Forgotten

by Catherine McKenzie

  “But each painting must have some kind of security system on it?”

  “A few of them do, yes. But generally, they rely on the fact that you can’t just take a painting off the wall in the middle of the day, and the place really is in lockdown overnight. Laser sensors, heat sensors—you name it, they’ve got it.”

  “How big was the painting, unframed?”

  “About four feet by four.”

  I think about it. “It would be four feet long if it was rolled up?”

  She nods. “We’ve thought about that. It could be hidden inside someone’s clothing, if they were tall enough.”

  “Are there cameras at the museum entrance?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t suppose you’ve looked to see if anyone was walking funny when they left?”

  She looks unamused. “Of course we have, but we didn’t find anything.”

  “Sorry. It sounds like you’ve been very thorough.”

  “Thank you.”

  I look through my notes, making sure I haven’t skipped anything. “What’s the video quality like?”

  “It’s pretty good. They use HD recorders that tape twenty-four-hour loops.”

  “So every twenty-four hours it starts to tape over what happened twenty-four hours earlier?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Isn’t that a bit risky? What if it takes them longer to discover a painting’s missing?”

  “That’s nearly impossible. Each gallery is checked several times a day. The guards would notice if something was missing.”

  “Would it be possible to get a copy of that video and the guest list?”

  “I’ll have to ask.”

  I take a business card out of my purse and hand it to her. “If you can, just call that number and I’ll have someone come pick it up.”

  “Is that it?”

  “For now. May I call you if I have more questions?”

  “Yes, I suppose.”

  She gathers her file together and we leave the room. The air in the bullpen is full of the smell of too many bodies, but after being in the Box, it still smells like freedom.

  I turn toward Detective Kendle to say goodbye. She’s staring at my business card with a thoughtful expression on her face. “You’re the one who was in Africa.”

  “Detective Nield didn’t tell you?”

  “No.”

  “Oh. Well, yes. That’s me. Thanks again for your help.”

  “Good luck finding a loophole.”

  I nod. “There’s usually one somewhere.”

  Chapter 18: Oh, the Memories

  Two weeks after my last visit to the village-that-might-have-a-working-satellite-phone, I was back on my Schwinn, waiting for Karen to join me. It was early, and the day’s noise hadn’t yet drowned out the egrets’ calls. The sun was still low on the horizon, a round orb that lit the path I was waiting to take to the satellite phone that surely must be fixed by now.

  I heard footfalls behind me and turned to see Karen, her hair hidden by a blue baseball cap, walking toward me with her hands in her pockets.

  “Here you are,” she said as she stopped at my side.

  “Of course. Aren’t you coming?”

  “Not today.”

  I tried to hide my disappointment. “Oh. Well, we can go tomorrow, though it’s my turn to cook. Maybe the next day would be better?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “Should I just go on my own, then?” I didn’t relish this possibility, but I was willing to do it. “Tabansi’s probably waiting for me . . .”

  “The phone’s not going to be fixed, Emma.”

  “What? You don’t know that.”

  “Actually, I do.”

  “How?”

  “Because if it were fixed, everyone here would be there waiting to use it.”

  “But just yesterday Nyako was saying that once I confirmed it was fixed, he’d arrange to take a group over.”

  She smiled. “If it were fixed, Nyako would be the first to know.”

  “How?”

  “That’s why he is who he is.”

  “Then how come he didn’t tell me?”

  “He probably didn’t want to disappoint you.”

  Clearly, Karen didn’t suffer from that impediment.

  “It’s really not fixed?”

  “No.”

  I climbed off my bike, letting its weight rest against my side. One of the pedals fell, squeaking loudly. “Will it ever be fixed?”

  Will any of this ever be fixed?

  “Of course it will, Emma. You just need to be patient.”

  “I’m not very good at that.”

  “I had a feeling.”

  “So I’m just going to be stuck here . . . indefinitely?”

  “It won’t be that long, I’m sure. But in the meantime, the waiting might be easier if you . . . did a bit more around here.”

  My heart filled with guilt. While I’d been helping Karen with some of the small tasks—working in the kitchen they’d set up, making sure they didn’t run out of supplies—I knew I’d been staying on the periphery of village life. I was leaving soon; what was the point of getting invested? But I wasn’t leaving, and Karen clearly thought it was time to stop pretending I was.

  “You mean, help you build the schoolhouse?”

  “We could use an extra hand.”

  “I have no idea what to do.”

  She put a hand on my shoulder. “Don’t worry, you’ll figure it out.”

  I walk home after my meeting with Detective Kendle, tired and pensive. I can’t help but think back to that first night home, when I skidded toward Stephanie’s in a blind panic. I may be wearing thick boots and a warm coat tonight, but the ground doesn’t feel any more solid, and my heart is cold.

  I let myself into the apartment, momentarily overwhelmed by the loneliness it seems to emit. It’s pathetic, really, how quickly I became used to Dominic being here, cooking things for me and making me laugh. Even when his moods were as black as mine, there was a certain camaraderie in that blackness.

  I hang up my coat, walk to the living room, and sit on the couch. I lean back and stare at the twinkling lights on the Christmas tree I haven’t bothered to dismantle. My eyes travel toward the banker’s box that still sits under it. Me from zero to eighteen, the box Dominic found in the storage locker. I haven’t had the courage to look through it yet.

  I don’t know what I’m scared of, really. I’ve already lived through everything in the box. It’s what’s outside the box that I’m having trouble with.

  I turn on the fire and sit on the floor next to the tree. The heat plays against my face. A faint smell of pine lingers in the air. I pry off the dusty cover and lay it next to me. Inside is a row of multicolored hanging file folders. Their white, stiff labels have yellowed over time, and they emit a musty smell. PHOTOS, PERSONAL, ELEMENTARY, IMP. PAPERS, and MISCELLANEOUS, implying more order than I remember imposing when I made this box in the short weeks between college and law school.

  I reach first for PHOTOS, and there my mother is, young and smiling at me like I was the most wonderful surprise. The date on the back, written in my father’s spiked handwriting, identifies me as six weeks old.

  The photos underneath, small, washed out, framed with a white border, fall backward from then. Me at five weeks, four, two, newborn, hidden in my mother’s distended belly beneath her soft hands and an acre of fabric that looks like the drapes Maria makes clothes out of in The Sound of Music. The only evidence of my father is in the precise dates on the back, and the consistency of the point of view. It feels like there’s love in these photos, but I can’t measure its quantity or gauge its direction.

  The one photograph I do remember is here too—a shot of me on my third birthday sitting on my father’s knee, soon before he left us for good. My father’s wearing a business suit, his brown hair cut short. His hand is patting the top of my head like he doesn’t know what to do with it, and he has a hesit
ant smile on his face. I’m wearing a white party dress, and my hair falls in Shirley Temple ringlets. This is the most perfect picture of me as a child. After, my dresses were never as nice, and my curls gave way to frizz, then disappeared altogether.

  I have only one memory of my father living with us. It’s a bad one, and I’m not even sure it’s real. In my mind, it’s right before he left, maybe even the day he did, and he was angry. “I don’t want this,” he kept saying to my mother, loud enough for me to hear upstairs in my crib. I couldn’t make out her replies, but her devastated tone of voice scared me. I called for her, and when she didn’t come, I climbed over the bars and thumped to the floor. My wail brought her to me, my father a shadow behind her in the doorway. “It’ll be okay, baby,” my mom said, holding me to her and stroking my hair, but somehow I knew it wouldn’t be.

  I put the pictures back into the folder and close the box. I don’t know what I was looking for exactly, but I didn’t find it.

  A loud slam! from above breaks me out of my revelry. Tara must be back from L.A., and it sounds like she’s brought an entourage home with her.

  Clomp, clomp, clomp, ha, ha, ha!

  They must be having a great time up there. A loud time, but great nonetheless. Maybe I should go up and welcome her home? Join the festivities?

  Before I talk myself out of it, I put on some shoes, throw my coat over my shoulders, and slip out the front door. I follow two sets of snowy footsteps up the windy staircase, carefully holding on to the cold metal railing so I don’t slip and fall at some other man’s feet.

  I give a tentative push on her doorbell. It rings loudly. I can see Tara approaching through the glass cutout of the front door. She’s wearing a pair of black stiletto heels and tight black jeans that emphasize her emaciated frame. Her long blond hair is carefully waved, and her skin has that same fake golden tone as Jenny’s. The hair and the tan are new, but her face remains the same—brown eyes a little too close together, a small bump at the top of her nose.

  She opens the door. “Oh my God. Hi!” She leans in to kiss me on the cheek. She smells more expensive than I remember. “How are you?”

  I return her kiss, just missing her skin. “I’m good. You know, back.”

  “Wow. I mean, wow. This is crazy.”

  “It was pretty crazy, yeah.”

  “Hey, do you want to come in?”

  “Are you sure? It sounds like you have guests . . .”

  “Of course! You have to tell me all about this amazing adventure of yours!”

  I’m sick of talking about it, but the alternative is more time in the box and my head, so I say, “That’d be great.”

  “Hey, can you close that door?” a melodious voice calls from the living room. “It’s freezing out there.”

  “Hold on!” She tugs me into the apartment by my arm. I close the door behind me and pull my coat from my shoulders.

  “We were just about to have a drink,” Tara says.

  “That sounds perfect.”

  We walk into the living room. Her apartment is a mimic of mine, only instead of the muted creams and yellows I used, Tara has painted each room a shade from the fiery side of the color wheel. The living room is burnt orange, with a contrasting accent wall of lemon yellow. The couch and matching chair are turquoise, and there’s a multicolored rug on the floor. The whole room shouts Portuguese restaurant. Only the plates on the walls are missing.

  There’s a very pretty woman sitting on the couch. She’s about my age and has curly auburn hair that falls past her shoulders and a round, china-doll face, set off by eyes that match the color of the couch. She’s wearing broken-in blue jeans and a faded blue argyle sweater. Her feet are bare and her toenails are painted bright red. She looks vaguely familiar.

  “You wanted white wine, right?” Tara says to the woman.

  “Please.”

  “That okay for you, Emma?”

  “Sure.”

  Tara leaves without making introductions.

  “Hi, I’m Emma,” I say, giving a little wave.

  “Emily.”

  I sit on the armchair. “I hope I wasn’t interrupting anything.”

  “Nah. Tara was just telling me about her adventures in Tinseltown.”

  “Did it go well? She looks . . . great.”

  Her face scrunches up, revealing laugh lines around her eyes. “She’s way too thin, but I think it went well.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.”

  “How do you guys know each other?”

  “I live downstairs.”

  She frowns. “But doesn’t . . . Dominic live downstairs?”

  How does she . . . ? Oh no. This is Emily. Dominic’s Emily. Emily who’s obviously Tara’s friend, which explains how Dominic knows her. Emily who called the night we slept together, who wanted to tell him something that he wouldn’t listen to.

  Shit.

  “Are you . . . living with Dominic?” she asks.

  Shit, shit, shit.

  “No. I mean, yes, but not in the way you think.”

  Why am I sounding defensive? I’m not the one who cheated on him. I’m just the one he slept with and regretted.

  I try again. “It was my apartment. I went on a trip and was away for longer than I was supposed to be, and my automatic rent payments got cut off, so my landlord thought I’d abandoned it and rented it to Dominic. But then I came back, and I had nowhere to stay, so Dominic let me stay there. I mean, he did after he checked with Tara that I was who I said I was, and . . .”

  Ugh. I’m babbling like a complete idiot. And she’d have to be a complete idiot not to figure out that she’s making me very nervous.

  “Maybe you saw me on TV?”

  Her forehead wrinkles. “I don’t follow.”

  “Oh, there was some press about what happened to me. No big deal. I’m not surprised you didn’t see it. Anyway, I’m going to be moving out soon, so . . .”

  “Did Dominic tell you about me?”

  Why did I come up here again?

  “Well . . . a little.”

  “A little what?” Tara asks, appearing in the doorway with a tray between her hands that’s holding three oversized glasses of wine and some mixed nuts in a bowl.

  “Did you know she’s living with Dominic?” Emily asks, her eyes accusing.

  “Oh crap. I forgot all about that.”

  “Forgot all about what?”

  “Dominic called me a few weeks ago. The night Emma came back . . .” Her eyes turn toward mine, pleading.

  “He wanted to make sure I wasn’t some crazy person,” I add. “It’s kind of a funny story, really.”

  Emily looks like she doesn’t quite believe me.

  “He’s not even in town right now,” I add.

  Wow. I really need to shut up. Witness 101: Talking when no one’s asked you a question is a sure sign you have something to hide.

  “What did he tell you about me?”

  I can feel both of their stares, waiting for my answer.

  “Nothing, really. Only that you were supposed to get married, and you . . . didn’t.”

  “Did he tell you about Chris?”

  “Who’s Chris?” I ask as innocently as I can.

  Emily stands and pulls her sweater down over her slim hips. “I think I’m going to go.”

  Not innocently enough, I guess.

  “No, Emily, stay,” Tara says.

  She shakes her head gently. “Let’s do lunch tomorrow, all right?”

  She walks out of the room. A moment later the front door clicks open and then shut. Tara’s left standing there, holding the tray full of wine, looking pissed.

  “So,” I say, “how was L.A.?”

  Chapter 19: Exhibit A

  Over the next week, life begins to fall into a routine. Early to rise, early to work, slog away at the files Matt keeps sending my way, have dinner with Stephanie, cull the classifieds for potential new apartments, early to bed. I feel like I’m treading in place, but at least my h
ead is above water.

  And where is Dominic this whole time? A question I try not to ask myself. Still in Ireland, I assume, taking pictures of the old world being eaten up by the new. Still regretting our night together, obviously, since he’s made no effort to call or email or carrier pigeon. But he’ll have to come back eventually. Nobody abandons all their stuff willingly.

  I ought to know.

  In the middle of my second week back at work, I have Sunshine over for dinner. She’s postponed her intended return to Costa Rica, though I protested when she told me. “Your mother would never forgive me,” she said, and that was that.

  Tonight she peers at me as she unfurls a long, multicolored scarf. “Emmaline, my darling, have you been peeking into the past, by any chance?”

  “How did you know that?”

  “Your eyes say it all.”

  I sigh. “I don’t know how you know these things, but yes. Dominic found a box full of stuff from when I was a kid. I was going through it the other day.” And the next and the next. I keep getting pulled back to it, though I never feel any better when I do.

  “What’s in this box?”

  “Stupid stuff. Report cards, art projects. Pictures.”

  “Of your mom. Oh, and of John, yes?”

  John is my father. “Yes.”

  “Lead me toward the alcohol.”

  “But you don’t drink.”

  “I do tonight.”

  I take her to the kitchen, and over a bottle of red wine and a prepackaged lasagna from the store around the corner that has kept me from starving over the years, I fill her in on the pictures I found, and the long-buried questions they’ve raised. Why he left. Where he is now. How he never came back, not once. Cradling the glass of wine in her hands, she lets me talk until I run out of questions.

  “Do you want to have a relationship with him?” she asks when I finish.

  I stab my fork into the gooey noodles. “No!”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Of course I am. Why? Do you think I should try to track him down?”

  “I don’t know. It might help bring you some closure.”

  I break off a corner of the lasagna with my fork and bring it to my mouth. The cheese is fresh and stringy, the sauce full of bright tomato flavor. I love this dish usually, but tonight I’m having trouble swallowing it.