I sigh, let him guide me back toward Hannah's apartment, and make a decision. I will not leave Jake until I know who I am. No matter how much I want to run.
Chapter Five
"Get it?"
I eye the computer. "I think so." I used the Internet a bit at school, but it sure looks different now. Jake has to go to work at the bar, so he gave me a quick technology lesson so I can play with his computer and find out what I've missed in the last fifteen years.
"Okay. I'll be back at three in the morning. I have my keys so keep the door locked, and go to sleep whenever you want."
I look up at him and smile. "Thank you. Are you sure about the couch thing?"
After we went back to Hannah's just long enough for me to get my coat and Jake to tell her he believed me and that should be good enough for her, we left without another word to her and came back to his apartment. He made me another hot chocolate, and while I sat drinking it he threw out the nasty rug from his bedroom, then laid out a blanket and pillow for himself at the end of the couch and changed his bedsheets so tonight I can sleep in his room alone. He did it all so matter-of-factly that I couldn't be embarrassed, although I still feel bad he'll be on the lumpy couch.
He nods. "Gotta be a good host."
"You are. No question. And you order great pizza. I'm stuffed."
He smiles and pats my shoulder. "Good. Take it easy. And send me an email if you need me." After explaining email earlier, he helped me make an account so I can send him emails on his iPhone.
Maybe I'll look up iPhones first. Every time he lets me play with his I want one more.
Jake leaves, locking the apartment door behind him, and I turn back to the computer.
After a few minutes I realize that researching iPhones only makes me wish I had the money for one, so I decide not to do that any more. I have bigger questions anyhow.
I type in my own name and begin skimming through the results. Most of the Kate Andersons I see live in the United Kingdom or Australia, but adding 'Toronto' to my search doesn't get me any further. I go through about ten pages of results and don't see anything that seems like it applies to me. I guess my name's too common. I try my brother too, and my parents, but nobody with their names in Toronto looks to be them.
It's disappointing, but I try to push it aside and move on to searching for 1996. I find a site with a detailed timeline, and to my surprise I do remember a lot of that year. Not all, of course, since things like a huge snowstorm in the eastern United States wouldn't have made much difference to a seventeen-year-old in Toronto, but a lot of the early part of the year. The chess computer beating the human champion, then losing to him in a rematch. Alanis Morissette winning a Grammy for my favorite album, the angst-filled "Jagged Little Pill". An awful thing in Scotland where a man walked into a school and killed sixteen little kids and a teacher. I remember that being only a few days ago, and I hope nothing else like it has happened since.
But nothing on the timeline for the rest of the year rings a bell. There was a bombing at the Olympics that year, and I'm sure I would have remembered that but I don't. I also don't know anything about Princess Diana getting divorced, and I loved her so I think I should. There's some ditzy-looking band called the Spice Girls, none of whose songs I remember. A quick click on one of their videos suggests I'm lucky.
My memories seem to stop right around March 1996. Weird.
Knowing I probably won't remember anything after that date but still wanting to learn what's happened, I find pages for each year I've lost.
It doesn't take long before I'm sobbing. Diana killed in a car crash. The Columbine massacre. Space shuttle Columbia blowing up when it returned to Earth. Earthquakes and hurricanes and floods and epidemics. As if all that weren't bad enough, I'm completely unable to take in the horror of the September eleventh attacks in New York and the awful war afterward. Years and years of suffering for so many people.
I keep clicking links as I cry, though, and confusion takes over from my sadness. While all these dreadful things were happening people were watching television programs of other people squatting on deserted islands fighting for a million dollars, or living in a house together trying to win a different million, or singing like cats caught under rocking chairs on an endless array of 'talent' shows. This reality television stuff, it's not real. All the horrible stuff is real. Is that why everyone's so into reality television, because it stops them dwelling on the awful things?
I watch a video clip of the recent auditions for the 'Canadian Idol' singing show, and can't understand why some of these people think they have a prayer. The cat trapped under the chair would sound better than a significant number of them, but when the judges say, far more politely than I would have been able to manage, that they aren't good singers, they just snap back that the judges don't know what they're talking about. It's like everyone thinks they're brilliant and everyone else should care about them.
And nothing is private any more either. Searching to see what Alanis Morissette is up to takes me to gossip web sites and I read with horror the "this one's too fat/this one's dangerously anorexic" comments. People are criticizing the singers and actresses for everything from a tiny wrinkle to a hint of cellulite to a dress that doesn't quite suit them. I can't imagine living with this level of scrutiny, and I also can't imagine why all of these people think the stars will care about their comments.
They must think so, though, because all anyone does these days is comment. I follow a link to Twitter and am soon drowning in endless updates like "Boyfriend farted this morning. Ew." and "At Starbucks to work. Go me!".
Everyone's talking, constantly, but nobody's saying anything that matters.
Would I be doing that too, if I hadn't lost nearly half my life? Would I be posting every last uninteresting detail of my daily activities? It seems likely, since everyone else is.
What about my classmates?
I search for my friend Chloe from high school, with no success, then try a few other people I remember and am soon reading the feed of Brianna Davison, the most popular girl in my class.
"Ugh, these kids. Being a single mom sucks."
"Can't afford the new iPhone. Grr."
"Look at all the money Lady Gaga wastes on her costumes. That meat dress alone could feed a crowd."
Brianna continues to be a whiner, just like in high school. At least one thing hasn't changed.
But the 'meat dress'? I search for that too, realizing as I do how convenient it is to learn about absolutely anything with a few clicks and wondering whether kids still go to school, and am soon lost in the insanity that is Lady Gaga.
I guess it makes sense, though. When everyone's weird, you have to be weirder to draw a crowd.
I'm not at all sure I'm weird enough to survive in 2011.
*****
My head is spinning but I can't stop looking at everything I've missed. The teenager in me wants to check out the music scene, and I'm stunned by the changes there. I loved Alanis, and Michael Jackson and Madonna too. Alanis is still much the same, although she's doing more acting than singing, but I'm confused by how old Madonna looks, and what happened to poor Michael's face? He'd been turning a little white, but I can't get over the alien appearance he had before he died.
I also can't get over the whole boy band thing. 'NSYNC was around in 1996 but I remember thinking they were lame. Apparently a lot of girls disagreed, because the music industry was wall-to-wall boy bands for years.
I'm watching a video shot outside a New Kids on the Block concert, in which a young girl is tearfully proclaiming that she'll always love the New Kids, when there's a knock at the apartment door. "Kate? It's Hannah. Can I come in?"
I'm not sure I want to see her. She'll just yell at me again.
She knocks again. "Kate, are you in there? I brought you some stuff."
Maybe she won't yell. I have no stuff at all, just the clothes I was wearing when Jake found me, and I would dearly love a new outfit or at least so
me clean underwear to wear tomorrow. I go to the door and say through it, "What kind of stuff?"
"Clothes. Books. And... stuff."
Clothes. Besides, she's Jake's friend. She won't hurt me, right? Jake. "Hang on. I'm going to ask Jake if it's okay."
I hurry back to the computer and fire off an email then press the refresh button over and over until he answers a minute or two later and says of course I can let her in.
"Finally," Hannah says, her eyebrows pulled into a frown.
"Sorry. It's not my apartment so I thought I should check."
She comes in, hauling two black garbage bags, and locks the door behind her. "I'm here all the time. But yeah, I guess-- are you listening to the New Kids?"
I blush. "Kind of. I'm trying to see everything I've missed."
She snickers. "You didn't miss much with them. I loved the Backstreet Boys, myself."
"I haven't checked them out yet."
She gives me a fake shocked stare. "You don't know what you're missing."
After a search, much faster than I could have done it, she's got a bunch of their songs playing. I can't tell the difference between them and any of the other boy bands but I tell her they're great because I know she wants to hear it.
Once we've listened in reverent silence to a song or two, she says, "Okay. Let's see about these clothes."
I dig through the bag. She's really come through for me. The garbage bag holds everything I could need, including a winter jacket since it's still pretty cold out, and she's even brought a package of new underwear.
"Didn't think you'd want to wear mine," she says when I hold them up.
I smile at her. "That'd be a bit weird, yeah. Thank you for this."
She waves this away. "I shouldn't have been so mean earlier. I just worry about Jake, you know? He's such a nice guy but he can be so clueless."
I wondered before if she had a crush on Jake and now I'm pretty much sure she does. I know he thinks she's amazing, and I kind of want to tell her but also feel strange. I'm her age, chronologically, but I feel like a teenager talking to a thirty-year-old and I don't want to give her dating advice, especially since I don't remember dating at all, other than a few stolen moments with the adorable Drew Keating. She's light years ahead of me.
"I understand," I say awkwardly. "I can see why you're worried."
She studies me. "I'll only ask this once more. This is all true, right? You really don't remember those years."
I lock eyes with her. "I don't remember anything from March 1996 to this morning. I truly don't. I'm not trying to take advantage of Jake or anything. I swear."
She holds my gaze then nods. "Okay. I believe you. You couldn't get much from Jake anyhow, he's a bartender. Not exactly loaded." She shakes her head. "It must be so weird for you, discovering everything you've missed."
"Absolutely."
"Well, let's get going on the clothes. I brought a little of everything because I don't know what's your style." She runs her eyes over me. "You look to be a little more classic, which works with some of what's here. But try everything on. Who knows who you are now?"
Indeed. Other than that I'm thirty-two and should really dress like an adult.
I begin trying on the clothes, changing in Jake's bedroom because it feels strange to let this near-stranger see my body, and we talk through the door about the things I've learned. I don't want to discuss September eleventh and the other horrible things, but she doesn't even mention that stuff.
She tells me I'll love Harry Potter and Twilight and shows me that she's brought the first book in each series for me, then we discuss the Internet and she agrees with me that people seem very free with their personal lives these days, and we chat about every outfit we put together.
I remember wearing flannel shirts and jeans decorated with safety pins but she hasn't brought anything like that. Not in style any more, I guess. And even if they were, not really appropriate for a thirty-two-year-old. I knew I should pick things that are suitable for this new older me, but that isn't a problem since I find I love the sleeker pieces she's brought far more than the younger-looking ones. Looking at myself in the mirror, I see an adult woman, and every time I do I feel a little more mature and a little more accepting that fifteen years have gone by.
Hannah approves of what I pick out, saying I look comfortable but still elegant, and she helps me put things together, creating outfits with far more ease than I can manage and even writing them down for me so I won't forget.
Before long, I have a decent little wardrobe stacked up on the couch. "Are you sure you don't mind me borrowing all these?" I gesture to the pile. "You still have clothes, right?"
She laughs. "I don't like Jake enough to walk around naked for you, so yes, I kept a lot for myself. And of course everything you don't want will go home with me."
"Good." I sink onto the couch beside the clothes. "I'm beat. I didn't realize trying on clothes would be so tiring."
She sits across from me and raises her eyebrows. "You woke up in a strange man's bed, found out you'd lost fifteen years, and spent time at the police station today. I bet it's not the clothes tiring you out."
I have to smile. "True. Yeah, it's been quite a day." My smile falters. "It's pretty weird, actually. Makes me sad when I think of it."
Hannah digs in her purse and pulls out two pill bottles. "I thought it might, so I brought these."
"I don't do drugs," I say automatically, years of "say no" education sweeping me.
She shakes her head. "They're herbal supplements. They're relaxing and soothing but they're not drugs. They won't hurt you."
I look at the labels. St John's Wort and Kava Kava. I've never heard of either of them. But "relaxing and soothing" sounds wonderful after all the atrocities I've learned about today.
She gets me a glass of water, obviously familiar with Jake's kitchen since she finds the glasses without checking multiple cupboards as I had to do. "Take two of each."
I hesitate, and she says, "They're good for you. They'll help you relax and sleep. Want to see?"
She pulls up pages on both herbs on the Internet, and I read about how safe and effective they are then say, "Okay. Sure."
"Good stuff." She pours the pills into my hand. "I take them both too, along with a bunch of others. It's a crazy world out there, and it doesn't hurt to get a little help."
No, it probably wouldn't.
Chapter Six
After a week of fruitlessly searching the Internet for some clue about who I am and where I came from and even more fruitless discussions with Jake and Hannah and some of their other friends about the same questions, I can't make myself get up on Friday. Jake's slept in because he had to work until three in the morning, but though I'm still in bed at noon I'm not sleeping. I've been awake for hours, lying in bed looking at the wall. I know this is weird but I can't help myself: I don't want to get up and I don't want to sleep either. I feel blank and flat somehow, like I've deflated and don't realize it.
When I hear Jake moving around and smell coffee, I still don't move, but when he knocks on my door, his door really, and says, "Want some eggs?" I rouse myself enough to say, "Sure," then force myself to my feet. Jake isn't much for what he calls moping and brooding, so I need to get up and put on a good front. I put on a pair of Hannah's jeans and a t-shirt then go out to see Jake.
He doesn't seem to realize I'm faking my energy and enthusiasm as he tells about the crazy people at the bar last night, and by the time I'm finished eating the eggs and toast he provided I'm starting to feel better so I don't have to pretend so much. Maybe I was just hungry.
We take the dishes to the kitchen and he says, "I'm in a sculpting mood. Want to watch?"
"Sure." I haven't seen anything he's made and I am curious, although still feeling a bit of the blankness.
He waits until I'm settled on the couch with my bare feet tucked under me to do the big reveal, and when he pulls the black cover off his work-in-progress I gasp. Its shape and
height suggests it's going to be a person, but right now it's a lump, featureless except for perfectly carved eyes staring at me.
"I feel like it's talking to me."
Jake laughs. "It has no mouth. What's it saying?"
I gaze into those clay eyes. "I don't know, but I think it's wise. Those eyes have to belong to someone smart. Someone deep."
He turns away from the piece, a lethal-looking carving tool in hand, to smile at me. "Glad you think so. It's going to be the Internet."
I blink. "But it's a person, isn't it?"
He nods. "Personification of the Internet."
"Neat. What's it going to look like?"
He shrugs. "I'll know when I get there."
"You don't have a plan?"
"Nope. This is the biggest thing I've ever made, but I don't do plans for any of my pieces. I just sculpt what I want to, and if I'm wrong I take it apart and start over."
This seems inefficient but I don't say so. "Have you sold any?"
Another shrug. "A few. Hannah's got a friend who works in a gallery but I've never gotten around to trying to get anything in there."
I drop my feet to the floor so I can lean forward and tell him that he should apply himself, but before I can speak or stand he says, "Don't move."
I freeze, afraid I've done something wrong, and he laughs. "I didn't mean it like that. I just... can I sculpt your foot?"
My mom always says I have cute feet but I didn't think anyone else would agree with her. "If you want to. For this piece?"
He shakes his head. "I'm not sure whether the Internet will have feet. No, I just like the look of them. Cool?"
"Sure."
He brings over a fresh piece of clay on a plastic sheet, depositing both on the dingy carpet in front of me, and sits before me slowly coaxing the shape of my foot from the clay. I watch his movements, fascinated, and eventually he notices.
Toronto Collection Volume 2 (Toronto Series #6-9) Page 25
