Her face fell and she put her hand on my arm, her touch soft. “It was your dad’s.”
“Brad’s my father?”
“Yes. Your mom, Rosalie, gave it to him.”
“Brad and Rosalie are our parents?”
“No. I’m your stepsister. My mom, Ophelia, and Brad met when we were teenagers. You and Brad moved to the US from England after your mom...after she...” Maya’s eyes went wide and she swore softly under her breath before continuing, “After she died.”
“My mum’s...dead?” I said, and Maya bit her lip as she looked away. “What about my dad, and your mum? Do they live close? Can we see them? Maybe it would help, if—”
“Oh, Ash,” Maya said. “They’re gone, too.”
“Gone as in...dead?” My feet stopped cooperating and I stumbled as Maya’s hand went around my waist, propping me up. “All of them?”
She rubbed my shoulder. “It’s been the two of us, you and me, for years.”
I waited for this information to do more to me, make me feel something, anything—grief, anger, despair. Whatever I’d hoped for didn’t hit, and instead, emptiness expanded inside my heart. My parents were both dead, Maya’s mother, too, people I must have loved and mourned, but no longer remembered. All of my memories, history, identity...gone.
“I can’t deal with this,” I said, fight-or-flight instincts kicking in, making me want to run. Except I couldn’t run from the person I wanted to leave behind, the most terrifying one of all: me. “I can’t do this,” I whispered again. “I don’t know how to—”
“I’m here, Ash, I’m here.” Maya wrapped her arm around my middle as she guided me to her car. “I’ll help you. Let’s go to the hospital—”
“No.”
“You need to get checked out. You’re hurt.”
I took a step back, escaping her grip. “I said no.”
“Okay, okay. We’ll go home. Get you cleaned up, and afterward we’ll take our time and figure out what to do. It’ll be okay, I promise. You can trust me.”
My other choice was to return to the old house I’d broken into, and once she’d opened the door to a dusty Nissan Pathfinder and brushed off the passenger seat, I got inside. It smelled of sand and bubble gum, somehow familiar and comforting. She settled into her seat and as she was about to start the engine, I noticed her key chain, a shiny oval piece of wood with a single word burned into it in italics: Hope.
“Do you really think you can help me?” I said.
“Of course I can.” She reached for my hand and gave it a firm squeeze. “We have a pact. A long time ago we promised we’d always watch out for one another, no matter what. Nothing’s changed. Let me help you. I’ll take care of you, okay? You can lean on me.”
As we drove in silence, Maya kept glancing at me, as if to make sure I was still in the car. I had no recollection of who she was, yet something told me I was in the right place, and from now on, everything would be okay. She seemed to have no qualms about inviting a stranger into her vehicle, which meant either she was as crazy as I felt, or I was who she and the others said I was. I put my head back, looked out of the window into the darkness, saying nothing until we drove up to a house. I saw the lights first, a string of silver stars hanging in the window. I peered at them, the fog shifting inside my head as a sliver of my past tried to get my attention, but it wasn’t enough for me to comprehend. Maya followed my gaze.
“You gave me those,” she said, pointing to the lights. “A few days after Mom and I moved in, because I was scared of the dark.” She gave me a small smile. “I never admitted it, but you sensed it anyway. After school you biked all the way to the hardware store and hung them over my dresser as a surprise for when I came home.”
“Home,” I said, staring up at the two-story building at the end of a long, dark road, hoping for a memory jolt, but none came. The house appeared to have exhaled a long, languid sigh before giving up and slightly folding into itself. There were no neighbors close by; we’d passed the nearest place about a mile ago. I searched my mind for an indication of my being here before. Nothing. What if it was a lie? For all I knew, she was an ax-murderer.
“How long did you say I lived here?” I said.
“Ever since you moved here from the UK with Brad when you were fourteen,” Maya said. “About a year before our parents married.”
I nodded at the knowledge I was British but had lived in Maine for years, instinctively certain Maya was telling the truth, not a doubt in my empty mind. No wonder I’d recognized the number plate on the trailer and figured it was home. “But I left? When?”
“Two years ago.”
“Where did I go?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why did I leave?”
“I don’t know that, either.” She glanced at the house again, and somehow, this time I wasn’t quite sure I believed her.
8
MAYA
I couldn’t believe Ash was here, or that the girl from the gas station had actually called. I’d found him. I’d finally found him. Ash was home.
When he’d first phoned me, I’d been asleep on the sofa, felt groggy when I’d answered my cell, but as soon as he’d said “hello” there had been no doubt it was Ash. I’d have recognized his voice if he’d whispered the single word from ten miles away in a hurricane.
Ash hadn’t used his old cell to make the call, and I knew this because he’d left it on the kitchen table the day he’d walked out, along with a scribbled note saying, Take care of yourself, Maya, on the back of a receipt from the hardware store, and an envelope with over a grand inside. Ash had never been officially declared missing by the police. As he’d taken a suitcase full of clothes, his wallet, his truck, and there was no evidence of foul play or anything suspicious about his departure, I was told there was nothing they could do. That hasn’t stopped me from searching as often and desperately as I could without ever finding anything. And now, two years later, he’d contacted me.
After we’d been disconnected, I’d frantically dialed back the number he’d called from, listened to the line ring and ring on the other end. When it stopped, I’d tried again, and a third time, but it remained unanswered until, finally, someone picked up. It wasn’t a man I recognized, and when he’d told me he was standing at a pay phone in Falmouth, and had given me the address, I’d jumped in my car, breaking every traffic law to get there. Except I hadn’t found Ash. I’d walked around the gas station, shouting his name, harassing passersby with photos on my phone I thrust into their faces, demanding have you seen this man, before doing the same with the store clerk, who shrugged and said she hadn’t seen him, either.
“My shift just started but trust me,” she added with a smirk, looking at the photo of Ash far longer than she needed to, “I’d remember a guy like him.”
“Will you call me if he comes here? Right away? I’ll give you my name and number.”
She looked at me, cocked her head. “What if you’re his crazy ex, or a psycho stalker?”
“I’m not. He’s my brother.”
“Didn’t you say he has an English accent?”
“Stepbrother, it’s complicated. Look...” I reminded myself of what Mom used to say about catching more flies with honey than vinegar, and softened my approach, forcing a happy expression and fishing a twenty from my wallet. “I’ll give you another when you call. Deal?”
“Deal,” she’d said, snatching the cash and sliding it into the pocket of her jeans.
I hadn’t been hopeful. Actually I’d assumed I was twenty bucks poorer, which I couldn’t quite afford, but then she’d called, whispering into her phone the man I was looking for was in the store, that I should hurry up and not forget her money. I made a second trip to the gas station, once again breaking multiple laws in the process, fully intent on making the cops chase me all the way if I had to, because until I arrived and
found Ash, nothing would make me stop.
And now he was here. For the entire drive back to the house I kept glancing at him, wondering if he was a figment of my imagination and would disappear if I didn’t have one eye on him at all times. Maybe the silver star lights I’d moved to the front room, hoping they’d somehow help him find his way home, had worked after all.
We continued to sit in the car in silence, both of us staring up at the old Victorian house. It had always been considered “quirky” by the locals, including us, but once morning came, Ash would get a better look at the place. Part of me was glad he didn’t remember because he’d realize I hadn’t managed so well with the upkeep, and the house had suffered for it. The siding, once a bright olive green, now resembled an ill-looking gray, like the face of someone about to vomit. The state of the shingles was no better, the candle-snuffer turret no longer proudly sat front and center, and while the multiple layers of paint on the wooden stairs leading to the front porch had been chipped away by our feet for years, they looked worse than ever. I kept telling myself I’d fix the place up, but after Ash had left, the motivation to pick up hammer and nails deserted me as swiftly as he had.
He wasn’t the only one who’d gone. First it had been my mother, my stepfather and, finally, Ash. All of them abandoning me one by one. It had been a lot to cope with. I hadn’t managed well. For goodness’ sake, I still worked at the Cliff’s Head, and the restaurant was almost my second home now that I’d spent fourteen years there in some capacity or another. Half of my life. A somehow comforting yet equally depressing thought, and after Ash had left, I’d assumed I’d be there until the end of it, an old waitress hobbling about, full of regret.
“Let’s go inside,” I said, pushing the thoughts away. There were more pressing things to worry about. Ash was home now, that was what mattered. “We’ll figure things out, okay?”
Ash followed me as I unlocked the front door and stepped inside the house. I expected a sudden rush of memories to hit him, like I’d seen happen in the movies, but instead, Ash wandered around in bewilderment. He picked up a driftwood bowl I’d made, seemingly without having any idea it was one of my first-ever projects, and one he’d once fished out of the garbage, insisting it was great and I should keep honing my skills. Next, he glanced at the pictures on the walls, and still—nothing.
“Where did you get your clothes and shoes?” I said, pointing to his enormous sneakers and baggy jeans.
“I, uh, stole them from the trailer.”
“Did the trailer belong to a clown?” I said with a smirk and Ash half smiled.
“I feel like a ruddy clown. The last clown out of the clown car.”
“Ash,” I whispered, trying not to gasp. “Your dad used to say that all the time.”
A confused expression slid over his face, as if he were digging deep into the back of his mind but coming up empty. Fiona was right, he had some kind of memory loss, and I decided once he’d gone to bed, I’d research the possible causes until dawn, and then convince him to see a doctor, too. My brain knew this was Ash, there wasn’t a single doubt. The way he moved, talked, and his appearance. The beauty spot on the side of his nose was confirmation enough on its own and yet, the way he looked at me, he may as well have been a stranger. I worked hard to contain my excitement about him being home again, knew if I came on too strong, he might feel claustrophobic and overwhelmed. I had to pace myself, or better still, follow his lead.
I took him to the kitchen, where I got us both some water. We sat at the table, where I watched him drink deeply, his fingers shaking as he set the glass down. When he turned to look at the pictures on the wall, I caught a glimpse of the side of his head.
“You’re hurt,” I said, leaning forward. “What happened?”
He moved back, out of reach. “I don’t know. It’s nothing. Just a cut.”
“Let me see.” I got up and gently pushed his hair to one side with my fingers, apologizing when he winced. “It looks nasty. We really need to get you to a doctor.” He shook his head. “Yes. It’s the weekend but...do you remember Dr. Golding?”
“I don’t remember anyone.”
“Crap. Of course.” I sat down again, making sure I gave him enough physical and mental space. “Well, anyway, he was our family doc but when he retired, Dr. Adler took over his practice. He—”
“I told you, I don’t want to see anyone.” Ash jumped up, his left hip hitting the table so hard, the glasses went flying, spinning across the wooden surface, leaving a trail of water in their wake. His expression made me think he was going to run out of the room and into the darkness of the night without looking back. I could see his frustration mounting, and it was my job to stay cool and be reassuring. I knew Ash, he had a temper sometimes.
“It’s okay, it’s okay,” I said gently, trying to keep him calm, keep him here, and gestured for him to sit as I wiped the spills with a napkin. “We don’t have to decide now.”
He complied, sinking back into his seat. “I have decided. I’m not seeing a doctor. This is all too confusing. I don’t know who I am, or what’s happened. He’ll ask things I don’t know the answers to.”
“But maybe—”
“No. I can’t. Not yet. I need some time to...I don’t know, figure stuff out.” Ash was about to jump up again, I could see the signs: jaw clenched, heels pushed into the floor. I put my hand on his knee, his muscles tensing beneath my touch.
“All right,” I said. “No doctor. First, we’ll get you settled back here at home.”
“Home...” Shaking his head, he looked around. “Is my name really Asher Bennett?” When I nodded, he continued, “And I’m your stepbrother, and from England?”
“That’s right, from Portsmouth.”
“What do I do for a living?”
“You worked in construction. Carpentry, mainly. You have a knack for it.”
“And you?”
“Officially I waitress at a place called the Cliff’s Head. Unofficially I practically run the place. That’s what my boss, Patrick, says, anyway. I can’t wait to tell him you’re back.”
“Except I don’t remember him, or anyone. Not you, Brad or Rosalie. Or your mom. You said her name was...?”
“Ophelia.”
“Ophelia.” He shook his head again, closing his eyes. “It’s as if they never existed.”
“They did, I promise.”
“You said you had photos. I want to see them.”
I hesitated. I didn’t know what was wrong with him, had no idea what might or might not trigger a memory, and what could happen to him if it did. I wanted to protect him, make sure he was safe, but how could I do that if I didn’t know what was going on?
“Maya?” He put his hand on my arm. “I need you to show me.”
I got up and went to the old dresser that stood to the left of the fireplace in the living room, and slid open the top drawer. Ash had brought the piece of furniture home one day, a few months after he’d started working for the local carpenter to make a bit of cash while in high school. The pine dresser had been old and dusty, an unloved, dilapidated piece of furniture someone had put by the side of the road with a FREE sign stuck to it. Without hesitation Ash had hoisted it onto the back of Brad’s truck and brought it home. I’d laughed at the state of the chipped, sky blue paint and the broken handles, the split wood in each of the five full-length drawers.
“What are you going to do with this piece of trash?” I said when I got home from school and found Ash in the garage, sander in hand, his brow glistening with sweat.
“Fix it,” he said. “It has so much potential.”
I’d given a dismissive whatever wave, and when I opened the bottom drawer and found a dried-up mouse inside, threatened to set fire to his new project if he as much as put it on our porch. A month later I came home to find the dresser standing next to the fireplace. Ash had stained it d
ark brown, given it new, shiny silver handles, and had somehow filled all the cracks in the wood, making them blend in and disappear. He’d sanded and treated the insides of the drawers, made them silky smooth to the touch, and I’d gawped with my mouth wide open as he walked in.
“Still want that flamethrower?” he’d said with a wink.
It was the first time I truly understood what a talented woodworker Ash was, and told him so, but he had other plans. He’d worked two jobs for over a year after graduating from high school to save up, got himself a generous scholarship and left to study economics in Denver. I’d cried every day for months, but then Brad died, and with Mom already gone, Ash insisted on leaving college and coming home to take care of me. This was something else he no doubt couldn’t recall, more details from his life that had disappeared. Memories he’d left me to mourn.
“Maya?” Ash called out, his voice sounding uncertain now. “Is everything okay?”
No, I wanted to shout. Do you have any idea what you put me through?
Of course he didn’t. He wouldn’t know since he’d left two years ago that my life had been hell. How, at least three times a day, every single day, I’d opened the browser and plugged in Asher Bennett, crossing my fingers. My heart rate would accelerate, as it did whenever I searched for my stepbrother. I’d wonder if today might be the day I found something, hoped it would be good news but was always terrified I’d stumble across an obituary instead.
I’d never found anything pertaining to the Asher Bennett I knew. A man with the same name had been nominated for a music award in New York, but I hadn’t needed to click on the link to know it wasn’t my Ash, who’d always maintained he had no musical talent whatsoever, and would’ve preferred making an instrument to the torture of learning how to play one. He’d taken my school recorder as a joke once, and performed a mangled version of “Happy Birthday,” and I swear no mice had come within a hundred yards of the house since.
Every time I continued my searches, playing with the parameters, a little voice would sneak into my head, whispering all the terrible things that could have happened to Ash, conjuring up images of the different ways he might have died in an accident, his decomposing body lying in a ditch somewhere, yet to be discovered. I’d never believed it. I’d have known if he were gone, felt it deep inside my heart.
You Will Remember Me Page 6