Forgotten: A Novel

by Catherine McKenzie

  I give up and reach my gate with thirty-five minutes to spare. I take a seat next to a man in his midthirties typing aggressively on his laptop. A glance at his screen shows an email full of caps and exclamation marks. I feel a flash of sympathy for s.cathay@mail.com.

  He looks at me with an unfriendly expression on his face. “Can I help you?”

  “Oh, sorry . . . it’s just . . . do you think I could borrow your computer for a minute? I really need to send a couple of emails, and all the kiosks are full, and I don’t have any coins, and . . .” I pause to catch the breath that has turned borderline hysterical, a good imitation of those people at the airport I was happy to leave behind.

  The angry man’s eyes widen in dismay, his expression softened by my tone. “Hey, don’t freak out on me, okay?” He shoves his laptop into my lap. “Send all the emails you want, all right?”

  I thank him and open a new web browser, leaving the angry email in place. My fingers feel clumsy on the keys, and I have to erase my first few attempts to enter my account information. When I finally get the combination of letters and numbers right, I’m informed in angry, flashing red type that it’s been shut down for sending too much junk mail. I curse silently under my breath at the spammer who hijacked my account.

  “Is something wrong?” the less angry man asks.

  “My account is blocked.”

  “Why not just open a new one?”

  Why not, indeed? I tap on the keys, and in a few moments emma.tupper23@mail.com is up and running.

  I hit the Compose Mail button and pause. What the hell am I going to say after all this time? How do I even begin? Are they even going to want to hear from me?

  I can feel the minutes slipping away. I brush those thoughts aside and type Stephanie’s and Craig’s email addresses in as quickly as I can.

  From: Emma Tupper

  To: stephanie_granger@oal.com; craig.talbot@tpc.com

  Re: Coming home!

  Hey guys,

  This is such an odd email to write! I’m so, so sorry I haven’t written till now. I’ll explain everything when I get home, I promise. Anyway, I’m in London. My flight is leaving soon and should be arriving around 4 p.m. I’m on BA flight 3478. I can’t wait to see you both. I’ve missed you so much.

  Love, Em

  I read it over quickly. It’ll have to do. I hit Send and hand the computer back to my neighbor, thanking him as a chime sounds. A polite, clipped voice announces that preboarding is about to begin. Anyone with small children or needing assistance should come to the gate. General boarding will begin momentarily. I stand and stretch, taking a last opportunity to look around. So this is London. All I’ve ever seen of it is the airport. I’ll have to remedy that someday.

  The polite voice calls the first-class passengers. I line up briefly and walk down the gangway. The plane is brand spanking new. Each passenger gets a capsule, a private space to eat, sleep, and watch six months of movies. Maybe it’s the flashy technology or the warmed-up, lemon-scented towels the flight attendant brings, but a beat of hope starts in my heart. I’ll be back where I should be soon, and then, like the song says, everything will be all right.

  But everything is not all right, which I should know when there’s no one at the airport to meet me. Or when the ATM spits out my card like it’s contaminated, and my car isn’t where I left it in the long-term parking lot.

  I should know, but I’m too distracted. Despite everything that’s happened, I feel too happy.

  I’m home.

  Finally, the air smells familiar. I understand the curses hurled at me as I cross the road without looking properly. Even the cold bite of winter and the annoying loop of jangly carols escaping from the outdoor speakers seem perfect, as they should be the week before Christmas.

  So, when I give up looking for my car and sink into the back of a cab, I don’t have a clue. In fact, it’s only after I hand over my last forty dollars to the ungrateful driver and try to put my key into the lock of my apartment that I begin to panic.

  Because the key doesn’t fit. The lock doesn’t turn.

  And it has begun to snow.

  Chapter 2: The Old Apartment

  Perfect, just perfect.

  I put down my bag and climb the steep, exterior iron staircase to the apartment above mine. Six months ago, it was occupied by Tara, an out-of-work actress who practiced her lines loudly at three in the morning. We have a tenuously friendly relationship, but she has my spare key, which will hopefully work better than the rusty version hanging from my key chain.

  It’s after sundown, and the darkness feels close, oppressive. The snow falls down around me in broad flakes, illuminated by the porch light. I ring the bell. The ding-dong echoes loudly. I push the button again with a sinking heart, certain she isn’t home. It’s been that kind of day. That kind of year, come to think of it.

  I hug my yellow rain slicker close over my summer clothes as I climb back down the slippery steps. The soles of my canvas shoes aren’t meant for winter. I lose my footing on the second-to-last step and land hard on my ass.

  “Shit!”

  “Are you okay?” a man asks, his voice deep and concerned.

  I look up at him as I try not to whimper from the pain. He’s wearing a black peacoat and a gray ski cap over his dark hair. Midthirties, maybe a little older. Well-spaced eyes, a regular nose. A five o’clock shadow is spreading along his jaw. A stranger, and yet somehow familiar.

  He smiles sympathetically. A flash of white in the dark. “That looked like it hurt.”

  It feels like it’s going to hurt forever, but I try to be stoic. “Some.”

  He extends his hand. “Need a boost?”

  I place my cold hand in his gloved one, and he eases me to my feet. He’s about six inches taller than my five feet, five inches.

  “Thanks.”

  “No problem.” His slate-green eyes glance up the stairs I tumbled down. “Were you looking for Tara?”

  “I was. Do you know her?”

  “She’s an old friend.”

  Something niggles at the back of my brain, but I can’t quite get there. “You wouldn’t happen to know when she’ll be back, would you?”

  “She’s shooting a pilot out west. She won’t be back until the new year.”

  “Damn.” I shove my freezing hands into my pockets, hoping to find a cell phone I know isn’t there. I meet his eyes and something clicks into place. “Have we met before?”

  He starts to shake his head no, then stops himself. “Mmm. Maybe—”

  “Tara’s birthday party,” I say, connecting it. “Two years ago?”

  A warm summer night. Tara’s apartment was full of new faces as she shepherded Craig and me around, introducing as she went, waving a glass full of red wine.

  “You were there, right?” I ask.

  “Yes, but—”

  “Do you think I could borrow your phone for a second?”

  He hesitates. “All right.” He digs into his jeans and pulls out an iPhone. He presses the Power button to bring it to life. The screen stays blank. “Sorry, the battery must be dead.”

  “Crap,” I say, feeling a spark of panic.

  His face is a mixture of pity and reluctance. “You could use my landline, if you like.”

  I scan his features. His eyes seem kind, and the end of his nose is red from the cold. Spidery flakes are collecting rapidly on his hat. My gut is telling me this is the way women end up as headlines on CNN, but what choice do I have? Besides, he knows Tara. We’ve met, even.

  “That’d be great. I’m Emma, by the way.”

  “Dominic.”

  Dominic. Yes, that’s right. And he was standing next to a striking woman with a name like mine. Emmy, maybe. Or Emily. Understated elegance. Long red hair. A well-matched couple, looks-wise.

  “Nice to
meet you. Again. You live close to here?”

  “Sure do.”

  He turns and walks toward my front door, puts a key into the lock, and pushes it open.

  I suck in a great lungful of cold, snowy air as my blood pounds in my ears.

  No, no, no. This cannot be happening.

  But it is.

  What feels like years later, I’m sitting in my living room on the chocolate-brown leather couch it took me months to find, shivering.

  “It’s in the kitchen,” Dominic says as he shrugs off his coat and hangs it on one of the brushed-nickel hooks I installed in the entranceway. He sounds like he’s a million miles away, speaking across a bad phone connection.

  “I know,” I whisper, the words sticking in my throat.

  Dominic walks into the room. He’s wearing faded dark jeans and a gray, zipped-neck sweatshirt, both of which hang loosely on his slim frame, like he’s recently lost weight. There are flecks of gray in his thick, closely cropped hair.

  “What’s that?”

  I take and release a ragged breath. “I said, I know where the phone is.”

  “I seem to be missing something.”

  Buddy, you have no idea.

  “This is my apartment.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “This is my apartment. This is my couch. And you’ve just invited me to use my phone.”

  Confusion floods his face. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “You think I’m crazy, right?”

  “I don’t know what to think.”

  “I’m not crazy.” I sound unconvincing, even to my own ears. “This is my apartment.”

  “Why do you keep saying that?”

  The doorbell emits a loud burst of sound, startling us both.

  “That’ll be the movers,” Dominic says.

  “The what?”

  The doorbell rings again. Dominic walks to the front door and opens it, revealing a squat man in a pair of coveralls holding a rolled-up piece of dark blue fabric.

  “You ready for us, man?”

  “Yeah, come on in.”

  Dominic steps out of his way. The moving man puts the fabric on the ground and rolls it down the hardwood floor that leads toward my bedroom.

  I stand up and my legs almost give way. Blood is rushing from my head like I’ve taken a stopper out of a drain. I steady myself on the slippery arm of the couch. “What are you doing?”

  He glances at me. “I’m moving in.”

  “But—”

  “Look, I know you keep saying this is your apartment, but I have a lease that says otherwise. Here, I’ll show you.” He picks up a backpack that’s propped against the wall and unzips it. He pulls out a sheaf of loose papers and flips through them. The squat moving man returns and heads outside. His boots leave a wet imprint on the fabric.

  Dominic locates a typed, legal-size document. He hands it to me. “You see?”

  I read through it twice, though I understood it perfectly the first time. It’s a lease between Dominic Mahoney and Pedro Alvarez for 23A Chesterfield—this very apartment—dated last week.

  “There must be some mistake.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  Blackness swirls around me. I feel like I’ve just been woken up from my pod in the Matrix, covered in primordial goo and struggling for breath. But if this is some alternative reality, where’s the wise mentor who’s going to explain what the hell is going on?

  “The faucet in the bathroom sticks when you turn on the hot water. The radiator in the bedroom clangs at exactly 11:12 every night. The—”

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m proving to you that this is my apartment.”

  “I believe you used to live here, okay, but—”

  “No, I didn’t used to live here. I live here, end of story.”

  The moving man returns, his arms full of cardboard boxes. “Where should I put these?”

  “In the larger bedroom,” Dominic says, waving down the hall. He walks past me and sits on the couch, resting his hands on his knees. “All right . . . Emma, did you say your name was?”

  “Yes.”

  “Let’s get to the bottom of this.”

  He motions for me to sit next to him. I don’t want to, but I’m not sure my legs will hold me much longer. I sit on the far end of the familiar couch. There’s a thin film of dust on the coffee table. The air smells faintly of decay.

  “Okay,” he says. “Say this is your apartment—”

  “It is.”

  “Then why would Pedro rent it to me?”

  “I’ve been away for a while.”

  “Did he know you were going to be away?”

  I think back to the hazy days before I left, full of packing and shots and the trippy antimalarial pills that gave me the worst dreams. “No, I didn’t tell him.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because my rent gets paid automatically, and I was only supposed to be gone for a month.”

  He cocks an eyebrow. “How long have you been gone for?”

  “Six months.”

  “How did that happen?”

  “I don’t really feel like being cross-examined right now.”

  “I’m just trying to figure out what’s going on.”

  I stand up.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To use the phone.”

  I follow the blue carpet down the hall, glancing at my bedroom as I pass by. My cream bed and dresser are right where I left them, but there’s nothing personal about the room anymore. No pictures of my mother, no collection of jars full of dirt from the places I’ve been, no detritus scattered across the surfaces, only dust. It’s like I’ve been erased. Turned to ash.

  I feel sick to my stomach, but I press on to the kitchen and the phone. And there it is, sitting on the counter, a fancy touch-screen one that rings like the ones on 24. My fingers are slippery on the keys. I dial Craig’s home number. The tones beep in my ear, but instead of ringing, all I get is that loud, rude dah, dah, dah, followed by a mechanical voice telling me the number’s no longer in service. I hang up and dial again, with the same result. Then I dial Stephanie’s number, but there’s no answer; it just rings and rings and rings. When I finally give up on her answering, I force my shaking hand to dial Craig’s office number. It’s after six on a Saturday, and I’m not surprised I get his voice mail. His familiar voice tells me he’ll be out of the office for a week and to dial zero in an emergency. My hand hovers above the button—if this isn’t an emergency, I don’t know what it is—but I know all I’ll get is the night service. An endless loop of voice mail.

  I slam the receiver hard against the counter. The report sets my ears ringing and joins the buzzing sound in my head. My brain cells feel ready to explode. Breathing seems optional.

  “Hey, be careful,” Dominic says from the doorway. “You’re going to break that.”

  I drop the receiver and push past him, heading toward the front door.

  “Emma. Hey, Emma, wait . . .”

  Dominic’s calls follow me down the hall, but they don’t stop me. I need to get outside, away from this place where everything looks like it did six months ago, only it’s a showroom version of my life.

  I yank open the front door. I nearly bump into the moving man and his tower of boxes, but I weave at the last moment, and I’m outside in the blustery night. It’s snowing in earnest now, a blizzardy snow that blots out the tall buildings and shrinks the world down to the few feet in front of me. The air is thick with the smell of burnt rubber from the spinning wheels of the passing cars.

  I slip and slide the six blocks to Stephanie’s. When I get there, half-frozen, fully desperate, all the lights in her ground-floor apartment are off. I peer through the glass front door into her lobby; there�
��s mail peeking out of the metal mailbox next to her door. Despite the signs of absence, I push and push the buzzer anyway, hoping, praying, she’ll somehow be there. Because if she isn’t, I don’t know what I’m going to do. I have no idea where Craig is or how to reach him. And Sunshine doesn’t even live in the country.

  When I’ve lost the feeling in my index finger, I sit down on the snowy stoop. A jolt of pain shoots down my leg from where I smacked against Tara’s step earlier, and I cry out.

  The door creaks open behind me. A wiry man in his midforties pops his head out.

  “You the one ringing the bell?”

  I brush the snow off my lap and stand up. “Yes, I’m sorry. I was trying to reach Stephanie Granger. She lives in 1B. Do you know her?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Do you know where she is?”

  “She’s away, I think. I heard her telling the super.”

  “Did she say when she’d be back?”

  “I didn’t hear that.”

  His eyes shift furtively. I take a step back.

  “Okay. Thanks.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  He shuts the door. It closes with a loud click, the lock another thing that’s turned against me today.

  I push my hair back from my face and take stock of my situation: I have no money, I can’t reach my friends, and a stranger is moving into my home.

  A pod in the Matrix is looking pretty good right now.

  When I get back to my apartment, the moving man is closing up the back of his truck. He flips his hand at me in acknowledgment as he climbs into the cab, then puts the truck in gear. I watch his red running lights fade as he drives into the storm. When all I can see is white, I turn and trudge up the snow-filled walkway. I hesitate at the front door, not sure this is where I want to be. But I’m soaked through and my teeth are chattering like a wind-up toy and my suitcase is still inside. So . . .

  I ring the bell. Dominic opens the door moments later.

  “I wondered when you were coming back,” he says, his eyes dark with concern. Whether it’s for his safety or mine, I’m not quite sure.