Unforgettable

by Caroline B. Cooney

  “I’m sorry, sir,” said Mitch, without committing himself about being a real Harvard student. He could not take his eyes off Hope. She could feel the extent of his crush on her, his fascination with her, right across the room, like static electricity. She left the table and walked toward Mitch. She felt like a gymnast on a balance beam. There was only one place to set each nervous foot, and each step led straight to Mitch.

  “I fell in love with Hope this afternoon,” said Mitch, “so I had to come up, and make sure she’s okay.”

  Hope felt herself laughing. This was so romantic. The pleasure of his company put a smile on her face way beyond the amnesia. “You did?” She held out her hands.

  “I did.” He held out his, and they touched fingertips, and then palms, and then curled their hands together.

  “Are you okay?” he said softly.

  “I have no idea what I am.” She was entranced by him, forgetting how much she had forgotten. She still had his bandanna. “Very confused, I guess.”

  He lifted his hand, as if to touch her hair, but didn’t, as if it were too much for him, as if they would fuse.

  Mr. Senneth stepped between them. “Although you find it amusing and meaningless, my daughter continues to claim amnesia. We have a psychiatrist coming. We have family problems to work out. We do not want an interloper, young man, no matter how romantic. All you are is another problem.”

  Mitch had the grace to flush. He wavered. For a moment, the little boy he used to be showed much more clearly than the young man he now was. To Mr. Senneth rather than to Hope, he said diffidently, “Actually, sir, I’m here to see if Hope will come with me to the Boston Pops Concert on Sunday.”

  A date, thought Hope. I have literally lost my mind, and a boy who met me a few hours ago is asking me on a date. Can you be in love with somebody you don’t know?

  “No,” said Mr. Senneth. “She may not.”

  “Aw, come on,” pleaded Mitch. “John Williams is going to do all his movie themes. Star Wars. Jurassic Park. Indiana Jones. She’ll love it.” He faced Hope again. “Won’t you, Hope?” He beamed at her.

  We’re planning my social calendar. And what about tonight? Do I sleep here? Do I have a room here? Does Kaytha come home?

  “She isn’t well,” said Mr. Senneth.

  Mitch jumped right into that. “I’d be great therapy.”

  “Please just steer clear of my family,” said Mr. Senneth. He looked ill.

  “I’m in love, Mr. Senneth. Guys in love don’t steer clear, they steer forward.”

  “I’d love to go, Mitch,” she said shyly. She actually looked at the father, as if apologizing for defying him. “When is the concert? What day is today? What should I wear?”

  Mitch laughed out loud. She loved his laugh! What a great laugh. That was the laugh of a man you could spend a life with, and certainly an evening. Then she thought: What do I mean—what should I wear? I have no clothes.

  She found herself staring down the corridor from which Kaytha had emerged before dinner, wondering if she did have clothes. If there was a closet there, filled with the dresses of Hope Senneth. “This is so strange,” she said to Mr. Senneth.

  “I certainly agree with that.” And suddenly, surprisingly, Mr. Senneth said, “This is Friday, Hope. Yes. You may go to the Pops Concert on Sunday. By then I feel sure well have this—nonsense—squared away.”

  “Oh, thank you!” cried Hope, as if he were her father, and she did need his permission.

  She tried to hug Mitch, as she had not hugged him in the plaza, but Mitch held her off. She was upset. What did that mean?

  “There’s another problem we need to discuss.” His voice was serious, almost grim. It was a completely different voice from the comfort he’d offered in the plaza and from his rhapsody a moment ago. She was chilled.

  Mitch paused, as if figuring out how to be polite about this. “I’m also here because another individual was asking after her.” Mitch nodded gently toward Hope.

  “Another individual?” repeated Mr. Senneth.

  Hope forgot romance. Another person was looking for her? But—

  “This guy came by,” explained Mitch. “He claimed that his girlfriend, Susan Nevilleson, was supposed to meet him this afternoon. But she didn’t show up. The guy had a nice black and white photo and it sure looked like—well—your daughter, Hope.”

  The silence was even deeper. Not one of them seemed to breathe. She could either be Hope Senneth or Susan Nevilleson.

  She certainly could not be both.

  If she had felt light-headed before, she felt carbonated now. Bubbles could burst the lid of her brain.

  Mitch’s smile tightened until it was just something to do with his mouth. “I thought of telling him to call the police,” said Mitch, “or telling him about you, but then I decided I didn’t want to cause any more difficulties for Hope.” He shrugged slightly. “Or Susan.” Mitch set his jaw to one side and reset it where it belonged. “I’d like proof, Mr. Senneth. Proof that this is your daughter. You know. Driver’s license. Credit cards. Something.”

  Chapter 5

  NOBODY MOVED.

  Nobody spoke.

  Then Mr. Senneth shook his head. He was irritated, nothing more. Swiftly he crossed the sprawling room to a small delicate desk on the far side. A vase of fresh flowers, JAYQUITH writing paper, and a little crystal bowl of wrapped candy adorned the surface. Opening a drawer, he removed a dark blue pamphlet with a bright gold seal on the front.

  A passport, thought Hope. I’ve never actually seen one. He’s taking out a passport—and it must be mine.

  She felt as if she had been poured out of some little bowl of her own design into a huge swimming pool of somebody else’s. Would she be able to swim in this? Or would she drown?

  My passport? There is proof?

  She found herself walking to Mr. Senneth’s side, needing to see that passport, needing to read those words, stare at that photograph. Mitch joined her. They were standing next to each other like a couple as Mr. Senneth opened it to the page with the photograph.

  How she loved Mitch’s scent. It was not from a bottle: it was work and dust and cotton and male. She wanted to kiss him. She controlled that and looked at the passport instead.

  The passport was old and well-used. Hope Senneth, as Kaytha had said, traveled the globe. Her photograph was as uncomplimentary as a driver’s license photo. The lovely dark-haired Hope Senneth looked thirty-five. Her mouth was open but not smiling, so she also looked infantile. She looked, in fact, like the kind of girl who had never quite outgrown giggling to herself in the street.

  She looks … like me, thought Hope. She—

  but—

  then—

  I am Hope Senneth!

  Hope took a time-honored way out of the situation.

  She fainted.

  For Susan, the restaurant seemed to stay open forever. She could not imagine, this Friday night, that they would ever close. Tourists stormed the place as if there was only one destination on earth: her tables. Every tray was as heavy as a tombstone and every order as complex as calculus.

  She ran, she rushed, she carried, she obeyed, she smiled, she smiled, she smiled.

  My smile is dead, thought Susan. You use a smile too much, it dies on you. They’d better give me good tips to compensate for the death of my smile.

  Michael the headwaiter said, “Susan, darling, I think a break is in order. Before you go insane and become homicidal and start shooting people from the mast of Old Ironsides.”

  “How tempting,” said Susan, so Michael drew her outdoors for five minutes of fresh air.

  “Really, Susan. You’re not cut out to be a waitress. You think more about Mitch than about who ordered steak rare and who’s ready for the check.”

  “I know, Michael. I’m hopelessly in love with Mitch. No. I will not use that word. Hope is in it. Mitch is in love with Hope, you know.”

  “Miss Amnesia?”

  “The very same.”<
br />
  “Susan, why can’t you just love Ben Franklin back? Mitch is a lost cause and Ben Franklin is a nice guy.”

  “He is not lost,” said Susan. She didn’t even bother to respond to the part about Ben Franklin. “I’m not losing Mitch. I’m not.”

  In the darkness of early evening they stared out over the harbor. Lights twinkled on masts.

  Suddenly, the weird, skinny-thin girl with the snake carved in her hair, the one who kept buying T’s from Mitch and had twice had lunch in the restaurant, emerged from The Jayquith and darted across the nearly empty plaza. Only a few lovers on still-warm benches were scattered in the shadows now. And possibly muggers. Susan wouldn’t have taken the risk.

  Michael said, “I love her hair.”

  “Would you do that, Michael? Cut symbols in your scalp?”

  “If I were brave enough.”

  “I’d never do it. I think it’s incredibly creepy. And where is she going? Look at her! Running down the wharves. What’s she going to do, hurl herself into the waves?”

  They were momentarily concerned. But although there was urgency in the girl’s pace, she knew where she was going. There was no pause in her running. She was comfortable on the swaying wooden docks, loaded with coiled rope and electrical outlets and gas cans. Sure-footed as a gazelle, she dashed out as far as the docks stretched, her little pink dress puffing out around her skinny body.

  She ran up the portable steps to the high impressive deck of Lady Hope like an agile elementary school kid racing up the steps of a slide.

  “That’s her boat?” said Susan, astonished.

  “She sure boarded easily enough. She’s done it before.”

  “I wish I were that rich,” said Susan. “I know I could adapt to living on a fabulous yacht. I wonder, if I boarded the Lady Hope, if they’d be nice about it and show me around, or if they’d call the police.”

  “There’s something about that boat,” said Michael soberly, “that makes me think they would never call the police.”

  Susan was thrilled. “What do you mean, Michael? I’ve watched that boat for the whole ten days it’s been docked out there. It’s perfectly dull.”

  “I think they smuggle,” he said. Michael was middle-aged and paunchy and had never previously said a single interesting word.

  “Smuggle what? This is wonderful! This is so exciting!” cried Susan. Waitressing wouldn’t be so bad if Susan got to hang out with smugglers, or smuggler-stoppers. “Do you think it’s gold? Or selling beautiful young girls into slavery in some exotic harem?”

  “No,” said Michael. “It’s got to be drugs. Think about it. That’s an oceangoing vessel. It can go thirty knots, which is very fast. Two hundred gallons an hour in two engines. It could meet a shipment from South America out in the Atlantic Ocean and quietly sail back to its little private marina and sell off the drugs.”

  Susan wondered for a moment how Michael knew so much about Lady Hope. Michael must be the kind of male who took one look at a vehicle or ship, and automatically knew all. Ben wouldn’t know that stuff, she thought. I bet Mitch would.

  “It’s not at a private little marina,” Susan objected. “It’s in the middle of Boston within sight of the priciest hotel in America.” It occurred to Susan that a beautiful young girl actually had just disappeared into The Jayquith. What if Miss Amnesia—no, that was ridiculous. Her name was Hope. The boat was probably hers too. It was probably named for her! She was probably the smuggler-in-chief.

  “Time’s up,” said Michael, herding Susan indoors as if he were a collie and she some ratty old sheep. “Only a bajillion hours till close. You can do it, Susan.”

  Mitch had always known what the girl of his dreams would look like. Sometimes, in a magazine, or on television, he’d see the girl that could be her, but in real life, never. In real life, even at college, where some of the girls were pretty staggeringly impressive, he’d never seen the girl of his dreams.

  And here she was.

  He had always expected her to be blonde, but she was brunette. There was something coppery in her dark hair that surpassed mere blonde; made blondes dull. He had always expected his dream girl to be very fair, and here she was honey tan. Fair now seemed pathetic and indoors and fake.

  Hope, he thought. I hope she’s the one.

  He didn’t even want to think about what Ginger would say. (The girl is deranged, Mitch. Her computer is not plugged in. Her tapes don’t rewind. Her answering machine is off.)

  The faint had been more a buckling of the knees. She hadn’t really lost consciousness. Just gone down. Mitch, to his everlasting disappointment, had not caught her. She had just suddenly been on the floor. He found himself hoping she’d faint again, so he could be there for her.

  He knew what Ginger would say to that, too.

  “You are Hope,” said Mitch, loving that name. He touched her hair again, exactly where he had touched it a few hours ago, and he had the fancy that his prints remained there.

  She was sitting up, knees pulled against her chest, trembling.

  He was kneeling next to her, as if ready to propose. His father had done that: met Mother, fallen like the proverbial ton of bricks, proposed, and married her in two heartbeats. Part of Mitch wanted to follow in the family romantic footsteps, and part of him was listening to Ginger, who was saying, Mitch, this girl is nuts.

  What a fool he must seem to Hope’s father—this cockamamie story about another boyfriend. He flushed, knowing he’d been an idiot to believe in Hope’s memory loss.

  He helped Hope up. Tall and athletic she might be, but she still had an aura of vulnerability so intense, he just wanted her to be safely lying down. Preferably with him. At least he knew for sure who she was, and at least he had a date with her. So although the little skit he’d concocted was embarrassing, still, it had worked.

  Hope was staring at him with a combination of awe and confusion that Mitch found very attractive. He really was the T-shirt God for Miss Wow Factor.

  “Are you feeling better?” he said awkwardly. “I mean, this afternoon—when you didn’t know who you were—well, I believed you.”

  “I still don’t know who I am, Mitch,” she whispered. “And it’s very very weird to find out that I could be one of two people.”

  Mitch didn’t know what to say about that, since the passport made it pretty clear she was Hope Senneth, so he changed the subject. He didn’t want to glance at Mr. Senneth because he didn’t want to be on the father’s team.

  “Speaking of this second person,” said Mr. Senneth, “although the disappearance of Susan Nevilleson is not my problem at the moment, I need some details about her, Mr. McKenna.”

  Mitch was not feeling old enough to be called Mr. McKenna. He was feeling stupid and actor-class-y and very sorry he’d said a single thing about the nonexistent boyfriend searching for the not-missing Susan.

  “In case the boyfriend does come to talk to me, what is his name?” Mr. Senneth removed from his inner jacket pocket a slim leather-bound notepad, found a blank page and prepared to take down the details. “Where does he live? Where does this Susan Nevilleson live? What are the phone numbers?”

  Mitch couldn’t think fast enough to get out of his skit. Feebly he said, “I didn’t ask.”

  “How extraordinary,” said Mr. Senneth, closing the little volume very gently, very thoughtfully. “Two disappearing girls in one afternoon? A photograph you instantly recognized? And you skipped essentials like how to get back in touch?”

  Mitch felt like a total jerk. “I told him I’d let him know through the police.”

  Mr. Senneth raised skeptical eyebrows. Mitch felt himself judged, and found lacking. It had to be the father of Hope with whom he was being an idiot, didn’t it?

  “Then I expect I will next hear from the police,” said Mr. Senneth. “And now, Mr. McKenna, if you don’t mind, my daughter desperately needs rest. I am sending her to bed.”

  Actually Mitch didn’t mind. Hope did need rest, and he needed
to be away from his failed act about the second missing girl. Maybe he would talk it over with Susan. Susan was very clearheaded and understood these things. Or call Ginger. Ginger was sharp as razor blades. She might even help him plan the next act.

  Except I don’t want to act with Miss Wow Factor, he thought. I want everything real with her. “Good night, Hope,” he said, wanting to kiss her.

  She was a picture of exhaustion, but she had lost none of her beauty. “Sunday?” he said, and then he couldn’t stand waiting till Sunday. “Actually, I’m selling T-shirts all day tomorrow. Saturday’s a big day. Stop by? I’ll give you a great T.”

  “Good night, Mitch,” said Mr. Senneth.

  Hope could practically taste Mitch’s nonexistent kiss, the way you could taste bread in the air, when you drove past a bakery.

  “Your room,” said her father, with only a trace of irony, “is down that hall, Hope.”

  She obeyed his pointing finger.

  There were two rooms off this hall. Both doors were closed. She had to force herself to touch the doorknobs, to trespass, opening other people’s bedroom doors.

  The first room was surpassingly masculine. Its colors were dark wine and hunter green, like the carpet in the front rooms. Its furniture was heavy and its walls clad in hunting prints.

  In the second room, however, a violet carpet lay beneath white furniture painted with green ivy. Wallpaper danced with tiny flowers and creeping vines. Collected mirrors—dozens of tiny glittering ovals, circles, and squares were artistically arranged on one wall. There were twin beds, and if anybody had ever slept in either one, or set something on those bureau tops, or possessed a single CD or cassette to put in that stereo system, it was not evident. It was completely and totally an unused hotel room. Does Kaytha live here? she thought dimly.

  Kaytha had had so much personality. Wouldn’t she have left a mark of some kind on her room?

  Hope was too tired to think anymore about anything. She stood on her side of the closed door, alone, safe, and private.

  Breathing room.

  And more importantly, bathroom, complete with Jacuzzi. She was tempted, but did not know how to make it work, and used the shower instead, flinging off her clothes and scrubbing away the scariness of the day.