corners, but light filters in from the top of the spiral staircase, where there’s a circle of windows. Virginia stands on the first stair as she rummages through her purse until she pulls out a Sharpie. Then she starts up the stairs toward the top.

  There is an eerie sense of calm to this place. It doesn’t feel abandoned, it feels claimed, and as I make my way up the stairs, I see why. There is writing on the walls—literally. Something like journal entries written in different-color markers and pens. They’re dated, going back to last year. I pause midway up the staircase when I notice the handwriting of one of the entries.

  My breath catches, and I reach out to run my finger over the penmanship. I recognize it. It’s from Catalina—she was here. I look accusingly at Virginia, as if my entire life is all somehow her fault. I find her on the top landing, scribbling notes on the wall. While she’s distracted, I turn back to Catalina’s note and read.

  Isaac wants to help, but he can’t. I feel it now, just like Virginia said I would. She was right. It’s almost like a virus, the way it’s infected me. The way I’ve become obsessed with it. It’s like I’m twisting the knife in my chest to feel more pain. I invite more pain. I’m addicted to the pain. But what scares me most of all is that the more I feel, the more I want of it.

  There’s a catch in my throat as I read the dying words of the girl I closed for. I feel the loss her family felt. What Isaac felt. Catalina was here, alive. Asking for help. When I turn to Virginia again, tears are stinging my eyes.

  “You knew she was sick,” I say, my voice echoing. Virginia looks down at me, surprised, and I motion toward the writing. “You knew Catalina wanted to kill herself. Why didn’t you stop her? Why didn’t you tell anybody?”

  Virginia lowers her arm that’s holding the Sharpie, her face going slack. “I don’t know who Catalina is,” she says. “But I’ve read that note a million times. I’ve forgotten her, Liz. Just like Friday night. She’s part of my empty space.” She pauses and looks around at the words on the wall. “Just like all of these.” She tilts her head, examining me. “But . . . how do you know her? Who is she?”

  I can’t tell her the truth, so I sidestep it. I glance around at all the notes. These would be pages and pages of journal entries, but with different handwriting, from different people. “What is this place, Virginia?” I ask her.

  She straightens her posture defensively. “This is where I keep what’s left,” she says. “When I forget, I come here to read and remember. But it’s not enough. Can you imagine . . . ?” Her voice cracks. “Can you imagine what that’s like? I’m disappearing, Liz. Soon I won’t even know who I am anymore. I won’t even exist.”

  Her words wound me, not only because they’re terrifying, but because I don’t have to imagine them: I’ve lived them.

  Virginia points to the spot where she was writing. “This is about the party, the story you just told me. I’m going to keep it here so I won’t forget.”

  I swallow hard and go up the stairs, keeping my distance from Virginia to glance at the writing. She has, indeed, written nearly word for word what I told her in the car. It feels suddenly strange, as if I’m the one on the wall. A ghost, like Catalina. I turn away to scan the other writings, all of them bleak. These are just memories—they’re horror and sadness. They’re desperation.

  The walls surrounding me begin to take on a life of their own. All at once I’m having trouble breathing. I put my hand on the railing to steady myself.

  “Are you claustrophobic?” Virginia asks, concerned.

  I shake my head no. At least, I didn’t think I was.

  She comes over to where I’m standing and puts her arm across my shoulders. “There’s more room at the top,” she says, leading me up the stairs. “This place can be overwhelming at first.”

  We get to the top, and I’m flooded with light. All around the circular platform are windows, and even on a misty Oregon morning the light shines through this small space. I take a breath. Virginia leans against the wall. Strangely, there’s no writing up here.

  “I come to the End of the World when I feel like I’m missing a piece,” she says. “And when I see them all together, I realize I’m missing a lot. Half of these don’t make sense.” She points to the writing below. “They’re only a piece of a larger truth.”

  She notices me scanning the bare walls around us.

  “I don’t write up here,” she says, running her palm along the paint. “This is where I find hope.” She smiles, and turns to face out the window. “It’s a blank slate here, filled with possibility.”

  The observation deck overlooks the dried-up land that used to be part of an ocean, a pile of huge rocks on either side redirecting the water. But this high up, it’s almost like we really are at the end of the world. Not a car or a person in sight. It’s lovely.

  I turn to Virginia, seeing the hope she mentioned reflected in her expression. And I can’t do this anymore; I can’t deceive her. I see now that she’s being put through something horrible, something cruel. I’m no better than Arthur Pritchard if I continue to lie to her. We can work together; we have the same goal. We want answers to our pasts.

  “I’m sorry,” I say in a quiet voice. My heart begins to pound at the threat of my impending confession. Virginia’s eyes flick to mine.

  “For what?”

  “Lying to you.”

  She flinches and takes her hand from the wall. She clenches it into a fist at her side. It’s an unexpected reaction that alarms me. “About the party?” she demands.

  “No, that was all true. It’s me. My name’s not Liz, and I’m not from Eugene.” I swallow hard. “Last week I was in Lake Oswego, and I knew of Catalina because—”

  “Lake Oswego?” Virginia repeats, taking in a sharp breath. “Did you know Mitchel Caprice?”

  I’m stunned at the mention of Aaron’s last assignment, stunned that she remembers him but not Catalina. “Sort of,” I tell her.

  “Do you know what happened to him?” she asks.

  “Yeah. He . . . he killed himself.”

  Virginia’s lips pull taut as she holds back the start of a cry. “I knew it,” she whispers. “Of course I knew it.” She shakes her head. “I just didn’t want to believe it.”

  “You remember him?” I ask.

  She nods. “Yeah,” she says miserably. “I do. I met Mitchel in Lake Oswego. We were dating, but I kept it from my dad. But then . . . Mitchel disappeared. Didn’t return my calls or texts. I suspected, but . . . now I know for sure.”

  “I’m sorry to be the one to tell you,” I say, feeling guilty. As if she hasn’t been through enough today.

  “I already knew,” she repeats. “Last week I had a feeling, a terrible feeling. I searched my father’s files and found his name. Saw
that a closer was attached to his case. That’s how I knew he was dead. But I couldn’t show even an instant of pain. I was scared I’d forget him if I did. I was scared of getting the memory of him taken.”

  She studies my expression, and I feel her grief. Hiding your pain—it’ll wear you down. Wear you away.

  “But now,” she says, her voice taking on an edge, “I’m wondering what role you have in this. You knew Mitchel and Catalina.” She points to the note on the wall. “Did you know me?”

  “No,” I say simply.

  It only takes a second, but my heart pounds as I watch the reality fall over her.

  She gasps in a breath and backs into the wall. “You’re a closer, aren’t you?” she asks. “That’s why you’re here. Did they send you in to close out my life? My father thinks I’m going to die, doesn’t he?”

  “No,” I say, holding up my hands up in front of me as I take a step toward her. “The grief department has nothing to do with me being here. Your father didn’t send me. But he is why I’m here. I came looking for you first, but not to close out your life. And honestly, that’s not how closing works.”

  “I know how closing fucking works,” she snaps.

  “Then you’d know that we never meet our assignments while they’re alive.”

  “Maybe your advisor considers me a lost cause.” Her eyes have gone wild, and although I understand why she’s upset, it suddenly occurs to me that Virginia might be dangerous. People do unexpected things when backed into a corner like this.

  “No,” I say, trying to reassure her. “I don’t have an advisor. I’m not a closer anymore. I swear it.”

  Virginia crosses her arms over her chest, her anger turning to bitterness, as if she doesn’t believe a word I’m saying. “So you get out of my father’s employment and then come to where he lives? If that’s true, then I wouldn’t say you’re very smart, Liz—or whatever your name is.”

  “My name’s Quinn,” I tell her. “And you’re probably right. But your father took something from me, and I can’t move on until I get it back. I don’t know how to move on.” She lowers her arms, my confession seeming to ease her fear slightly. Her face pales, and her eyes drift past me to the stairs.

  “I want to leave now,” she says in monotone. “I want you to leave. Please go outside. I need to write something first.”

  I debate asking her what she’s about to write, but ultimately I figure I’ve wrecked her day enough. Besides, she’s most likely writing the truth about me—that she shouldn’t trust me. The least I can do is give her some privacy.

  Feeling ashamed, I start down the stairs, reading the writing as I pass. Nothing new jumps out, just more of the same. I touch Catalina’s handwriting one last time before I get to the bottom. I’m sure Virginia’s father has no idea this place exists. All her inner thoughts are hidden. It seems to me like Virginia is finding a way to beat the system. And that I can admire.

  CHAPTER SIX

  THE MINUTE I’M OUTSIDE, I see that the fog has burned off, and the first bits of true sunshine in a while beam down on me. I take a second to tilt my face toward the sky, absorbing the warmth on my cheeks. It feels good—pure. It centers me.

  I check over my shoulder to make sure Virginia is still inside and then I take out my phone to text Deacon. With my back turned to the lighthouse, I glide my thumbs quickly over the words.

  THINGS ARE NOT EXACTLY GOING TO PLAN, I type.

  As if he’s been waiting for me, he responds immediately. YOU HAD A PLAN?

  FAIR POINT, I write. WELL, I’M CURRENTLY IN THE MIDDLE OF NOWHERE WITH VIRGINIA. AND THIS SITUATION IS FAR MORE SCREWED UP THAN I THOUGHT. I THINK HER DAD’S BEEN ERASING HER MEMORY. I pause. AND I SHOULD PROBABLY MENTION THAT SHE KNOWS I’M A CLOSER.

  The text bubble pops up before I even finish typing. YOU TOLD HER?!! Deacon asks.

  I DIDN’T WANT TO BE A LIAR.

  OUCH, he writes back. Although I didn’t mean the line to hurt him, I can see why he feels the comment was directed at him. It might be a long time before we can get past that.

  I’M NOT SURE WHERE TO GO FROM HERE WITH VIRGINIA, I tell him, getting back on topic. IF SHE CAN’T REMEMBER HER ROLE IN CATALINA’S DEATH, THEN I’M NOT SURE I CAN LEVERAGE HER AGAINST HER FATHER. I ALSO DON’T WANT TO MAKE HER WORSE. WHAT SHOULD I DO?

  COME HOME.

  My lips twitch with a smile. He said “home,” as if that’s a real place. As if he’s my home. But it still isn’t much as far as advice goes. BE BACK SOON.

  I turn off the phone, slip it back into my pocket, and walk to the car. I’ve exposed myself to one of the most dangerous people in town. All Virginia would have to do is mention my name to her father. He could bring the entire grief department down on me. He could hand me over, and then who knows what would happen. I wasn’t thinking clearly. I should have just kept picking until I found something I could use—but I let my conscience get the better of me. Now I might have lost my only chance at finding my identity.

  Virginia appears in the doorway of the lighthouse and closes the door behind her. She sets the padlock back on and then walks in my direction. She’s clearing tears from her eyes, and I feel terrible for putting her in this state. She would have been better off if I hadn’t shown up at all today.

  Virginia unlocks the car doors and we both climb in, silent. She turns on the engine and looks over her shoulder before backing up and making a wide U-turn. Her jaw is clenched, and she acts like I’m not in the car. When we’re back on the freeway, I look sideways at her.

  “I didn’t mean to upset you,” I say.

  “I’m sure you didn’t,” she replies, “but you’ll understand if I decide not to speak to you anymore. I’d rather not give you easy access to my life.”

  “Virginia,” I say, frustrated with our misunderstanding. “I’m not here to close for you.”

  “Maybe you should be,” she says quietly.

  My lips part in alarm, and I fear that she’s finally breaking. And if she is—it’s my fault. “If you need help, I can—”

  “What I need,” she interrupts, “is for everyone to stop helping me. I want to deal with my life. I want to live my life. But I’m losing control over it. I’m losing pieces of it, and I want them back. I want to be whole.”

  And then, suddenly, I have my first real plan. A way for both of us to get what we want. A way to do it without hurting Virginia any more than I have to. I watch the side of her face, hope building in my chest. “What if I can help you find out what happened?” I ask.

  Virginia turns to me, her eyes wide but untrusting. “How?” she asks.

  “I think your father really is behind your memory loss,” I tell her. “If we can figure out why, then maybe we can find out what he’s taken. My partners and I are great at finding information, and we’ll—”

  “Partners,” she repeats, and then turns away, disgusted. I’m quick to try to reel her back in.

  “None of us are closers anymore,” I say, “and we don’t plan to stay here. It’s just . . . I need something first.”

  Virginia sniffs her discontent. “Of course you do. What is it? What do you want in return?”

  “Once we figure out what he’s done to you . . . you have to let me use it. I need it as leverage to convince him to give back what he’s stolen from me.”

  Virginia looks over. “What does he have?”

  “My identity.”

  Virginia turns abruptly back to the road, the lines on her forehead deepening as she seems to think it over. “So you don’t remember either?” she asks. “And it was him? He erased you?”

  “I don’t know what was done, but yes, he admitted to manipulating my memory. I don’t remember who I am . . . who I was. He placed me in a home when I was a child, and I was raised there under a different identity. I only found out the truth last week. That’s part of why I ran away from the grief department. I can’t trust them, Virginia. The grief department, your father, my father—they all conspired to hide the tr
uth from me. I want to know who I am.”

  She’s quiet for a long moment, probably absorbing the fact that her father might be more of a monster than she thought. “How do you suggest we find that information?” she asks, her voice low.

  “You mentioned earlier that after Mitchel disappeared, you searched your father’s files and found a closer attached to his case. I need access to those files. All of his files.” She looks at me like she thinks I’m crazy, but I keep talking.

  “Get us a way in and we’ll find your memories—the real ones,” I say. “I just need a pass code, a key to an office—anything can help. We can take it from there.”

  Her expression has softened, and as she turns away, I think that maybe she doesn’t believe that we can help her.

  “Please,” I beg, my voice hitching with desperation. “Please help me get my life back.”

  And it could be out of the kindness of her heart, or it could be the fact that our shared amnesia seems to comfort her, but Virginia takes one of her hands off the steering wheel and reaches to grip my fingers. She holds my hand like that, and for a moment there’s a surge in my heart. A bond. She doesn’t speak a word.

  When she unclasps my hand again, staring straight ahead, I think we’ve agreed upon an unspoken mission to help each other. The loneliness in my soul abates slightly—the promise of our friendship a bit of hope in our otherwise dire situation.

  * * *

  After picking up Deacon’s car at the school, I go back to the hotel room, Virginia’s number programmed into my phone. I open the door and find Deacon sitting at the table, a bunch of papers scattered in front of him and his phone pressed to his ear. Just the sight of him relaxes me, covers up the fear I came in with. Deacon holds up his finger to let me know he’ll be another second; his eyes study me before he turns back to his papers.