Unremembered

by Jessica Brody

  Yes.

  Always yes.

  ‘This wasn’t supposed to happen.’ He speaks softly, almost to himself. ‘You’re not supposed to be here.’

  I struggle to make sense of what is happening. To cling on to the unexpected surge of hope that has surfaced. But it’s gone just as quickly as it came. Extinguished in the dark void of my depleted memory.

  A low groan escapes my lips.

  I feel him moving around me. Fast, fluid motions. The tube that was in my nose is removed. The IV is gently pulled from my vein. There’s a faint tug on the cord attached to the suction cup under my gown and then a shrill beeping sound fills the room.

  I hear frantic footsteps down the hall, coming from the nurses’ station. Someone will be here in less than fifteen steps.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he continues in a whisper, lacing his warm fingers through mine and squeezing. ‘I’m going to get you out of here.’

  I suddenly shiver. A chill has rolled over me. Slowly replacing every spark of heat that was lingering just under my skin.

  And that’s when I realize that the touch of his hand has vanished. With all my strength, I reach out, searching for it. Grasping at cold, empty air. I fight to open my eyes one last time before the darkness comes.

  He is gone.

  3

  ACCESSORIES

  I wake up the next morning feeling drowsy. The drugs linger in my system. My arms and legs are heavy. My throat is dry. My vision is blurred. It takes a few moments for it to clear.

  Kiyana enters. She smiles upon seeing me. ‘Well, look who’s awake.’

  I push the button on the small box next to me. The back of the bed rises until I’m sitting upright.

  Kiyana retreats to the hallway and returns a few seconds later with a tray. ‘I brought you some breakfast. Do you wanna try eatin’ some real food?’

  I look at the items on her tray. I can’t identify a single one. ‘No.’

  She laughs. ‘Can’t say I blame you. That’s hospital food for you.’

  She takes the tray back out to the hallway and returns, writing things down on her clipboard. ‘Vitals are good,’ she says with a wink. ‘Like always.’ Her fingertip does a tap tap tap on the screen of the heart monitor next to my bed. ‘A good strong heart you’ve got there.’

  The machines.

  The cord.

  There was a boy in my room.

  I reach up and touch my face. The tube in my nose is intact. I glance down at my arm. The IV has been reinserted. I peer around the room. It’s empty except for Kiyana.

  But he was here. I heard him. I saw him.

  Who was he? Did I know him? He said I did.

  I feel the warmth in my stomach again. Hope on the rise.

  ‘Kiyana?’ I say, my voice inexplicably wobbly.

  ‘Yes, love?’ She flicks her pen against the bag filled with clear liquid that’s attached to my IV.

  I swallow dry air. ‘Has anyone . . . ?’ My lip starts to quiver. I bite it quickly before trying again. ‘Did anyone come in here last night? Like a visitor?’

  Her face scrunches up as she flips a page on her clipboard. Then she slowly shakes her head. ‘No, love. Jus’ the night nurse. When you knocked out your IV in your sleep.’

  ‘What?’ My throat constricts but I push past it. ‘I did that?’

  She nods. ‘I don’t think you took well to the drugs.’

  I feel my face fall. ‘Oh.’

  But the image of the boy is so clear in my memory now. I can see his eyes. And the way his dark hair fell into them as he leaned over me.

  ‘But listen,’ Kiyana says pointedly, her gaze darting discreetly towards the open door, then back to me. A cunning grin erupts on her face as she bends down and whispers, ‘I did hear some good news this mornin’.’

  I peer up at her.

  ‘They started interviewin’ some people who claim to be your family.’

  ‘Really?’ I sit up straighter.

  ‘Yeah,’ she confirms with a pat pat pat on my blanketed leg. ‘Hundreds of people have been callin’ after that newscast yesterday. The police have been interviewin’ them all night.’ She steals another glance at the hallway. ‘But I’m not supposed to tell you that, so don’t be getting me in any trouble.’

  ‘Hundreds?’ I ask, suddenly confused. ‘But how could there be hundreds?’

  Her voice is back to a whisper. ‘So far, they’ve all’ve been impostors. Media-hungry fakes.’

  ‘You mean people have been lying about knowing me?’

  The boy’s face instantly dissolves. Just like the warm touch of his hand on my skin.

  She shakes her head in obvious disapproval. ‘Well, I’ll tell you. I blame that news coverage. You’ve become a celebrity overnight. People can be so desperate for attention.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Now that’s a question that needs a whole heap of an explanation, love. One that I don’t know if I can give you. But I’m sure that one of those calls will prove to be the real thing.’

  I feel my shoulders sink and my body slouch. Like my spine has given out on me.

  Impostors.

  Liars.

  Fakes.

  Was that really what the boy was? Someone trying to meet the famous survivor of flight 121? The thought fills me with a surge of emotion. The idea that he was able to make me feel a sliver of hope – false hope – leaves me feeling foolish. And furious.

  But then again, maybe he was never here at all. The drugs could have caused me to hallucinate. Invent things.

  Invent people.

  I fall back against my pillow, deflated. I reach for the remote control and turn on the television. My photograph is still on the screen, although it’s been resized and placed in the top right corner. A new female reporter is standing in front of the same Los Angeles International Airport sign.

  ‘Once again,’ she is saying, ‘anyone with information about this girl’s identity is encouraged to call the number on the screen.’ A long string of digits appears below the woman’s chest. The same ones as yesterday.

  And I’m struck with a thought.

  ‘Kiyana?’

  She’s writing something on her clipboard and pauses to look up at me. ‘What’s that, love?’

  ‘How do they know the callers are impostors?’

  She glances back down at her clipboard and continues scribbling notes, answering my question distractedly. ‘Because none of them know about the locket.’

  My gaze whips towards her. ‘What locket?’

  She still doesn’t look up, oblivious to the alarm in my voice. ‘The one you had on when they found you.’ Her voice slows as she comes to the end of her sentence and notices the ghastly expression on my face. Something she clearly wasn’t expecting to see.

  Her hand goes to her mouth, as though to recapture the words that she has inadvertently set free.

  But it’s too late. They’re already imprinted on my barren brain.

  I feel my teeth clench and my eyes narrow as I turn my glaring expression on her and seethe, ‘No one told me anything about a locket.’

  4

  MARKED

  ‘The only reason we didn’t tell you about it,’ Dr Schatzel says as he dances his hands around in some kind of apologetic gesture, ‘is that we didn’t want to overwhelm you.’

  This overwhelms me. I hear the faint, rhythmic beeping of my heart monitor start to speed up. ‘You had no right to keep it from me. It’s mine.’

  The doctor puts a hand on my arm in an act I assume is meant to calm me. ‘Relax,’ he coaxes. ‘The police are having it analysed in the hope that they can possibly identify where it was made or purchased. They thought maybe it could help us locate your family. Don’t forget that we’re all on the same side here. We’re after the same goal. And that’s finding out who you are.’

  I can feel the rage building up inside me. ‘I don’t believe you!’ I cry out. ‘If we were all on the same side, you wouldn’t be stealing my stuff and not t
elling me about it. You wouldn’t be making me lie in this bed for two days when there’s absolutely nothing wrong with me.’ I shove the covers off my legs and sit upright.

  ‘Violet,’ he urges, ‘you really need to calm down. It’s not good for you to be getting so worked up. We were going to bring you the locket once you had stabilized more. You’ve been through a very traumatic experience and your system is—’

  ‘My system,’ I interrupt, fuming, ‘is fine! I’m already perfectly stable! In fact, I’ve been stable since the moment I arrived here.’ I launch to my feet. ‘See!’ I yell, motioning to my fully functioning body, covered by a wispy piece of pale blue fabric. ‘Perfectly healthy. You and your parade of nurses and specialists are the only things that have been making me unstable. And yet you insist on keeping me here anyway. When are you going to start believing me? THERE IS NOTHING WRONG WITH ME!’

  I yank the suction cup from my chest. The machine next to my bed screams in protest. Kiyana looks anxiously to Dr Schatzel, who eyes the emergency call button on the wall.

  I point at the IV needle in my arm. ‘This?’ I tug the cord free and let it fall to the ground. ‘Completely unnecessary.’ Then I pull the air tube from around my face. ‘And this is ridiculous. I can breathe perfectly well on my own. Better, now that I don’t have a tube up my nose.

  ‘And what is the purpose of this?’ I flick my finger against the strip of white plastic wrapped around my wrist.

  ‘Hospital ID bracelets are standard procedure for all patients,’ Dr Schatzel responds.

  ‘Well, then,’ I say, ripping furiously at the flimsy button clasp. ‘I won’t be needing it any more, will I? Since I’m clearly not . . .’

  My voice trails off as the plastic snaps and the bracelet falls from my wrist, revealing the small patch of skin underneath. It’s pink and slightly tender from my struggle but that’s not the part that concerns me. That’s not the reason I gasp in horror and collapse back on to the bed the moment my eyes catch sight of it.

  ‘What is this?’ I ask, my voice no longer thunderous. It’s now weak. On the verge of breaking.

  Kiyana leans forward and examines the inside of my wrist. I expect her to react as harshly as I did, but her expression remains neutral. ‘It looks like a tattoo,’ she says casually.

  ‘A what?’

  ‘Relax,’ Dr Schatzel assures me. ‘It is a tattoo. No reason to get hysterical.’

  I gaze downward once again and run a fingertip across the inside of my wrist. Across the strange black line that stretches horizontally parallel to the crease of my palm. It’s about an inch and a half long and razor thin. And it seems to be etched right into my skin.

  ‘What’s a tattoo?’ I ask, glancing hopefully between them.

  ‘It’s a permanent marking of sorts,’ the doctor is quick to explain, sliding back into his professional and informative demeanour. ‘Some people choose to decorate their bodies with them. Oftentimes people choose favourite animals, or Chinese characters with a special significance, or names of people who are important to them. Other times, people choose designs that are –’ his chin juts ambiguously in the direction of my wrist – ‘more obscure.’

  I look at the mysterious marking. ‘So that’s all this is then,’ I reply, infusing my voice with certainty. ‘A decoration. Something I chose at some point in my life.’

  Dr Schatzel offers me a half-smile. ‘Most likely.’

  But I can tell he doesn’t believe that. I can tell, from the way he averts his gaze and nervously shifts his posture, that he’s already considered this option . . . and ruled it out.

  Because if he’s even half as reasonable as he looks, he’s probably come to the same conclusion that I’m coming to right now. As I examine this strange black mark that’s stamped into my skin like a label. Like a brand.

  It certainly doesn’t look very decorative.

  5

  EMPTY

  It takes a little over an hour, but my locket is finally brought to me in the late morning. Dr Schatzel sets it down on the tray next to my bed and rotates the swinging arm so that the tabletop is directly under me.

  ‘Unfortunately the police weren’t able to figure out where it was purchased so I’m afraid it’s another dead end,’ he explains, taking a step back as though to give me time alone with my one and only known possession on this earth.

  I carefully reach out and lift the necklace by the chain. I extend my finger, allowing the glossy black heart-shaped charm to swing like a pendulum in front of my face.

  I study it carefully. On one side of the amulet’s surface is a curious symbol carved out of a matte silver metal. It’s a series of interwoven loops, swirling around each other, with no beginning and no end.

  I turn the locket upside down but the design doesn’t change.

  ‘What kind of symbol is this?’ I ask the doctor.

  ‘It’s actually an ancient Sanskrit symbol. Called the eternal knot.’

  ‘Does it represent something?’ I ask, disliking the contemptuous quality of my voice.

  He forces a smile. ‘The Buddhists believe it symbolizes the interweaving of the spiritual path, movement, and the flowing of time.’

  I frown, feeling disappointed. I was hoping his answer would be more helpful than that.

  ‘But to put it simply,’ he offers, almost sounding sympathetic, ‘it represents eternity.’

  Kiyana squints at the locket. ‘It almost looks like two hearts,’ she asserts with a confident nod of her head. ‘One on top of the other.’ She smiles. ‘Pretty.’

  I stare at the symbol, trying to see what Kiyana sees. It does kind of look like two hearts. One upside down and the other right side up. Intersecting at the cores. ‘It is beautiful,’ I agree.

  ‘Yes,’ Dr Schatzel concurs, although the sharpness in his voice is back. ‘At first the police believed it might be an antique. But I’m told it wasn’t registered in any databases so that can’t be confirmed.’

  Like me, I think, instantly feeling a special affinity to the necklace.

  I reach for the tiny clasp on the left side and manage to pop open the locket with the edge of my fingernail. My hopes fall once more when I see that the hollow space carved inside is empty.

  ‘Was there something in here?’ I ask, shooting an accusatory look at Dr Schatzel.

  He shakes his head. ‘It was empty when they brought you in. I assume if there was anything inside it must have fallen out during the crash.’

  Another piece of me. Lost.

  I close the locket and give it a flick, sending the empty heart into a spin. The silver-link chain twists and wraps around itself, winding all the way up, threatening to strangle my finger.

  It’s not until it slows and eventually starts to unwind that I notice something on the other side.

  An engraving.

  I catch the charm midtwirl and bring it closer to my face so I can read the small calligraphic characters etched into the back.

  S + Z = 1609.

  Kiyana and Dr Schatzel watch me carefully, awaiting some kind of reaction.

  ‘What does this mean?’ I ask.

  The doctor appears disappointed. ‘We were hoping you could tell us that.’

  I can feel the frustration start to build up inside me again. ‘Why does everyone keep saying that to me!?’ I yell. ‘Does no one around here have any answers to anything?’

  He shakes his head regretfully. ‘I’m sorry. It’s not a mathematical or scientific formula that we’re familiar with.’

  ‘S + Z = 1609.’ I enunciate carefully, reading the text letter for letter, number for number, hoping it will trigger something in my memory. Something in this black void I have in place of a brain.

  And after five long, quiet seconds, it does.

  ‘1-6-0-9,’ I repeat slowly. Familiar images start to snake into my mind. Rapid flashes of faces.

  I can feel excitement building in the pit of my stomach.

  Am I having a memory? Is this what it feels like?
>
  Yes! I remember. I remember water. I remember bits of floating debris. Bodies. A bright white light. Voices.

  ‘What is your name? Do you know where you are? Do you know what year it is?’

  And then suddenly, like a whoosh of air exiting the room, the excitement is gone. Thrust out of me by a single disheartening realization.

  I’m recollecting what happened after the crash.

  After I awoke among the wreckage of a plane that I don’t remember boarding.

  ‘That number, 1-6-0-9 – does it mean anything to you, love?’ Kiyana asks, interpreting the strange progression of emotion that must be registering across my face.

  ‘Yes,’ I answer with an unsettling sigh. ‘I think it’s a year.’

  6

  TOUCHED

  It’s been five days since the crash and they’ve finally agreed to release me. Inevitably coming to the same conclusion that I’ve already come to: I’m fine. That despite inexplicably surviving a ten-thousand-foot plunge from the sky, there’s nothing wrong with me. They’ve assured me that my memory will eventually start to return and when it does I’m expected to call the hospital or the chief of police immediately.

  I smile and agree even though I’m exceedingly less confident.

  I would be happy simply remembering my real name.

  Violet seems to have stuck though. Now pretty much everyone is calling me that. I don’t mind. I suppose it’s as good a name as any.

  A woman from Social Services arrives and brings me some clothes to wear out of the hospital. A pair of blue pants that she calls jeans, a plain white T-shirt, a bra that Kiyana has to teach me how to clasp behind my back, underwear with red-and-orange stripes on them, socks, and white lace-up shoes with pink lightning bolts on the sides. None of the items seems to fit right except for the socks. Something the woman apologizes profusely for, muttering, ‘Sorry, I had to guess on all the sizes.’

  I don’t mind, however. I’m just glad to be out of that flimsy paper dress.

  Mr Rayunas, the man who was unsuccessful in finding anyone related to me (although he promises they have not given up), tells me that I’m to be transferred to the care of a state-appointed ‘foster-family.’