Dead Girl in 2A (ARC)

by Carter Wilson

  When I was fifteen, I went on a school trip to France, where I met another American girl from a different school. We fell in love for ten days, the kind of obsessive, soul-shattering love that only exists at that age. The day we had to leave each other, she boarded a bus for the airport, and I walked on with her just to say goodbye. That moment—that singular second when I had to actively choose to walk away from her, to leave her on that bus—that moment is now. Shortened breath, painfully beating heart, the sense no decision has ever been more wrong. But I’m not a teenager anymore. I’m an adult, well versed in the pains and pleasures of life, my feelings forged and rubbed smooth over time, leaving me emotionally fortified against most vulnerabilities.

  But as I watch Clara walk in front of me—hair lightly bouncing, shoulders squared with purpose—I have never felt so convinced that letting someone disappear would be a life-alteringly bad decision.

  I follow her. To the train, to the main concourse, weaving in and out among dozens of people.

  She heads straight to the door leading outside. I panic, finally race up and stand in front of her, forcing her to stop.

  She looks at me for only a moment before dropping her gaze to the ground.

  “My daughter,” I say. “Em. Back in January, she…we were in a car accident. It was my fault. I was driving.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “I was fine. Of course I was. Not even a burn mark from the airbag. I came away with no more than a bloody nose, but my daughter was severely injured.”

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  “Because since then I’ve been losing control. And it’s happening again,” I say. “Right here. Now.”

  “I can’t help you with that.”

  “I think you can. I need to know how we’re connected. It’s important,” I add, not saying the one fear pulsing through my brain. Because I don’t want to end up like you.

  “I’m sorry, Jake. I need to go.”

  Out of desperation, I rummage in my bag and snatch a business card. For a moment I think she won’t take it, but she slowly reaches her hand up and plucks it from my fingers.

  “My cell-phone number is on there,” I say. “Just…just don’t throw it out. Call me if you need me.”

  “I don’t—”

  “Clara, just call if you need me.”

  She nods. “Okay. If I need you, I’ll call.”

  Clara skirts around me and I don’t stop her, too numb to move. The airport doors whoosh open, and she steps into the afternoon air, into the swarm of taxis and shuttles, of buses taking people far away from others. A few steps later, her illuminated figure dissolves and fades into black.

  For a moment, I am fifteen again.

  And the girl is gone.

  Eleven

  The Book of Clara

  10/10/2018

  The man who came into my life and started me on a road to death went by one name: Landis.

  One year ago, a crisp October Friday. I walked into a small office building near the Boston Public Garden. My scheduled appointment time was 1:00 p.m.

  I’d seen the flyer in my apartment building lobby for two weeks prior. Cluttered among announcements for lost pets and guitar lessons, this one simply said:

  MEMORY ISSUES?

  Revolutionary Medical Breakthrough:

  Volunteers Needed for Clinical Trial

  The only other items on the glossy white flyer were a phone number and a picture. The picture was odd and alluring—a sketch of a boy and an old man walking through the woods, as forest creatures watched. The sketch itself was rendered from thousands of tiny ink marks, and I couldn’t comprehend how long it must have taken the artist to create the image. Nor did I have any idea what the picture itself had to do with memory issues, but I do know the image captivated me. I passed the flyer daily, and each day I became more taken in. After a week, I couldn’t stop staring at it, and I even went so far as to remove the flyer and take it up to the apartment with me. A replacement appeared the following day.

  It wasn’t just the picture that absorbed me. I’ve always struggled with my memory, as if a piece of my brain has just dried up and crumbled to dust. I don’t recall anything prior to the age of eight, not my biological parents, my childhood home, nor the black-and-white cat named Inkspot. These things all existed, because I have photos. But I don’t remember anything. I have a theory that the tragic deaths of my biological parents shocked my brain into a data purge, but I suppose it doesn’t really matter. I simply don’t remember.

  Were it not for the image on that flyer, I probably never would have called. But the picture comforted me, like slipping on the softest fuzzy socks on a bitter January day. Perhaps it was somehow hypnotizing me, but I developed an urge to remember. I wanted to know about my childhood more than ever, and my thirst for my past led me to that appointment one year ago.

  I walked into a small, plain office, perfectly professional if not a little sparse. A few plants added a splash of color to the otherwise bland setting, and copies of Psychology Today and People sat perfectly aligned on a glass table, looking to have never been as much as jostled. A black leather love seat appeared completely free from use. The logo on the wall read Arete Memory Research and had a little jagged line crossing through the tops of the letters. I supposed the line was either a mountain range or an EKG readout.

  There was no receptionist, but moments after I entered, a man hustled from a back office to greet me. He wore a wool overcoat and a gray fedora. I hadn’t seen anyone wearing a fedora in a long time. Perhaps never outside a movie.

  “Good timing,” he said, removing his coat and hanging it on a stand. “I just got back from lunch.” He then removed his hat and placed it next to his coat, and I got the image of a man coming home from work in the fifties. I half expected a dog to scurry in and drop slippers at the man’s feet.

  “You’re Clara,” he said.

  “I am.”

  He extended his hand. “I’m Dr. Miller. We spoke on the phone.” His face was soft and smooth, his eyes more blue than gray, cool like stone.

  “Hello, Dr. Miller. Clara Stowe.”

  I took his hand and felt fingers colder than my own, and I remember in the moment wondering when I’d last touched another person. His scent caught me, the aroma familiar but unplaceable. If a reliable source insisted this man was the ghost of someone I once knew, I wouldn’t have argued.

  “Please, just call me Landis,” he said. Landis released my grip and gazed as me, smiling, as if I were a long-lost friend he’d just run into by chance. Before it got uncomfortable, he said, “I’m looking forward to helping you, Clara. Please, come in.”

  He escorted me to a small office, about as sparse as the reception area, containing only a metal filing cabinet, a mahogany desk-and-chair set, and a leather chair opposite the desk. The walls were bare save a framed diploma that was too far away for me to read clearly.

  “Have a seat,” he said, gesturing to the chair. He left the door open.

  “Are you the only person here?” I asked.

  “Yes. I am the entirety of Arete Memory Research,” he said. “Of course, there are investors. But I’m the one doing all the work.”

  I sat, my posture rigid. “I…I have to say, coming here is outside my character. I’m not sure I’m right for your clinical trials. I just—”

  He held up a hand. “Well, that’s why you’re here, right? To see if you fill the bill. But I think you do.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because something about the flyer piqued your interest, didn’t it?” He took a seat behind the desk and rolled up the sleeves on his white button-down. “Did the image spark something in you? A feeling you didn’t expect?”

  “How…how did you know that?”

  Landis opened the top drawer of his desk and took out something.
It was a book, and not just any book. It was the book that led me on the path to where I am today.

  The Responsibility of Death

  He slid it over to me and I leaned forward, opening to the first page. There was the same image used in the flyer. I must have gasped, because Landis said, “It does resonate with you, doesn’t it?”

  “I don’t understand,” I said.

  “I know. It’s okay. You will.” He gently pulled the book from my fingertips and closed it. “With your permission, I’m going to ask you some questions about your memory loss and just a few more about your medical history. Hopefully nothing too intrusive, but your answers will inform me as to your appropriateness for this trial. I can tell you we’re only seeking a very limited number of participants, so maybe you’ll be one of the lucky few.”

  “And what does the trial consist of?”

  He nodded. “In due time we’ll get into the details, and lord knows there will be paperwork for you to sign if you’re selected. But in short, the program is a regimen of visual stimulus complemented by advanced chemical compounds, all targeted to tap into the medial temporal lobe and unlock the memories you’ve forgotten. The research has shown tremendous results on rats, and we’ve just been granted approval for human trials.” He tapped on the cover of the book. “But the trial isn’t just about helping with your memory, Clara. The work we’ve been doing overlays with the part of the brain responsible for realizing one’s full potential. In a nutshell, I believe we can help unlock both your past and your future.”

  There was a lot to absorb in his words, but the first question that came to me was unrelated to anything he had just said.

  “May I see the book again?”

  Landis flashed a smile of genuine enthusiasm. He slid the thin, hardcover book across the desk, which made a satisfying little whoosh.

  “Yes, of course.”

  Twelve

  Jake

  Thursday, October 11

  Denver, Colorado

  The address is a quick walk from my hotel. Downtown morning traffic hums and churns, and I pull my wool coat tighter against my chest, shielding myself from the stiff winds that cut through each alleyway I pass.

  I’ve got work to do today, but I’m brain-fried from a shitty night’s sleep. The combination of too much whiskey and my bizarre plane flight left me tossing around in the hotel bed all night.

  God help me, I can’t stop thinking about Clara. Thinking about where she is now, or even if she’s still alive. There were questions I didn’t ask her that I wish I had. Truths I didn’t reveal to her. I’m aching to see how much deeper our connection goes.

  But she’s gone.

  Alexander Eaton’s high-rise apartment building stabs into the sky, cold metal and tinted glass. I walk into a modern lobby, all angles and marble. The security desk houses an older man who looks comfortably bored. He barely looks at me as I approach.

  “Who are you here to see?” he asks. A magazine is open on the desk in front of him.

  “Alexander Eaton.”

  “He expecting you?”

  “Yes. Jake Buchannan.”

  He studies me a moment, then reaches for a phone and dials.

  “I have a Mr. Buchannan to see Mr. Eaton,” he says. He listens for a moment, grumbles acceptance, hangs up.

  “You know his apartment number?”

  “Yes.”

  “Go right up.” He returns his attention to the magazine, which has something to do with fishing.

  I’m the only one in the elevator, which is paneled in brushed chrome and mirrors. There are so many reflections I can’t help but look at myself. Funny how as I’ve gotten older, I have an increasing aversion to seeing myself in the mirror. I haven’t gained weight since college, my short hair has so far avoided graying, and I’m in better shape now than I’ve ever been. But I don’t like looking at myself; I fear the one moment I do and don’t recognize the person at all. Not because I’ve changed, but because I don’t remember.

  Doors open, seventeenth floor. Down the corridor on the right. His is the last door, which probably means a nice corner unit. Lots of windows.

  I’m looking forward to meeting the man so interested in my work he’s willing to pay well above market value for my services. In my mind, Alexander is self-made and has amassed a small fortune along with a healthy ego. I picture him a bit shorter than average, with a perpetual golf tan and the paunch of a man who eats well and often, someone prone to wearing colorful sweaters over crisp, white oxford shirts. He wants his memoirs to serve as a testament to his brilliance in business, and he thinks, perhaps, this book could be a bestseller. He’ll ask me which of the major publishers he should choose, as if they’ll all be clamoring to buy his story.

  That’s okay. He’s entitled to all his delusions. I’m here to write his life, and I’ll give him my best work. And who knows? Maybe he has a hell of a tale to tell. Most likely he doesn’t. Chances are, as I’ve discovered with many of my other clients, he’ll have succeeded in business through a combination of basic intelligence, dogged tenacity, and an unwavering willingness to screw people over. I won’t write that, of course. I’ll use terms like fiery competitiveness. But his story will be similar to so many I’ve written, and Alexander Eaton will end up self-publishing his memoir, ordering a couple thousand copies, many of which he’ll proudly distribute at board meetings and family gatherings. The remainder will forever occupy floor space in his office, pages fading as his skin wrinkles and hair grays.

  I suppose it doesn’t really matter. This is a guy who’s helping me with Em’s medical bills. In fact, he’s my first significant writing gig since the accident, and I have a feeling more good things are on the way.

  For the moment I have a sense of regaining control. It feels good.

  Thirteen

  I extend my hand.

  Alexander Eaton is tall, but his thin frame sucks away any illusion of the strength I feel in his handshake. His head hangs a bit too far forward, as if too heavy for his body, a sunflower at sunset, drooping and resigned to the coming night. His shaggy hair is already gray, though he told me on the phone he wasn’t yet forty. I would have guessed fifty, and that’s being polite. He’s dressed nicely: blue dress shirt, khaki pants, perfectly shined loafers. But if you put fancy clothes on a scarecrow, no one would remark That’s a nice-looking scarecrow. They’d say What the fuck is that thing?

  He is not the person I was expecting.

  “Jacob Buchannan, how good of you to come.”

  I can’t think of the last person to call me Jacob.

  “Alex,” I say. “Or do you go by Alexander?”

  “Neither. Please call me Eaton.”

  He releases his grip first.

  “Eaton, okay. And you can call me Jake.”

  “Come in.” He takes a step back, giving me room to pass.

  I step through the door, and there’s a sudden and budding familiarity I can’t define. My senses seem to be working overtime, and I wonder how much I can even trust them anymore. Still, there it is, as it was with Clara, yet markedly weaker. A sense I’ve met this person before.

  Maybe it’s because Alexander Eaton seems more a caricature, a cartoon figure I remember from a book or a show. Ichabod Crane, perhaps. Jack Skellington.

  I walk inside, vaguely conscious of how far I am from the front door. It’s a big apartment, but it’s a palace of shadows. Closed shades against the morning sky and not enough overhead lights to compensate. Hallways lead three different directions, all to their own darkness. If he’s trying to create an unsettling atmosphere, all he’s missing is the sound of dragging chains or a distant, echoing drip of water.

  Creepy as shit, in other words.

  As if sensing my thoughts, he says, “Yes, I realize it’s dark in here. Apologies. Sometimes I get these headaches, and dark rooms help. The Colo
rado sun is a thing of wonder, but it can also be a terrible weapon.”

  I turn. “Are you sure this is still a good time?”

  “Nonsense. You came all this way. But we might have a bit of a shorter session today. I have good days and bad days.”

  Something sick people say.

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Sit, please.” He directs me to a taut leather couch.

  I take a spot and set my messenger bag down next to me. Eaton slides into an overstuffed chair to my right and places both feet on the floor, his hands on knobbed knees.

  “Jacob,” he says. Not a question. Not a prelude before a statement. Just my name, and not the one I told him to call me. With that one word, I feel unsettled.

  I don’t say anything. He doesn’t have the look of someone who would hear me anyway. Lost in thought. Or just lost.

  Then he speaks again. “Jacob lived to be a hundred and forty-seven.”

  “What?”

  “Jacob. From the Book of Genesis. I assume that’s who you were named after. A powerful first name. I presume you’re Jewish?”

  “Um, no, actually.”

  Thin smile, no teeth. “Then, Jacob, what are you?”

  In this moment, I’m happy I secured a large, nonrefundable retainer.

  “I’m nothing.”

  He leans forward, a cat lured forward by a twitching string.

  “Oh, no, you are most certainly not nothing, Jacob. None of us are. But I suspect you, more than most, are something.”

  I have to spend hours interviewing this man. If those hours are in the same bizarre vibe as the past minute, this job is going to be rough. I need to set the tone.

  “First of all,” I say, “as I already said, I go by Jake, not Jacob. Second, when I say I’m nothing, I mean religiously. Not that it matters, but I don’t believe in god. Third, you and I have a lot of talking to do.” I’m sitting fully upright now. “That’s how memoirs work. I ask a lot of questions, and you give me a lot of answers. This is about you. If you start going into strange tangents and inquiries into my life, we’re just wasting each other’s time.”