by Nia Arthurs
From my journal, I gather my social life was a tragedy. I think I’m single. Which is understandable given the circumstances.
But apart from my aunt who raised me, there is one woman frequently mentioned.
Violet snuck into the apartment and bothered me until I took her out for ice cream—from an entry three months ago.
Took Violet to watch the latest superhero action flick. It wasn’t worth the hype—from an entry two months ago.
Promised Violet I’d bring her back a souvenir. Preferably Marie Sharp pepper—from last week. The statement is underlined.
“Since when did I get so close to Violet?” I mumble, glancing away from the book.
My parents died when I was nine and Aunt Katrina, Wilson’s mom, took me in. Violet lived in the same neighborhood so, naturally, we attended the same schools until I left for college.
I vividly remember her following us around in middle school. Wilson and I always came up with ways to avoid her, but Violet had a knack for finding us anyway.
Then we hit high school and puberty struck Violet. Hard. Our weird neighborhood tagalong turned into the most beautiful and popular girl at school. She was stunning. Long, raven hair. Blue eyes. Full lips.
Wilson fell head-over-heels. They dated until senior year when they, mysteriously, broke up. Will never told me why, but he was torn up about it. Didn’t speak to me for days.
A few weeks later, he seemed to get over it. Violet left for college, and we all headed our separate ways.
Looks like we’d reconnected recently. I wonder how Will is taking that?
I thumb through the remaining pages with purpose, searching for clues about why I came to Belize and why I got stabbed, but when I get to the end it’s empty. I turn the book upside down like the truth will just dangle out of it.
It doesn’t.
I spread the book apart and notice the perforated edges clinging to the bind. Recognizing the pattern, I go back to previous entries and realize pages have been taken from a week earlier too. If I wasn’t so desperate for answers, I would have missed the signs.
Who tore those journal entries out of the book? What exactly where they trying to keep buried?
I massage my temples, straining for any spark of a memory.
Nothing.
Frustrated, I toss the book. My gaze lands on the laptop.
Wilson.
I scramble over and open Skype. Five minutes later, my cousin’s face fills the screen. Or, I should say, a pixelated version of Wilson’s face fills the screen. The Wi-Fi in the hotel leaves much to be desired.
“Hey, Kent,” Wilson says, his voice squawking through the speakers.
I hold my hand up in a limp wave. My cousin looks different than I remember. Older. More mature. His hair is thick and a heavy beard rounds his mouth. I lean forward, certain my crappy internet is tricking me and that animal on his face doesn’t belong to him.
“Since when did you grow a beard?”
Wilson laughs and strokes his face. “You ask me that every time you see me.”
“Sorry.” I clear my throat, shaking the familiar pangs of uncertainty that creeps up on me. “It’s been a… rough few hours.”
“I’ve been trying to call you. Mom’s out of her mind with worry. She wants me to check if you’re eating on time.”
I glance at the clock. It’s almost lunch. Given the report Amaya and her friends made, I was out cold all night. Despite everything, my stomach is comfortably numb. “I’m not hungry.”
“You know you have to eat even if you’ve lost your appetite.”
“I’ll eat later,” I say dismissively. My fingers thread together and I glance away as I try to share my concerns. “Wilson…”
“What? Something wrong?”
Everything. Everything is wrong. “Where do I start? I got robbed last night.”
Wilson nearly jumps out of his seat. “You’re kidding. Have you called the cops?”
“I was thinking of doing that today, but first… do you have any idea how I got to Belize?”
“You bought a ticket and boarded a plane.”
“No, that’s not what I meant.”
He stares at me, brown eyes narrowed in concern. “You can’t remember, can you? I was afraid of this. With your amnesia and how unpredictable life abroad is… it was a mistake to leave.”
“I’m sure you expressed those concerns before I left.”
“You bet I did,” Wilson says.
“And I came anyway. Which means it was important. What did I come here to do?”
“You’re there on vacation.”
I pause. “V-vacation?”
Wilson nods.
“I made a fuss and left home for that?”
“It was a gutsy move. Impulsive. But I understood. The stress was getting to you. Every month, you insisted you’d take a week off and fly somewhere sunny and warm. You finally did.” He studies my face. “What? You don’t believe me?”
I place a hand over my side, right above my stab wound. “It just… doesn’t feel like something I would do lightly.
“How would you know that?” Wilson challenges.
He has a point.
“Do you need help? Should I buy a plane ticket back home?”
“No. I’m not ready to leave yet.”
Wilson lowers his voice. “Did you read your journals?”
“Yes.”
“Good. I’ll send you a link to the B-Jogger so you can download it on your laptop and get more up to date.”
I frown. “B-Jogger?”
“It’s your app.” The office chair squeaks as Wilson leans back. “Didn’t you read about it?” He dives in before I can answer. “B-Jogger is the reason we started this company. You knew your memory loss was getting worse so you created an app to help.”
“I did?”
“Yeah, buddy,” Wilson says patiently. “B-Jogger helps people with memory loss stay organized and productive. You can take notes, snap photos, make lists, record voice memos and it’s all searchable.”
“It sounds like you’ve made that speech before.”
“Only needed to say it once to our investors. This is the hundredth time I’m saying it to you though.”
The knot in my stomach tightens. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize. I wish I could help you more. For now, I’ll cancel your credit cards. You got enough cash on you to get around until they’re reissued?”
“Not really. But I’ll figure it out. Thanks, Wilson.”
“Of course.”
There’s a rustle in the background and Wilson lifts his head to nod at someone in the distance. When his eyes find mine again, they’re hesitant. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“I’m fine. Go ahead and sign off if you have to.”
“Remember to eat on time,” Wilson stresses. “Back home, you have a menu planned weeks in a advance so you don’t forget. It’ll be harder to keep track of it over there.”
“Got it.” I sign off and Wilson’s face disappears.
After I hang up, I realize I never told Wilson about getting stabbed. Which is probably a good thing. He’d freak out and then he’d tell Aunt Katrina, who would freak out even harder.
Maybe I did come to Belize on vacation. Maybe I have horrid luck and got stabbed and robbed in the span of three days.
Or maybe I got stabbed in the States. No, that doesn’t make sense. I’m sure Wilson would have mentioned it during our call or at least asked if I was okay.
A lot of things don’t add up, not only the circumstances surrounding the stab wound but the missing pages from this month’s journal.
There’s no mention of Belize in the book. Not even a line. I think a random trip to a Caribbean paradise would warrant a line. Maybe two.
Seeing that there’s nothing about Belize or even a planned vacation makes me suspect that Wilson is lying (a possibility I don’t really want to consider) or the pages detailing my decision about Belize were stolen.
My laptop chimes. I glance at the screen and see a message from Wilson.
WILSON: Here’s the link to the app. I don’t know the password so I hope you can get in.
I write him back and then open the program using the same password that I used to unlock my laptop. After signing in, I admire the interface and fluidity of the app.
I studied programming in college, but I was never the type to go and start my own business.
“This is incredible.”
I scrimmage every corner of the app’s features and then let the mouse hover over the folders labeled by date and year. I pick the most recent file and read through my notes.
An entry entered two weeks ago catches my eye.
‘I need a break. Research on vacation getaways says Belize is the best place to go. I’m booking my ticket now.’
My mouse hovers over the line. I wanted evidence. There it is.
I’m on vacation.
Nothing more or less than that.
Chapter Six
Amaya
I park my car in front of my childhood home. The bungalow stands on the corner of a freshly paved road. One coconut tree towers over the zinc roof. Thick bars cover the windows and a chain link fence borders the lawn.
Despite the extra security measures, we’ve been robbed five times. Four of those times, we knew the people behind the burglaries.
There’s a shack in the yard with boarded windows. Mom used to sell Belizean pastries like coconut tart, fudge, and cut-a-brute to make extra money. Now, she uses her second husband’s social security to get by.
I climb to the sidewalk. The sun shines brightly over the neighborhood. Cars cruise by in steady streams. Birds chirp from the branches of coconut trees and a stray dog swaggers by, tail wagging like windshield wipers gone wild.
I open the gate and stride to the verandah, peeping past the iron bars guarding the front door.
“Ma!” I yell. “You home?”
Something pink flutters in the distance. “I’m coming!”
A moment later, I step back as my mother swings the door open. She frowns, her brown eyes fixed on my face.
I frown back. “Hey.”
“What are you doing here?”
“We need to talk.”
She purses her lips and then turns on her heels. Her pink dress dances around her ankles as she sways to the couch and sinks into it like a queen on her throne.
My mother is something of a walking contradiction. She grew up in poverty and got married to my father at seventeen. When he died, she struggled on her own until she met and married Tyron’s father.
Through it all, Mom never lost her belief that—in another life—she was a rich woman with maids and fancy clothes and shoes.
She’d scrimp, save and take out loans to buy a department store dress and would wear it out until it was in tatters. She’d splurge on shoes, jewelry and perfume.
We were always taken care of, so it’s not like I can call her desire for fancy things selfish, but it felt out of place in our neighborhood where ‘barely scraping by’ was a part of our identity.
“What do you want to talk about?” Mom asks stiffly, clasping her slender, brown hands in her lap. Thin eyelashes fringe her dark eyes so it looks like they’re not even there. Her eyebrows slant together, forming a wrinkle just above her nose.
“Tyron.” I ease to the edge of the sofa. The clear plastic moans and ripples at the movement. “He was hanging with Julius and those boys again.”
The only clue I have that Mom even heard me is a tightening of her lips. “He wouldn’t be that stupid.”
“I got a call from Ms. Diane while I was recording yesterday. She said she saw him and Julius downtown together.”
“Diane? That crazy woman?” Mom laughs. “I wouldn’t believe a word she says. Rumor is she makes up half her stories.”
“Mom!”
She winces. “Amaya, you don’t have to yell.”
“This is serious. I caught Tyron red-handed. He was robbing someone. He was counting the money. I saw him with my own eyes.”
Mom goes still. Quiet.
I lower my voice because I can tell her barrier’s down and she’s truly listening now. “I think… you should reconsider letting Tyron come and live with me.”
“Absolutely not.” Her brown eyes flash.
“Mom, hear me out. Tyron’s a good kid. He’s smart, kind and wants to do the right thing. He just needs a better environment, somewhere far away from the gangs and the lure of the streets to keep him on the right path.”
“Am I abusing my son? Am I neglecting him? What am I doing that you want to take him away?”
“Don’t get offended, ma. That’s not what I’m trying to say.”
“Then explain it to me.”
“He can go to jail, ma. Or worse, get killed. Neither of us wants that.”
“You’re not taking my son.”
I rub my temples. “Ma!”
“Just because you had a few hit songs, you think you’re better than me now?” Her nose flares. She starts to tremble. “You’re Amaya Mai. Belize’s best-selling female artist. You bought a fancy house in a fancy neighborhood and suddenly you know more than your mother?”
I inhale through my mouth to keep my temper in check. If I stoop to Mom’s level, she’ll just dig her claws in and I won’t be able to get through to her. “Tyron’s life is at stake! This isn’t about pride. We need to do something. Now.”
Mom glances away, her expression hardening.
I’ve seen that look before. Mostly after Mom got boxed around by my stepfather, a man who couldn’t tell the difference between a punching bag and his wife.
Mom would crawl to a corner and stare at nothing. It was like watching a robot reboot. In a few minutes, she would brush herself off and act like nothing that happened before was real.
I scramble over to her and grip her shoulders tight. “Mom, stay with me. You’re right. I do live in a fancy neighborhood. I do have a few investments I made with the royalties from my album. I’m not rich, but I can provide for Tyron. It would mean so much to me if you—”
“I said no.” Mom’s voice is firm but there’s a smile on her face. The sunlight glints against her gold canine. “I made a batch of lemon tarts yesterday. Would you like one?”
“Mom…”
“I’ll wrap some up for you. Share it with Diandra.” She pushes herself out of the couch and disappears into the kitchen.
My hands ball into fists. The tightness in my chest feels something like a silent heart attack. I shake my head and push the panic away, ignoring it like my mother frequently ignores reality.
Fear doesn’t exist if I don’t acknowledge it. If I tell myself I’m strong, then I am.
My gaze wanders over the baubles on the television stand that’s outfitted with more doilies than a nursing home. Pictures of our family are tucked into ceramic hearts. Each photo beams with the light of our smiles.
Things weren’t perfect back then, but we were happy. We didn’t know any other life.
I stare at Mom’s marriage photos. Her second husband, Tony, was a tall, muscled man with a temper. I remember cowering whenever he came home drunk but, strangely, he never hit me.
He hit Mom. A lot.
He even beat up Tyron when the mood struck.
But me? I was always spared.
I thought Mom had signed some kind of deal with him, done or said something to protect me, but as I grew older I realized Mom would never have that much power over Tony.
For some reason, he just… didn’t want to hurt me.
In spite of my curiosity, I never questioned why Tony treated me better than his own wife and biological son. He died before I could unravel the mystery and I doubt Mom knows the answer.
The sound of her footsteps clopping against the floor draws my head up. Mom swoops toward me and drops a plastic bag in my hands.
“I’ll talk to Tyron,” she says. Her smile is gone. Her lips f
orm a thin line and her eyes are severe. “Thank you for stopping by.”
“Mom—”
She points to the bag. “The meringue will melt so I suggest you put them in the fridge if you won’t be able to share with Diandra any time soon.”
“What about Tyron?” I ask hesitantly.
“I’ll talk to him. It’s a miracle he didn’t end up in jail after what happened the last time. He should know better.”
I let out a sigh of relief. At least Mom won’t brush Tyron’s transgressions under the rug. “Call me if you need anything.”
“You’re already paying for the house and Tyron’s school fees. Don’t offer anything else or I’m going to take you up on it.”
I can’t tell if she’s joking or being serious so I just nod and turn to the door.
“And Amaya?” Mom calls.
I look over my shoulder. “Yes?”
“Stop worrying about us and live your own life. Find a boyfriend. Get married. Settle down. Or go all in with music. Just do something. Don’t take on burdens I never asked you to.”
I stare at her. “If you could handle on your own, maybe I’d take your advice.”
She licks her lips but says nothing.
I open the door and stumble into the bright afternoon.
Now I remember why I don’t like visiting my old house. The atmosphere is so heavy. Disorienting. The past blurs with the present. Returning to the outside world takes adjusting.
I get into my car and drive down the road. A familiar alleyway catches my eye. I flick my indicator and park in front of the abandoned building.
It would be stupid to investigate this place alone at night, but the sunshine and the steady stream of pedestrians walking up and down gives me courage.
Tyron said he didn’t take Kent Barton’s wallet last night, which means there’s a slight chance it’s still here in the alley.
I’m not holding my breath, but I have to try.
My shoes crunch against scattered garbage as I brace myself for the stench of the alley and plunge into the tiny strip. The evidence of Julius’s scuffle with Kent remains in the footsteps on the sand.
I stop. Stare at the ground. Fall back into the moment when Julius was kicking Kent. It’s like a movie playing out in front of me.