I thundered down the stairs and ran to Sam’s oversize front door, where I pressed my finger on the buzzer. I didn’t let go until Sam stood in front of me dressed in red-and-blue-striped pajamas, his thick white hair sticking up like fuzzy antlers above his temples.
“Hey, Lily,” he said as he rubbed his eyes, his yawn turning into a smile. Sam was always happy to see me. He’d once told me I reminded him of his daughter who’d moved to Los Angeles a few years ago. When I’d mentioned my parents lived there now, too, he’d declared it a sign and given me a bear hug. His fatherly affection was welcome, and more than I’d received from my mom and dad in years, ever since they’d banished me out of their lives and onto their pretentious look-at-our-perfect-family-just-don’t-ask-about-Lily Christmas card list.
Sam ushered me inside. I wasn’t sure how he did it, but although his house was large enough to fit an entire family, complete with kids, pets and a few sets of football gear, it was always cozy and inviting. Somehow the air smelled of freshly baked muffins despite Sam’s self-described inability to boil an egg. He grabbed a towel from the powder room and draped it over my shoulders, making me notice for the first time how cold and shaky I felt.
“Did I wake you?” I said, my teeth clattering an indecipherable symphony as I clutched the towel, bringing it closer to my chin.
Sam waved a hand and grunted. “Freaking storm kept me up half the night, so I slept in. I had no idea how late it was and...” He looked at me, rubbed the stubble on his fleshy cheeks with an equally meaty hand, as a puzzled expression crossed his face. “What’s going on?”
“Have you seen Jack?”
“I assumed he was at your place.”
“No, and he’s not answering his phone.”
The look on Sam’s face changed from half-asleep to fully alert in a split second. “That’s not like him. That’s not like him at all.”
His confirmation made the panic billow and mushroom inside me. Fear traveled up my throat, thick as molasses, threatening to suffocate me in the hallway, turning my next words into a strained whisper. “I can’t get ahold of him. We haven’t spoken since last night when—”
“I’m sure he’s fine—”
“He went swimming, Sam. At the beach.”
“We’ll take my car.”
I didn’t argue, didn’t think I’d be able to get my hands and legs to cooperate well enough to drive. Sam grabbed his sneakers, threw on a jacket, and we were on our way to Gondola Point, the secluded beach where Jack preferred to swim any day the weather would allow. It was a ten-minute drive. Sam made it in seven.
“There!” I yelled as we turned the last corner, pointing to the truck at the far end, but the relief was swiftly replaced by more rising anxiety when we got closer and I saw the vehicle was empty. Before Sam came to a full stop, I jumped out, ran over and tried the handle, but the truck was locked. Undeterred, I searched underneath the front bumper, found the set of keys that Jack often hid there, something I made fun of him for because it was the most obvious place a thief would look. Except now I didn’t think it was funny. It wasn’t funny at all. I unlocked the truck, reached under the driver’s seat and, when my fingers closed over Jack’s wallet and phone, let out a whimper. Sam stood next to me now, and when I turned around and he saw me clasping Jack’s things, the fear I knew he’d worked hard to hide was splashed all across his face.
“Where’s Jack?” I shouted, my voice carried away by the wind. “Where is he?”
Sam put his hands on my shoulders. One look and I knew what he was going to say. I wanted to press both of my hands over his mouth, forcing his words to stay inside. Once he said them, they’d be out there. They’d make this nightmare real.
“No,” I said, trying to back away so I wouldn’t hear, but Sam held firm.
“Lily, honey,” he said, his voice gentle. “We have to call the cops.”
3
THE MAN FROM THE BEACH
I woke up with a start, needed a moment to figure out where I was before allowing myself to sink back onto the mattress, my mind retracing the events that had led me here. After I’d staggered away from the beach, I’d come across a dusty, four-foot-wide track. Trying yet continually failing to regain focus, I attempted to force my brain to decide which direction to take. I stood by the side of the path forever, my mind spinning. Unanswered questions piled on top of each other, layer after stifling layer of uncertainty. When I couldn’t bear it any longer, and for no discernible reason other than gut instinct, I turned right.
As I’d limped along, forcing one foot in front of the other, the sky had clouded over, taking away most of the moonlight and visibility, making everything around me more ominous. I picked up the pace, ignoring the pain in my temple, which ordered me to slow down, to sit down, and kept walking. About a quarter of a mile later, a fat water droplet bounced off the top of my skull. A flash of lightning followed, and not long after I heard the sound of rolling thunder in the not-too-far-away distance. Shivering, I upped my speed some more, hoping to find refuge before the heavens opened and dumped the brunt of the approaching storm on top of my aching head.
The track had been deserted. Not a single pedestrian, cyclist or anyone in a car I could ask for help. As I walked, my feet thudding in a steady rhythm on the path, I’d asked myself the same question over and over, saying it out loud, as if making a demand would suddenly provide the answer. “What’s my name? What’s my name? What. Is. My. Name?”
Fear came and went like waves on the beach. One minute my mind screamed at me to find shelter and get warm, but the next, the question returned, running through my head at a maniacal speed. What’s my name? What’s my name? What’s my name? What’s my name?
I’m not sure how long I walked. An hour? More? Bombarded by the frigid rain, barefoot and wearing nothing but shorts, my head still pounding and no recollection of...anything, I needed to find help. I ordered myself to keep going. Keep going. Those two words became my new mantra, the only way to drown out the voice in my head bellowing this was all wrong, I was in trouble. Serious trouble.
When the track veered to the left and I’d seen a flickering light in the distance, I’d wanted to run to it. My legs refused. They were at least twice as heavy since I’d started out, making me walk more slowly as I tried to ignore the sharp pebbles and stones digging into the soles of my feet. Getting closer to the light, I could make out the faint shape of a single-story home and I let out an exhausted grunt. Almost there, I told myself. Hobbling up the long driveway, I staggered in the direction of the front door, but when a flash of lightning illuminated the skies and the car parked outside, my feet stopped dead. I squinted at the large blue-and-white letters on the side of the vehicle. The word POLICE.
I scrambled, toes and heels searching for traction, as if they, not my brain, sensed danger. It didn’t make sense. An officer might be able to help me, except I knew—I knew—I couldn’t knock on that door. Couldn’t ask whoever was inside for assistance. I had to get out of there, and so I turned and ran this time, disregarding the stinging in my feet and the searing in my lungs as a primeval fear deep within me took over, urging me to put as much distance between me and the house and police cruiser as fast as I could. I kept going for longer than I thought possible, didn’t slow down until the track widened some more and changed into smooth asphalt. That was when, doubled over from the effort, I finally caught my breath for long enough to steady the pounding of my heart.
I still had no idea what was going on, what had happened to me or why I was so afraid. I racked my brains, but no answers came, and it was still pitch-black when I’d made it to the outskirts of a town. I couldn’t bring myself to knock on anyone’s door. I didn’t recognize any of the landmarks, street signs or houses, had no clue who lived in the latter, but understood they’d call the cops if they were woken up by a half-naked man who couldn’t tell them who he was. Although I knew little e
lse, I was certain I couldn’t take that risk.
When I saw a set of headlights coming my way in the distance, I’d crouched behind some leafy bushes to stay out of sight. I rubbed my face with my hands, noticing the watch on my left wrist for the first time. It looked older, had a plain white face with black roman numerals, and the glass cover and silver metal band were scratched and worn. The time said five fifteen, and as the first rays of sunlight crept their way across the skies above the clouds, I decided it had to be morning. I examined the watch, willing myself to recognize it and remember where it had come from, but only found a blank static space in my mind where the knowledge should have been. Heading underneath the nearest streetlamp, I released the clasp, took off the watch and examined it from every angle, ran a finger over the engraving on the back.
To Brad
All my love,
Rosalie x
“My name’s Brad?” Hearing my voice was like listening to a stranger. “My name’s Brad.” I made it a statement this time, trying to convince myself with certainty. Now I had my name, I hoped other things would fall into place. I stood there with my arms bent, palms facing the sky, as if expecting a miracle. Nothing. Everything remained as strange as it had been since I’d woken up. My name sounded unfamiliar on my tongue and as for Rosalie, I had no idea who she was, or if I loved her back. Was she out there searching for me? Why couldn’t I remember someone who was obviously an important person in my life? My pulse accelerated again as I tried to process yet more questions I didn’t have the answers to. They frustrated me so much I slipped the watch back on my wrist and kept going, repeating my name is Brad, in the hope it would have the desired effect if I said it enough.
A little farther down the road I’d reached a single-pump service station with a store that had a bright, wooden Jim’s General & Deli sign on the door. Perched above it on the front of the roof was a giant, weathered plastic sculpture of a fish my brain somehow identified as a sturgeon. Another sign near the door caught my eye, some company proclaiming they offered the best fishing charters in Maryland. Maryland. Instinct combined with logic told me that’s where I was, although I didn’t know how I felt so certain, or why I somehow also knew this wasn’t where I belonged. I looked around. Two cars were parked out front, one with a teardrop trailer attached to the back. Great. I knew the species of a plastic fish and what kind of trailer this was but couldn’t remember my own name or what I was doing in Maryland. There had to be some comedic value in that—too bad I couldn’t find it. I shook my head, immediately regretting the gesture because of the sharp stabbing pain it caused in the side of my skull.
Staying low, I crept to the vehicles. My immediate and not particularly brilliant plan was to find water, clothes and shoes before retreating someplace else, getting warm and figuring out what to do next, but as I got closer to the trailer, I’d noticed the Maine number plate on the back. Black-capped chickadee. Pine cone. The word Vacationland.
A jumble of pictures flashed through my mind. An old house. Twinkling, star-shaped lights. The sound of laughter. As I tried to grasp the fragments they retreated into the corners of my mind, disappearing from reach. Had I remembered something from my past?
More bewildered than before, I stumbled around the side of the trailer. With shaky fingers I reached for the handle, my mouth dropping in surprise when the door opened. I climbed in, groaning as I got out of the wind at last, until the pungent smell of a lemon air freshener dangling next to the window smuggled its way up my nose, making me retch. I looked around the compact space, took in the kitchenette, fully made-up bed, white bathroom complete with toilet, sink and shower, and the small seating area that had a padded bench and cat-print cushions. My legs wanted to walk the rest of my body to the bed and make it collapse there, but I refused. Drink. Clothes. Shoes. Those were what I’d come for.
I grabbed a glass from the cupboard and filled it with water, gulped as much of it down in one go as I could as the rest dribbled down my chin. Two more glasses followed and, once satisfied, I pulled open the small wardrobe next to the bathroom, yanked a green flannel shirt from a hanger and reached for a pair of jeans. They were so long and baggy they pooled at the bottom of my ankles, but they were warm, and as I hoisted them over my board shorts I heard loud voices outside, two people in a heated argument. I ducked, leaving a sliver of space for me to see out of the window. A man, his shoulders almost as broad as his legs were long, strode ahead of a petite blonde woman. She took twice as many steps to keep up with him, almost running by his side, and both yelled at each other as they approached, their words gaining enough clarity for me to hear.
“No, Rita,” the man shouted. “I’m not going to calm the fu—”
“Don’t you swear at me, Sal,” Rita yelled back, her face pinched. “I apologized. I told you it didn’t mean anything. And let’s be real. It’s not like you’ve never—”
“Don’t put this on me.” Sal stopped, turned and pointed a finger. “We weren’t married.”
Rita let out a piercing laugh. “You’re a hypocrite.”
“Get in the car.”
“I’m not driving home with you in this mood.”
Sal the giant didn’t move, and when Rita refused to budge, he said, “Suit yourself.”
He opened the driver’s door, disappeared inside and started the engine. I wondered if he would leave his wife stranded there, but after a moment’s hesitation, Rita scuttled over and got in the car.
This had been my cue, time to get out of the trailer and hope they were too distracted by their arguing to see me, but the vague shreds of recognition I’d experienced when I’d spotted the Maine number plate stopped me from moving. The air filled with the scent of lemon air freshener, and when the trailer lurched forward, I’d made no attempt to escape because something inside me gently whispered that Maine was home.
4
LILY
A little more than six hours had passed since we’d located Jack’s truck at the beach, but it felt as if it had been years. Sam had taken over my call to the police as we’d stood next to the old Ford, our bodies lashed by the wind and rain. He’d had no choice because after I’d dialed 911, I’d panicked, shouting into the phone, spouting words in no particular order like gone and boyfriend and beach. When I’d become angry because the dispatcher couldn’t string my nonsensical ramblings together, I’d told her, in no uncertain terms, to fucking listen. That’s when Sam gently lifted the phone from my fingers, put his arm around my shoulders and guided me to his car. He opened the door and ushered me inside, all the while explaining the situation to the emergency services, his words making it through my ears and inside my head, where they swirled around in an erratic, confused mess.
I’m not sure how long it took for the police to arrive. Minutes, probably, but it could’ve been hours. Sam and I sat in his car as I called whomever I could think of—Jack’s boss, our few friends and acquaintances—but nobody had seen or heard from him, and by the time I hung up I was no closer to solving the urgent mystery of his whereabouts. I brought my knees to my chest and wrapped my arms around them as Sam talked about his upcoming business trip, and how his daughter had broken her finger rock-climbing. Part of my brain acknowledged he was doing so to keep me from losing it, and so I listened and nodded, listened some more and nodded again, incapable of uttering a single word, but increasingly grateful for his.
When the police car arrived and parked across from us, a male officer in uniform and a woman dressed in a drab gray suit got out. They moved at a brisk pace, and although Sam had managed to keep me calm up to this point, I now scrambled for the door handle, jumped into the rain and ran toward them. The concerned expression on their faces reignited the panic bubbling inside me, everything I’d tried to push down by telling myself Jack was okay, we’d find him, and all this would be over soon. One glance at them made my stomach contract, threatening to empty my guts all over the parking lot. I
clenched my fists, willing my food to stay down.
“And your boyfriend swims here regularly?” This came from the male policeman, who’d introduced himself as Officer Stevens before we’d given them the facts as swiftly and succinctly as possible. Stevens was about my age, maybe a year or two older, with four moles on his neck, arranged in a perfect square as if it were a connect-the-dots game for toddlers. As he talked, I caught the sweet scent of maple syrup. It made me think of pancakes, and how Jack and I were supposed to be at my apartment, making love again before lunch, or snuggled up watching Netflix. Where was he? Where was he? I took a breath, and another, then a third, fast and shallow, my head spinning.
“Lily?” Sam put a hand on my shoulder. “Does he swim here often?”
“Yes,” I whispered, repeating the word twice to make sure I’d said it out loud. I exhaled, trying to keep the tremble from my voice. It didn’t work. “H-he swims most days. Here, and other beaches. It...it depends.”
The woman, who’d told us she was Detective Heron, and whose tone and handshake had already asserted she was senior to her colleague in rank, raised an eyebrow. “On what?”
“On the day. How busy the beach is. He likes swimming in peace. He says it lets him leave anything bad behind.” I shrugged, looked at my sand-covered sneakers, mumbled, “He says the water makes all his worries sink to the bottom of the ocean.”
“Would you say he has a lot of worries?” Heron said gently.
“No. Not at all.” Anger surged at the question. What was she doing, trying to twist my words around and imply something that wasn’t there? They had to call for backup. Start looking for Jack, now, not ask me a bunch of stupid questions. I wanted to say all of this, shout at them as loud as I could, but my history with cops made me stay quiet, tongue-tied.
Stevens rubbed his goatee with his thumb, and I noticed a shiny gold wedding ring on his finger. I wondered if his spouse had ever gone missing. If he or she had disappeared the way Jack had. Did Stevens understand what was happening any more than I did?
You Will Remember Me Page 2
