Forgotten: A Novel

by Catherine McKenzie

  Juliana’s in the kitchen, wearing the light-blue smock uniform she insists on, though I know Craig’s tried a hundred times to get her to wear something else. Her still mostly dark brown hair is cropped close to her head. Her round face is creased with laugh lines.

  “Emma, good to see you again.”

  “You too, Juliana.”

  We hug briefly, then I retreat to one of the bar stools on the other side of the room.

  “I made your favorite,” Juliana says to Craig. “Would you like me to take it out of the oven?”

  “I can get it.”

  “I’ll be going, then.”

  “Thanks, Jules,” Craig says, his eyes on me.

  “Of course.” She pats me on the arm. “Yes, it’s good to have you back.”

  I return her smile, but I can’t return the sentiment. I don’t want to be back, and I have to find a way to tell Craig that. Soon.

  The kitchen door swings closed behind her, creaking ominously on its hinges. Or that’s probably me reading too much into things, right? A door only swings ominously in a horror film. And as nervous as I feel, Craig’s not a bogeyman waiting to take my head off.

  Craig opens a cupboard, taking out two glasses and a bottle of liquor. When he places one of the glasses in front of me, I realize it’s Scotch. And it’s funny, because when we were together, I never drank Scotch, and I can’t understand how he knows this new thing about me, that I’ve developed a taste for it. I ask him why he picked it.

  “You looked like you needed it.”

  I take a sip and shudder. From the alcohol, but also because it feels weird, being back here. With Craig.

  “Good call.”

  Craig loosens his tie. He sits on a stool on the other side of the kitchen island. We’re separated by several feet of black granite, like we used to be most mornings. Back then, it felt comfortable and safe, but now it’s just another thing I have to fix.

  We sip our drinks in silence for a while. Eventually, he starts to tell me about him and Sophie, all the details I don’t want to know but can’t stop listening to. They have broken up, and I was the reason. Craig wants me to know, because he still loves me. He wants to get back together.

  “But we’ve barely spent any time together since I’ve been back,” is all I can think to say as he looks up at me expectantly.

  “What’s that got to do with anything? We were together for three years. The last few weeks don’t change that.”

  I feel an odd urge to laugh, but instead I say, “But you said that you’d moved on, that . . . you were relieved when I was dead.”

  “I never said that.”

  “Yes, you did. After Cathy Keeler.”

  “That’s not what I meant. I meant that . . . waiting to find out what was going on, if you were alive, was this horrible torture. And accepting that you were dead, that was a kind of relief. I could never be relieved that you were dead. Did you really believe that?”

  “I don’t know. I guess part of me did. And you chose Sophie, so—”

  “No, it wasn’t like that at all. I was trying to explain, but you wouldn’t let me. You left. I thought you wanted to end things. I was trying to respect your wishes.”

  “What made you change your mind?”

  “I figured I owed it to us, to you, to let you know what I wanted.”

  I watch him across the granite slab. “And you were jealous.”

  “Of Dominic? Maybe.”

  “Mmm.”

  “So?”

  “ ‘So’ what? Will I get back together with you?”

  “Yes.”

  “No, Craig.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because too much has happened. We can’t go back. If I’ve learned one thing, it’s that.”

  “I know that, Em. I’m not asking for things to be like they were, I’m just asking for another chance. To . . . go back to the beginning.”

  He sounds so much like me, I almost smile. “You want to go back to litigation boot camp?”

  He smiles back. “If that’s what it takes.” His eyes look surprisingly gentle, a million miles away from his default setting.

  God, I wish I loved this man. I wish he was the part of my life I needed to get back to feeling whole.

  I take a deep breath. “Craig . . .”

  His smile slips at my tone. “Emma, don’t you think—”

  “No, I don’t. I don’t . . . feel that way about you anymore. And to be honest, and I swear, I’m not saying this to be cruel, I don’t think I ever felt as much as you did. I’m not saying I didn’t love you. I did—I still do—but you’re not my future.”

  He’s sitting perfectly still with his hands flat against the granite.

  “Say something.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s next, then?”

  I brush my thumb under my eye, catching a tear. “I don’t know.”

  “But you know it doesn’t involve me?”

  “I’m sorry, Craig, but yes.”

  I stand up and walk around the island toward him. He watches me warily.

  “Thank you for saying what you did.” I lean forward and kiss him gently on the cheek. “It means a lot. More than I can say.”

  “I wish you’d change your mind.”

  “I know,” I say, and we stand there like that for a long time.

  The next morning, I’m walking through a slightly sketchy area of town trying to find the address Stephanie left me on my voice mail with instructions to meet her there at ten. Something about a great “business opportunity” that made me nervous for her. I’ve heard that tone of heedless excitement before.

  It’s one of those flat-light days when it’s hard to tell exactly what time of day it is, and there’s a harsh wind whipping between the buildings. Stephanie’s cell phone was cutting in and out as she left the message, so I’m not sure I got it all down correctly. Given the dinginess of the area, I’m becoming less sure by the minute.

  I’m about to give up when I find the address. 4356 BOSTON AVENUE is written in peeling white letters above the entrance to a closed-up shop. The glass windows are papered over with stiff brown paper. A crack of light illuminates the nondescript black door.

  I push the white doorbell recessed into the wall. It buzzes harshly. The door creaks open. Stephanie’s gamine face peeps out.

  “You made it!”

  “No thanks to your cryptic message.”

  “I knew I should’ve called back.”

  “Are you going to tell me what you’re up to?”

  She takes a step back. “Come into my parlor and see.”

  I walk inside. The store is about fifteen hundred square feet of empty space. The walls are lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. The air smells stale, and there are dust motes floating in the air, illuminated by the harsh fluorescent lighting.

  “What’s this all about?”

  She walks to the middle of the room and flings her arms wide. “Welcome to the Book Connection. Do you love it?”

  “Really? You’re going to do that bookstore/love-connection thing?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Are you sure this is the right moment in time to be opening a bookstore?”

  She shoots me a look.

  “I just meant . . . I worry about you. Have you really thought this through?”

  “Of course I have.”

  “But when did you have time to arrange all this?”

  She cocks an eyebrow. “What? You’re the only superachiever allowed?”

  “You know I didn’t mean it that way.”

  “I know. Anyway, I decided a couple of days ago that I was going to go for it, you know, and I found this commercial real estate broker who showed me around a bunch of pla
ces yesterday.”

  “You saw this place for the first time yesterday?”

  “Uh-huh. And I signed the lease last night. Isn’t that great?”

  “Don’t you think it’s a little fast?”

  “You know I’ve wanted to do something more concrete for ages.”

  “I know, but—”

  “No buts. Don’t you want to bust out sometimes and do something totally spontaneous?”

  I laugh. “You know I don’t.”

  “Maybe that’s your problem.”

  I feel a flutter of annoyance. “What do you mean?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. It’s just . . . you could’ve died, Emma. Hasn’t that changed anything for you?”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “I know lots of bad things have happened to you, but what have you changed? You know, in your life?”

  I walk toward the window. The brown paper blocks out the view of the street. I perch on the window ledge, pulling my knees up under my coat.

  “Are you all right, Em?”

  “Why does everyone expect me to change my whole life just because of what happened to me?”

  “Who expects that?”

  “You. Matt. Dominic.”

  “Dominic?”

  “He had this whole thing, remember? ‘Imagine the possibilities’ or some such nonsense.”

  “And did you?”

  “No. I don’t want my life to change.”

  She starts to laugh. Hard.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “Your life already has changed, Emma, whether you like it or not.”

  “Don’t you think I know that?”

  “No, I’m not sure you really do.” She sits on the window ledge beside me. The dust motes rise in a swirl. “You’re not the only one who lost things in all this, you know. Remember, everyone told me you were dead.”

  A lump forms in my throat. “I know.”

  “I mostly didn’t believe it. But sometimes I couldn’t keep my mind from thinking that it might be true.”

  “Steph—”

  She stops me. “No, that’s not why I’m telling you this. What I wanted you to know is that in some ways, especially because it all turned out all right, I’m grateful for the experience.” She shakes her head. “That came out wrong. What I mean is, I was glad you knew how much I loved you and how important you were to me. I knew that if you really were dead, at least I wouldn’t have any regrets about us.”

  “Everyone has regrets.”

  “I know, but I think maybe we should try to minimize them.”

  “What are you saying? That I should live each day like it’s my last?”

  “Maybe. Yeah.”

  “You can’t live like that.”

  “Some people do.”

  “Maybe. But I don’t want to.”

  “What do you want, then?”

  “Can you answer that question?”

  “We’re not talking about me.”

  “I know, but why do I have to live up to some standard no one else does? Just because of what happened to me?”

  She rubs my back as I struggle for control. A few fat tears fall to the dusty ground, flattening into small moist circles in the dirt.

  “I just want you to be happy.”

  “I’m trying to be. Why is that so hard to believe?”

  “I don’t know, it just is.”

  “It’s that stupid movie-plot thing, isn’t it?”

  “That what?”

  “All those movies where someone has a near-death experience? And then she realizes she always wanted to be a concert pianist or go skydiving, and the guy who teaches her to jump from a plane is gorgeous and slightly lost, and they fall in love and live happily ever after.”

  “What movie was that?”

  “You know what I mean. And I didn’t even really have a near-death experience, unless people thinking you’re dead counts as one.”

  “You’d just go back to where it all started?”

  “Maybe I would. Except for Craig. I might leave him out.”

  She smiles. “I can think of at least one new thing you wouldn’t want to erase. One person, anyway.”

  “Mmm, maybe not.” I fill her in on Dominic, Emily, Craig, the Christmas Eve photograph.

  “So I guess that’s it,” I say. “Two men down in one night. I impress myself.”

  She shakes her head. “You can be so dense sometimes.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “What you said to Craig, about not being able to go back, do you think it doesn’t apply to you?”

  “No, I know it applies to me. But I guess . . . I wish that it didn’t.”

  “You can’t undo what happened. Or turn back time.”

  “I know,” I say, but in my mind I’m building my time machine.

  Chapter 22: First Things First

  The Dream again. Africa. The safari. The fire. Banga-just-Bob. The excitement of my fellow travelers, the exotic mix of meats. I wash my dinner down with large mouthfuls of the local brew, a brackish mixture of throat-stripping alcohol and something that smells like bark. It tastes awful, but the result isn’t unpleasant. Plus it has the added benefit of dulling the effect of my mother’s sudden ethereal appearance. Or maybe it’s that I’m finally numbed to seeing her like this, alive, well, and warning me against danger.

  Only this time she says, “Look in the box.”

  “Why, Mom? What’s in there?”

  She brushes her hand across my forehead, pushing my hair out of my eyes like she used to do when I was home sick from school. “The answers, of course.”

  The answers to what? I want to scream, but I can’t. I can’t scream at my mother. I don’t have the energy, only the alcoholic bark flowing through my veins, evening me out, making me care less than I should.

  She kisses my forehead and turns, floating away from me like she has too many times before. I feel sad like I always do, but also, for the first time, a little hopeful.

  If I remember this right, I’ll get the answers soon.

  My mother said so.

  Though it’s impossibly early, I wake up feeling hopeful. It’s strange because my head is throbbing with the beginning of a migraine and my mouth feels like I’ve been chewing on the inside of a twig, but I push that aside. Hope feels good. Hope feels right. Hope feels like just about all I’ve got.

  I hold on to this feeling for as long as I can, lingering beneath the covers. But something gnaws away at it. Something feels . . . off. It takes a second to figure it out, but then I know.

  I’m not in my own bed.

  This bed is at the wrong end of the room. And these aren’t my sheets. They’re stiffer. Familiar, but distantly so, like they come from another lifetime. Like my apartment felt when I got home.

  My eyes fly open.

  I’m in Dominic’s room.

  I can’t believe I did this.

  Last night, when I got to the apartment, which is still full of Dominic’s things, I undressed and stepped into the hot shower, hoping the water would revive me like it did that first night back, when I was overwhelmed by confusion and loss and the familiar sights and sounds of my bathroom. I toweled off and changed into the most comfortable pair of pajamas I own. And then, because I was still feeling weak and confused and lost, I went to Dominic’s room and climbed into his bed, letting his smell lull me to sleep.

  And so this is where I am. In Dominic’s room, in Dominic’s bed. Like an idiot.

  Well, I can do something about that, anyway. I exit Dominic’s bed and remake it, making sure not to leave any traces of
my weak moment behind.

  After confirming what I already know—that there’s nothing in the fridge—I pull on some jeans and a fleece and suit up for the outdoors. I walk out into the dawn, heading for the local diner, which I know from experience is open at this hour. I’m the first customer, and I order the biggest, greasiest breakfast on the menu. It makes me full and sleepy, but instead of giving in to it, I order a second cup of coffee, forcing myself to wake up.

  When I leave the diner, it’s brighter out but not quite light. I feel as if there’s somewhere I need to be, but I’m not exactly sure where. Unable to put my finger on it, I go to the office. That’s usually where I need to be when I feel like this.

  The lobby is echoey and empty. The night watchman looks bored in his round guard station. I swipe my key card and pass through the turnstile, then ride the stainless steel elevator to my floor. I leave my coat and boots in the lobby and pad in my stocking feet down the corridor, creating a bluish static charge as I go.

  It’s oddly peaceful being in the office when no one’s here. I used to come in on weekends all the time, looking forward, in a way, to working through my files with the sound off—no emails pinging, no phones ringing, no Matt. I could get lost in my own world and figure things out. An angle for a case I was working on, a line of questions that would elicit the admission that would eventually lead to a settlement or victory.

  I stop at Jenny’s desk. The pink message pad is sitting next to the phone, a bottle of sparkly nail polish holding it in place. I pick up the pad and flip through it. In between the carbon-paper messages Jenny gave me is the evidence I’m looking for. Dominic called, Dominic called, Dominic called.

  I carry the message pad to my desk. I notice a matching flash of pink on the floor. It’s the message from Carrie, Cathy Keeler’s assistant. It has her cell-phone number written on it, in case I change my mind.

  I smooth it out absentmindedly as I look out the window. I stare at the view for a long time, watching the sunrise, tracing the pattern of numbers in the messages I never received. When the sun gets too bright, I close my eyes and try to clear my mind, to focus on what it is that drove me here, the thing that seems just out of reach. I let every bad thought linger, but only for thirty seconds. Then I push it away and reach for the next one. One by one by one.