You Will Remember Me

by Hannah Mary McKinnon

  I was rummaging around the fridge and had gulped down half a pint of milk when the trailer slowed and came to a standstill. My heart raced as I heard the car door open and close, and heavy footsteps making their way in my direction. The driver, the big man called Sal, would immediately spot me when he opened the door. My body reacted in the same way as when I’d seen the police car, signaling an acute urge to run, but I wouldn’t make it out of the back window in time and I had nowhere else to go.

  The door opened, and as I was about to put my hands up and reassure Sal I wasn’t any kind of threat, I heard his wife, Rita, yell something from the car. “I found them,” she screeched. “They’re in here, you moron. Come on. I want to get home already.”

  “You left the trailer unlocked again,” Sal shouted back before slamming the door shut. I heard him turn the key before he meandered to the car at a glacial pace, not in any apparent hurry to do as Rita commanded. As the air rushed from my lungs I collapsed on the bed, vowing the next time the trailer stopped I’d be ready to push open the back window and run. Sal didn’t appear or sound like the kind of person you messed with. Come to think of it, Rita didn’t, either.

  With the jam safely stowed in the cupboard, I forced myself to leave the rest of the bread, making sure I wiped away any crumbs from the counter to remove all signs of my intrusion. As I went to put the take-out menu back where I’d found it, I caught sight of the restaurant’s phone number, which began with 207. A sequence flashed in front of my eyes. Two, zero, seven, followed by six other digits, a combination that came over and over, drowning out everything else trying to make its way into my head. It became a steady pattern that made no sense until I realized it was a phone number, I was sure of it, except I was missing a digit. But which one? The first, last, or another somewhere in the middle? Trying to figure out how many possible combinations that represented made my headache start up again, so I jotted down the numbers on a piece of paper in case I forgot them, and stuffed the note in my pocket. Exhaustion invaded me once more, and I headed back to the bed, falling asleep before I’d stretched out my legs.

  Sal stopped briefly at another service station, and I watched him and Rita, who were no longer on speaking terms, and stayed close to the back window in case I had to jump out. They didn’t approach the trailer again, and I settled in for the ride, incapable of staying awake.

  The sun had started its descent when I woke up again, and as we drove over a bridge, I noticed a green-and-white sign announcing our arrival in Maine. I expected a rush of excitement, a massive influx of memories. Instead, a sinking sensation pulled at the pit of my stomach. What would I do now? Where would I go once I got out of the trailer? Coming to Maine had been a stupid, rash decision. Somebody in Maryland had to know me. Someone had to be wondering where I was. What had I been thinking? I spent the next hour trying to come up with a plan but failed, because, as it turned out, without a memory or history, there weren’t many avenues to explore.

  When the trailer slowed down again a while later, I decided it was time for me to go. I grabbed a black rain jacket and a blue baseball hat from the wardrobe, hoping Sal and Rita would blame one another for leaving them behind, and pushed the back window open. Even before we’d come to a complete stop I slid out, my legs buckling as they hit the ground.

  I took in my surroundings. The trailer had pulled into a small plaza with an Irving Oil, a convenience store and a couple of fast-food places. I put on the jacket and hat, and headed away from the plaza, ducking my head. As I shoved my hands into the coat’s pockets, my fingers closed over a piece of paper, which turned out to be a twenty-dollar bill. I whispered a thank-you to the rain-cloud-filled skies, and hid behind a couple of parked cars, watching Sal fill up his car as Rita periodically shouted at him to hurry the hell up. When they finally drove away I waited another few minutes in case they returned, and when I decided it was safe, went to the store.

  The brass bell above my head jangled as I entered. The guy behind the counter threw an uninspired glance my way before returning to the phone in his hand. I headed for the fridge, grabbed the biggest bottle of water I could find and picked up pretzels and chocolate. I ran my tongue over the fuzziness of my gums, for the first time realizing how rancid my breath must be. How long since I’d brushed my teeth? What brand of toothpaste did I use? Mundane questions, perhaps, but, damn it, I wanted the answers.

  “What am I going to do?” I muttered as I walked up the aisle, adding a small toothbrush kit to my supplies, hoping the twenty dollars would cover it all. I set the items on the counter, and after the cashier handed over five bucks in change, I asked for the key to the bathroom.

  He passed me a grubby tennis ball with a single key attached to it and pointed outside. “Around the back. Close the door when you’re done.”

  The stale air in the bathroom smelled of shit, the toilet seat lay broken and abandoned on the floor, and someone had drawn an impressive array of boobs and dicks of every shape and size all over the piss-colored walls. The words Peter sucks and for free along with a phone number, all in three different sets of handwriting, had been scrawled above the hazy, scratch-covered mirror. I cupped my hands under the water and splashed some on my face, gazing at myself as I observed my short brown hair and the dark circles under my eyes.

  I didn’t know my name, didn’t know how old I was, either, and if asked to guess, I’d have said somewhere in my thirties. Looking at myself in the mirror was as if I were meeting an old acquaintance—someone from my past I may have known well once, but who I no longer quite recognized. I lowered my gaze, splashed more water onto my hands and ran damp paper towels under my armpits, over my chest and the back of my neck, wishing for a hot shower. Barely any cleaner, and not feeling much better, I walked back to the store. I was about to pull the door open when I noticed the pay phone, and as I stared at it, the sequence of numbers I’d remembered in the trailer flashed through my mind again.

  At the counter, I handed over the bathroom key, and pulled the rest of my money from my pocket. “Can I have some change for the pay phone?”

  “Cool accent,” the cashier said as he handed me the coins. “Australian? Or English?”

  I stared at him and opened my mouth but didn’t know how to answer. Up to that point my nationality hadn’t crossed my mind. I was in the US. Didn’t that make me American? And if not, why the hell did I feel such a strong connection to Maine? Without offering a reply I went back outside, where I piled the money in neat stacks on top of the phone box. Taking a deep breath, I pulled the note from my pocket, picked up the receiver and dialed the combination. Fingers unsteady, I hesitated before adding a one.

  “Hello?” It was a man’s voice I didn’t recognize, which meant precisely bugger all.

  “Hello.” I hesitated, unsure what to say next. I hadn’t thought this through.

  “Who’s this?”

  “Uh...do you, ah, recognize my voice?”

  “What? Who is this?”

  “Are you sure you don’t know who I am?”

  The line went dead, and I couldn’t blame him. I tried another few combinations, added a two, a three, a four and a five to the end of each new sequence. One woman answered in a language I didn’t understand, another told me to piss off, one call had an automated message stating the number had been disconnected, and the last one went to a voice mail belonging to someone whose name didn’t elicit the smallest flicker of recognition.

  I hung up. And gave up. This was stupid. The possibilities were endless, and soon not only would my patience run out, but my money, too. I forced myself to keep going, added a six and a seven, both unsuccessful, but when I punched in an eight, a woman picked up.

  “Hello?” she said, and my lips froze together, making me incapable of saying anything, even when she repeated herself twice over. “All right, dipshit.” There was more than a little irritation in her voice now. “I’m sick of these stupid-ass r
obocalls. Get lost.”

  The tone. The voice. The combination stirred something inside me, faint and wispy like morning mist you could no longer see, but which had been there moments ago. “Hello?” I whispered. “I know this’ll sound strange, but—”

  “Ash?”

  My heart sank to my stolen shoes. “No. My name is—”

  “Where are you?” Her voice went up three notches, making her sound on the verge of panic and almost as desperate as I felt. “Ash? Ash! Talk to me.”

  My head buzzed with so much noise I could barely hear. Why was she calling me that? My name was Brad. It said so on my watch.

  “Ash,” she said, her voice a little quieter this time, and I could have sworn she was fighting to hold back tears. “Please, tell me where you are.”

  This was hopeless. The woman was confused. She’d mistaken me for someone else. My name was Brad. Brad. When she spoke again, demanding to know for a third time where I was, I decided if I couldn’t handle my own problems, there was no way I could deal with hers, too. Hand shaking, I let the receiver dangle before making up my mind and thrusting it into the cradle.

  I paused for a second. The woman had sounded so certain about my name, but it couldn’t be. It said Brad on my watch, and for the past day, this had been my one anchor in a world full of crazy. I wouldn’t let her mistake unmoor me; if I did, I’d have nothing left. Coming to Maine hadn’t yet produced the epiphany I’d hoped for. If anything, it had made me more confused.

  As I walked away from the service station and up the road, trying to find some clarity and a way forward, I spotted a derelict house with boarded-up windows. Its heavy wooden door was padlocked, and the place appeared empty, so I decided it would be my refuge for the night. It was getting late, the air had cooled, and I was too exhausted to formulate a better plan. Come morning I’d figure out what to do next. Maybe find a hospital—no, they might call the cops—a shelter of some sort then, somewhere they wouldn’t ask too many questions.

  After glancing over my shoulder to make sure nobody was watching, I sneaked around the side of the house, pushed open a creaky, rusted iron gate and found myself in an overgrown backyard that long hadn’t been on anybody’s to-do list. I got to work on the board covering a window on the left, and part of the rotting wood crumbled under my fingers as I wiggled the nails loose. Not long after, the broken board lay on the ground. I took off my jacket, wrapped it over my hand and gave the brittle pane a good punch. It shattered with a crunch, and after removing the rest of the shards, I hoisted myself up and over the windowsill, cursing when a piece of glass I’d missed cut into my thumb.

  Once inside I stood still, listening for the noise of other unwanted guests, human or otherwise, but the musty air, which smelled of damp, rot and mold, remained silent. The light from the broken window behind me barely made it past my feet, and I put my hands out in front of me to feel my way, taking small, uncertain steps, hoping I wouldn’t crash through the floorboards.

  A couple of plywood panels had fallen away from the windows in the front room, letting in enough light for me to make out it was empty. There was no furniture, not even a crate or an abandoned cardboard box. A giant stone fireplace covered almost half of the left wall, but when I examined it, hoping to find wood and matches or a lighter to warm the place up a bit, I found nothing.

  I stretched out on the floor, the scent of dirt and dust creeping up my nostrils, earthy and familiar. A flash of something went through my mind. A faint giggle, a girl calling out, “...nineteen, twenty. Ready or not, here I come!” Footsteps thudding, a trapdoor opening above me, someone peering down, their face obscured by the shadows.

  I scrunched my eyes shut, willing the images to stay, to mean something, but they faded, and I was left in the old house, lying on the floor alone in the darkness, no closer to my truth.

  6

  LILY

  When Sam came to my apartment to check on me Saturday evening, he brought a veggie sub with extra cheese and lettuce because it was my favorite—and because he didn’t know what else to do. Nobody did, least of all me, and I pushed the food away, saying I wasn’t hungry, but when I let slip I hadn’t eaten since breakfast that morning, Sam insisted and cajoled. I gave in only because I half expected him to wave the sandwich in front of my face and make airplane noises if I didn’t. After I was done, I reclaimed what had become my permanent spot on the sofa. I pulled the moose-pattern blanket to my chest—a relic from my days in upstate New York—making sure my phone was fully charged and close by, with the volume turned up all the way, the screen facing me.

  Meanwhile, Sam rubbed his face and tapped his foot on the floor, his nervous energy having nowhere else to go. “Uh, Lily, I need to tell you something.”

  “What?” My voice went up a few notches as I put my mug down for fear I’d spill hot coffee all over myself. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  He held up both hands, waving them around. “Don’t panic, it’s nothing, really. Well, except I had to change my trip around. I’m leaving for Chicago tomorrow.”

  I exhaled, wondering if this was how I’d be from now on: jumpy and on edge, always expecting bad news. I chastised myself for thinking like that. Jack was alive. He was definitely alive. The search would start again soon, which had to count for something. “Don’t worry, I—”

  “I am worried. I’ll be gone almost two weeks and I don’t want to leave you alone. It’s not fair. Are you sure you can’t call someone to come and stay with you?”

  Tears prickled the backs of my eyes. I blinked them away, forcing my face into a grimacing smile worthy of a contortionist act in the circus. I’d known Sam for almost as long as I’d known Jack, but we weren’t close enough for me to share the details about my family. Hell, I hadn’t told Jack everything. I wondered if now was the time to inform Sam that Jack might not be who he’d said he was, but I couldn’t. I still didn’t want to believe I was in love with a liar, and besides, what was the point in sullying Jack’s reputation if it all turned out to be a stupid case of mistaken identity?

  “I’ll be fine, Sam. I promise.”

  “This isn’t the kind of situation you want to deal with alone.”

  “I’m perfectly capable—”

  “I know you’re capable, but my point is you shouldn’t have to.” He paused, hesitated for a while before saying, “What’s the next step?”

  The anger I’d somehow suppressed thus far became stronger, and I tried hard to tamp it down. Subtle as they were, the comments the police and Sam had made all implied Jack wouldn’t be coming home. How could they think that way when there was still hope? It was an insult, a punch in the face, and I wouldn’t stand for it. If Sam wanted to convince me to give up on Jack, he’d have to be direct about it. I raised my chin.

  “What do you mean, ‘next step’?” I said.

  “Uh, well, what are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to wait,” I whispered, jaw clenched. “He’ll come back. I know he will.”

  Sam smiled faintly but said nothing. Jack would’ve called him a coward. Jack would’ve... Jack. How could that not be his name? If Heron and Stevens were right, then who the hell was he? Why had he lied? How could he have told me I was the most important person in the world and listened to me saying I felt the same about him? Our relationship had been the one thing in my life I’d been sure of. As corny as it sounded, when I’d met Jack it had been like coming home. I’d spent the years before drifting from job to job, city to town to village, with no clear plan on what I wanted to do, where I wanted to be, let alone with whom I wanted to share my life. I hadn’t always been like that, so lost and unprepared. My family was respectable, as my parents had often reminded my brother, Quentin, and me. My mother was a family doctor, my father an executive banker. Well-to-do people, career people, stable. They’d tolerated what they’d identified as my “flaky phase,” during which I’d been drawn
to music and art before adding boys and makeup to the list. For quite some time, both Mom and Dad had been convinced I’d grow into the academic daughter they wanted, a carbon copy of Quentin, who was fourteen months my senior, yet light-years ahead in terms of meeting the life goals they’d assigned him. He was a sure bet, the thoroughbred my parents paraded in front of their friends. In contrast, I was the stable girl best kept in the back, lest she cause embarrassment.

  If the annual round-robin announcements my mother sent at Christmas were to be believed, Quentin was on the fast track to becoming an internationally renowned neurosurgeon. The thick, floral-white letter tucked into the padded, lavender-scented envelope rarely contained a mention of me, and I was certain they sent me the annual update merely as a reminder of what I’d messed up and lost, and as an overt signal to not bother visiting them anytime soon unless I met their exacting standards. Jack knew most of this, but I’d justified withholding some of the details about my past because we were all guilty of hiding things when we met someone we liked, I mean really liked, a person with whom we could imagine spending the rest of our life, but who might not feel the same if they knew all our ugly little secrets up front. Except I hadn’t only withheld the information at the beginning, I’d never shared it at all.

  “Lily?” Sam’s voice tore me away from the memories of my dysfunctional family. “Do you want to spend the night at my place? The spare room—”

  “No. I have to prepare a few things for work.”

  “You’re going in tomorrow? Are you serious?”

  Sliding my empty mug across the coffee table with my toes so I could stretch out my legs, I noticed the gray tinge on top of my white sock, reminding me I should’ve showered or at least changed my clothes. “I can’t sit here all day. I’ll go mad.”