Forgotten: A Novel Page 3

  “Here I am.”

  “You want to come in?”

  I nod and cross the threshold into the warm entranceway. The hallway beyond is full of boxes held together by wide, clear tape. BOOKS, reads the label on one. KITCHEN, says another.

  Dominic walks down the hall and returns with a light-blue towel in his hand.

  “I thought you could use this.”

  “Thanks.”

  I wipe the moisture off my face and neck. As I defrost, some of the feeling starts to return to my hands, but I’m not sure that’s a good thing. Comfortably numb seems like a better option right now.

  “Why don’t you take off your coat?”

  I shrug it off and hang it next to his.

  “I made some coffee. Would you like some?”

  “All right.”

  I follow him into the kitchen. The smell of a dark roast permeates the air. The walls are still the bright yellow I painted them when I moved in, and my blue flowered curtains are hanging in the window.

  I sit down at the old pine farmer’s table Stephanie gave me for my thirtieth birthday, resting my hands on the smooth surface.

  Emma Tupper, this is your life. On drugs.

  Dominic pours some coffee into a matte black mug that’s the first thing I don’t recognize. I wrap my hands against its hot warmth, breathing in the tart fumes.

  “I found something that might interest you,” he says, sitting across from me.

  He pushes an envelope across the table. It’s a credit card bill by the looks of it, and it’s addressed to me.

  I feel an odd sense of Cartesian relief. I receive mail, therefore I am.

  “So you believe me now?”

  “Yeah, well, when I found this, I called Tara in L.A.”

  “And she confirmed that I live here?”

  “She did. But she also said you disappeared.”

  “I didn’t disappear. I was just away for longer than I was supposed to be.”

  He bites his lower lip, trying to decide something. “I guess this is your apartment.”

  “That’s what I’ve been saying.”

  “Maybe I should’ve believed you, but—”

  I soften my tone. “I know this must all seem crazy.”

  He gives me a tentative smile. “I’m sure it’ll make sense eventually.”

  I take a sip of my coffee. It’s strong, but I doubt even a triple cap would make an impression today.

  “I guess we’ll straighten it out with Pedro tomorrow,” I say.

  “Right. Can I call you a cab or something?”

  Oh my God. He expects me to leave. But I can’t. I can’t.

  My mind whirs, trying to come up with a solution that doesn’t involve asking a stranger if I can stay in my own apartment, but I come up with nothing.

  “Do you have Tara’s number?” I ask eventually.

  “Why?”

  “I need to ask her something.”

  He nods toward his iPhone, sitting charging on the counter. “Her number’s the last one I dialed.”

  I walk to the counter and hold the sleek device in my hand. “Do you think you could give me some privacy?”

  He mutters something unintelligible under his breath, but he leaves the room. I hit Redial with my index finger, and in moments I’m talking to Tara. She wants to hear all about my trip and where the hell I’ve been all this time, but I get right to my point.

  “This guy, Dominic. Is he all right?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, can I trust him?”

  “What kind of question is that? Of course you can. Especially after what he’s—”

  “Okay, thanks. That’s all I wanted to know.”

  “No problem, but, Emma—”

  I end the call, basically hanging up on her, but I’m so worn down I can’t muster the energy to care. I’ll apologize later.

  I find Dominic in the hall, sorting through the boxes. I watch him for a moment, staring at the sharp line of his hair where it meets his neck.

  “Dominic?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Do you think . . . I could stay here tonight?”

  He turns around slowly. “Don’t you have somewhere else you can go?”

  “No.”

  I get the impression he doesn’t really believe me, and as the silence grows I’m sure he’s going to refuse, but instead he says, “All right. You can stay. Temporarily.”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  “What did you expect me to say?”

  “What’s with the hostility?”

  “Sorry. I’m having a bad day.”

  And I’m not?

  “Right.” A wave of tiredness passes through me, and my teeth start chattering again. “Do you mind if I take a bath?”

  “Sure, whatever.”

  I walk to the linen cupboard that’s nestled into the hallway outside the bathroom. The shelves are bare, like I knew they would be somehow.

  I feel sheepish about asking, but: “Dominic, do you have any more towels?”

  Looking resigned, he roots through a box on the floor outside my bedroom. He pulls out two more light-blue towels and a bar of soap.

  “This do you?”

  “Thanks. And”—I take a deep breath—“truce?”

  He mulls it over. “Yeah, all right.”

  “You wouldn’t have any idea where the rest of my stuff is, would you?”

  “Is something missing?”

  “My pictures, my books, my winter clothes . . .” My memories, my life. “None of it seems to be here.”

  “I rented the place furnished, but I never saw anything like that.”

  Feeling defeated, I hug the towels to my chest and head toward the bathroom. The best thing about this apartment, it has cream marble floors, white subway tile in a brick pattern halfway up the walls, and a separate tub and shower. The walls are a soothing blue-gray color. If I breathe deeply enough, I can still smell my favorite shampoo.

  I lock the door behind me and strip down, letting my wet clothes scatter on the floor. I inspect my backside in the full-length mirror. There’s a large red circle where I hit the step. It stands out angrily against the white of my skin. This bruise is going to be lasting and painful. Kind of like the effects of today, I expect.

  I run a steaming hot bath and slide into the tub, sinking up to my ears. I stay like that until the water cools, letting the heat penetrate down to my bones. Then I scrub every part of me with the bar of soap until I feel like I’m down to the next layer of skin.

  When I’ve finally had enough, I drain the tub and wrap myself in one of Dominic’s towels. I twist my hair into another, then recover my suitcase from the hall. I head toward my bedroom out of habit. Without my things, the room feels like it’s moved on, like my bedroom in my mother’s house after I came home from college. I unzip my suitcase and survey the contents, hoping to find something I know isn’t there: warmer clothes. All I have are shorts and tank tops and the linen pants I wore home. I feel cold just looking at them.

  I sit on the edge of the bed, overwhelmed again. New skin isn’t a buffer against the reality I’m facing. I should’ve left the old skin on.

  There’s a soft knock on the door. “Emma, is it okay if I come in?”

  I wrap the towel tighter across my breasts. “Sure.”

  Dominic opens the door. “I was thinking . . . you’ve been gone since summer, right?”

  I nod.

  “Do you have anything to wear in this weather?”

  “No.”

  He walks to the boxes lined up against the wall and opens one of them. He takes out a pair of gray jogging pants and a black T-shirt.

  “Take these.”

  “What? No, I can’t.”

  “Don’t be r
idiculous.” He puts them on the bed.

  “Thanks.”

  “There’s some sheets and blankets in that big box in the corner.”

  “Do you mind if I sleep in here?”

  “I figured you’d want to. I’ll take the other room.”

  “Listen, about before—”

  “We’ll figure it out tomorrow.”

  “Right. Well, good night.”

  He gives me a half smile. “Pretty fucked-up day, huh?”

  “That sounds about right.”

  He leaves, and I change into his clothes. They’re too big, but they’re clean, cozy, and smell like fabric softener. I make up the bed with the sheets and blankets I find in the box Dominic mentioned, then search my suitcase until my hand comes against a hard surface. I pull out the jar Karen gave me and place it on the nightstand; at least there’s something that’s mine here now.

  Beyond exhausted, I climb in between the sheets feeling small and alone and lost.

  Even in my own bed, I am lost.

  Chapter 3: Missing, Presumed Dead

  When I arrived in Tswanaland—a small country tucked between Zimbabwe, Zambia, and Botswana—worn out and groggy from the sleeping pills and the long, long flight, I felt immediately like the whole trip was one big mistake. Maybe it was the alien landscape, or the way the airport was thick with people. But as I collected my luggage and searched for the tour-company sign among a sea of unfamiliar faces, it occurred to me that I hadn’t really thought the whole thing through. I’d never traveled alone before, for one thing, and hadn’t taken more than a week off in years. And though I loved my mother very, very much, Africa was never on the list of places I wanted to visit; it was always the place she wanted to go but never did.

  But what I really wasn’t counting on was how actually being there brought her death home to me in a way the previous few weeks hadn’t. I’d gone there to finish mourning her, and instead, the wound her death caused suddenly felt fresh and like someone was digging a knife into it.

  After what seemed like too long, when I was about to give up and catch the first flight home, I found a group of people circled around a tall, thin man dressed in jeans and a Counting Crows T-shirt. He had a white sticky label on his chest, like the ones you get at conferences. MY NAME IS BANGA, it read, but he said to just call him Bob. He’d be guiding us for the next month, he told the excited-looking group around me. He couldn’t wait to show us his country.

  My fellow travelers were buzzing with the adventure of it all. But me?

  I hated the place on the spot.

  In the morning, the sunlight seeps through the cream muslin curtains I always meant to replace with darker ones and pries me from sleep too soon. It feels like it’s early, though there’s no longer any clock on the bedside table to confirm it. A small crash, a muttered oath, and the faint whiff of coffee tell me Dominic must be up too.

  I want to pull the covers over my head and sleep until I can sleep no more, but I have places to go and people to kill, specifically Pedro, so I rise and help myself to a pair of Dominic’s jeans and a wool fisherman’s sweater from a box marked OLD CLOTHES. The jeans and the sleeves of the sweater are much too long for me, but I roll them up and French-braid my hair. Then I pick up the cordless phone from the bedside table and dial Stephanie’s and Craig’s numbers again, with the same result as yesterday. I rack my brain, but for the life of me I can’t remember their cell numbers. Because they were in my BlackBerry, of course, that constant buzzing companion, which I left behind in a fit of pique at the powers that be at work.

  After I wash my face and use the bathroom, I follow the smell of coffee to the kitchen. Dominic’s sitting at the table reading the newspaper, sipping from a mug. His hair is mussed, and he’s wearing a pair of striped pajama bottoms and a white T-shirt.

  “Morning.”

  He lifts his head. His eyes are red-rimmed. “Morning.”

  I pour myself some coffee and sit across from him. His eyes flit from my face to my sweater.

  “You know the stuff in the boxes is mine, right?”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t think you’d mind.”

  “I guess I don’t, but maybe you could ask me next time?”

  “I’m hoping there isn’t a next time.”

  He rattles the pages in front of him. “Right.”

  I pick up the front section of the paper. It’s been a while, but nothing seems to have changed. The headlines are the usual mix of sordid local news and impending world doom. There’s a serial rapist on the loose. A Manet was stolen from the Concord Museum. There might be massive solar flares hurtling toward us, or then again, maybe not. NASA is “studying” the situation. They’ll get back to us as soon as they have more information.

  I toss it aside and consider the man across the table. “Dominic, who are you?”

  His mouth twists. “Oh, right, we never had that who-are-you-and-what-do-you-do-besides-steal-women’s-apartments conversation.”

  “I think it might be a good idea given our present circumstance, don’t you?”

  “That’s where we’re different. I prefer to remain anonymous.”

  “Are you making fun of me?”

  “I might be.”

  “Are you going to answer my question?”

  He pauses for a beat, then puts down the paper slowly. “I’m a landscape photographer. Raised Catholic by way of fourth-generation Irish parents who wish their ancestors never left County Cork. I have, of course, sloughed off their foolish notions and fully embraced the Church of Scientology. What about you?”

  My lips twitch. “I’m a lawyer. Raised some kind of Protestant, I never got the details straight. Have up to now resisted recruitment by Scientologists or any other cult.”

  We smile at each other, and then something about the normalcy of our banter reminds me that my life isn’t at all normal right now, and I’m fighting back tears.

  “What is it?” Dominic asks.

  “It’s just . . . this conversation is way too casual for today.”

  “I’m sorry, Emma. I don’t mean to take your situation lightly.”

  “It’s fine.” I take a slow sip of my coffee, trying to focus on the type in front of me, but the words won’t stay still.

  “You want to talk about it?”

  “Not really.”

  “A woman who doesn’t want to talk about things. Interesting.”

  I almost laugh again, despite myself. I feel like I’m standing in the middle of a sun shower. How can you cry and laugh at the same time?

  “So,” I say, “I thought I’d go kick some scuzzy landlord butt. You want to join?”

  “It’d be my pleasure.”

  Half an hour later, we open the front door on a changed world. The sky is that clear, crystal blue you only see in winter, and the sun shines down on fluffy white banks of snow. The air smells cold and stings my nostrils. It’s beautiful but daunting.

  I pull the hat Dominic loaned me down over my ears, zip up his ski jacket so it’s covering my face, and trudge through the knee-high snow to the street. The traffic is light and the mostly plowed street seems safer than the uncleared sidewalks.

  Dominic’s wearing the same coat and hat as last night and has a professional camera slung around his neck. He raises it quickly and takes a shot of a half-buried car parked across the street. A gust of wind blows a trail of snow off its roof, like the plume of snow at the top of Everest. His shutter clicks, clicks, clicks.

  “You coming or what?” I call.

  “Coming, coming.” He follows my footsteps out to the street. “How were you planning on getting to Pedro’s?”

  “I thought we’d walk.”

  “Twenty blocks?”

  “It’s not that far.”

  “If you say so.”

  We walk abreast, next to the ta
ll snowbanks the plows created. Dominic’s boots crunch the snow beneath us; my canvas shoes merely sop up the cold. As we walk, my mind starts to throw out thoughts I’d rather not think. Like how none of this would be happening if my mother were still alive. Like how if I ever find Craig and Stephanie, they might never want to speak to me again. And where am I going to sleep tonight?

  “How come you moved so close to Christmas?” I ask Dominic to distract myself.

  “What kind of question is that?”

  “I’m just making conversation.”

  He looks away. “Something . . . came up, and I had to move suddenly.”

  “Sorry I asked.”

  “Forget it. This is it, right?”

  We stop in front of the large three-story brownstone Pedro runs his real estate empire out of. A string of multicolored lights blinks on and off around the doorway. There’s a boy of about twelve in an unzipped, oversized ski parka shoveling snow. I ask him if his father’s home and he gives me a noncommittal nod. We climb the steps and I ring the bell.

  I’m about to ring again when Pedro opens the door in his shirtsleeves and a pair of black slacks. A two-day beard grows across his prominent chin.

  “What do you want?” he asks without any trace of recognition.

  “I want to know why the hell you did what you did,” I say through clenched teeth.

  His body tenses. “What’s your problem, chica? What did I . . .” He stops as he catches sight of Dominic behind me. I can see the dots connecting behind his eyes. “Madre de Dios.”

  “That’s the understatement of the year, man,” Dominic says.

  “My problemo, Pedro, is that you rented my apartment to Dominic here, and half of my stuff is missing.”

  “You didn’t pay your rent.”

  “Of course I did. I had an automatic payment set up. Like always.”

  He shakes his head. “The payments stopped in the fall. I got a judgment.”

  “Bullshit,” I say, but as the words leave my mouth, I remember how my ATM card wouldn’t work at the airport.

  “No bullshit. Espère. Wait.” He turns and walks toward a room off the right side of the hall. Inside, there are papers strewn across a desk and several black filing cabinets. He opens one of the drawers and pulls out a yellow hanging folder. He extracts a stapled document and walks it back to me.