by E. C. Diskin
She hung up and instinctively went to the calendar function and added a reminder. She punched the date and time into the phone and closed the day. She then scanned the days before the accident to see what she might have had planned. She saw doctor’s appointments for Fridays at one, a repeating event. But there was no indication of why she’d skipped it the day before the accident. She only saw a note about working on Friday afternoon. She went further back in the week, but the only notes were work related. Nothing social, nothing that meant anything.
She tried the engine one more time. It started! The gas gauge slowly climbed to half a tank. The map guided her down several roads and then south on Red Arrow Highway. After a few more miles, she sat up straighter, predicting: “A river,” she said, before passing one a moment later. “Hamburgers,” she said before the Redamak’s Tavern sign appeared. “Nails,” as she passed a nail salon. She made a right turn in the center of town without checking the phone. She turned left a few blocks later without seeing a street sign, and there it was, on the left side of the street: Brewster’s Italian Café.
Staring at the entrance, the cobblestone-walled exterior, and old-world lamppost by the door, Grace tried to envision the interior, the uniforms, the layout, but nothing came.
The woman at the podium by the front door wore a nametag: SHERI PRESTON, HOSTESS. Her face lit up when Grace stepped inside.
“Grace! How are you feeling?”
It was scarier than she thought it would be. This woman knew her, and Grace couldn’t place her face. “Hi,” she offered quietly. “I’m here to get a check. Dave called me.”
“Of course. Take a seat,” she said, gesturing to the benches by the front door. “I’ll get him.” She scurried away, pulling down her tiny miniskirt as she left, wobbling atop four-inch heels.
Grace sat, taking in the large bar, its tiled countertop, giant wood pillars, the wineglasses hanging by their feet from above, and the Tuscany-yellow walls, waiting for a spark of memory.
The girl returned a moment later, relaxing behind the podium, doodling and trying to make conversation. “Grace, we’re so sorry about Michael.”
“Michael,” Grace repeated. It took a second. Michael, the dead boyfriend, she suddenly remembered.
“The police came here last week asking questions about you,” she said.
“Oh.”
“Don’t worry, Grace. We know you didn’t do anything.”
Grace nodded silently and looked around the room.
“Anyway, I’m glad you’re okay. We’ve all been worried.”
Another girl came in then, wearing a hostess tag and equally high heels. “Hey, Grace,” she said, waving. The two hostesses looked at each other with raised eyebrows. The gossip would begin the moment she left. Coming here had been a mistake. The world would think she’d lost her mind.
Finally, a man appeared, grinning as he approached. He towered above the petite hostesses, even with the rounded shoulders that pushed forward his already large belly. He stretched his arms toward her as he got closer. “Grace!” he said, waiting for her to return the excitement. She stood to greet him, trying to make a connection—the black hair, gelled back; the ruddy cheeks; the bloodshot brown eyes, with lids at half mast. Nothing clicked.
“Hi,” she said.
He seemed to understand her discomfort and lowered his arms and voice. “We heard about the accident, Grace. Your sister called and said that you hit your head pretty good and were having some memory troubles.”
“Yeah.”
“Did you drive yourself here?”
She could see the concern on his face. “Yeah, I’m okay. I just wanted to get out.” It suddenly felt awkward to speak to this man whom she didn’t remember at all, pretending she did, pretending she knew this place and her coworkers and that she wasn’t a total basket case. “I’d better go.”
He handed her an envelope. “Okay, Grace, you take care. We’re ready to have you back whenever you’re ready.”
“I’m outta here too, Dave,” Sheri added, as the other hostess took center stance behind the podium.
Grace said a quick “Thanks” and left while Sheri held the door. Grace thanked her and hurried to her truck before Sheri could make any more small talk.
She sat in the cab, looking back at the building. How could she not remember those people? They all knew her. This was her life. She opened the envelope and found the paycheck, but when she pulled it out, another slip of paper fell out as well.
Grace,
Meet me at Cherry Beach if you can.
Two o’clock. We really need to talk.
Dave
Grace looked back at the restaurant. Dave the manager? She looked at her watch. It was 1:35 p.m. “Cherry Beach,” she repeated. She started driving again. It felt familiar. She wasn’t sure, but she wanted to try something—to just drive. Maybe she would remember where to go.
She instinctively got back onto Red Arrow Highway, heading north. She passed signs and businesses. Things were clicking. “Yes,” she said aloud. “Antiques.” She smiled as she passed a few shops. But a few miles later, she started to wonder if she were lost. She slowed, and cars zoomed past as she carefully read the street signs. And then she saw it: Cherry Lane. A little street on the west side of Red Arrow. She turned onto the tiny, winding road, flanked by homes and dense woods. It dead-ended into a big gravel parking lot overlooking a bluff. “Cherry Beach,” she said with satisfaction.
The wind whipped over the lakefront, but the water glistened in the sunshine, drawing her in. It felt familiar. The steep, long wooden stairway down the hundred-foot bluff toward the beach was covered in snow, but boot prints had packed each stair, and she slowly descended, taking in the vastness of Lake Michigan.
Snow covered the beach near the bluff, but gently lapping waves exposed the fine sand along the shore. As the wind fought to blow her hood from her head, she held it with one hand and trekked a few feet, following the tracks of previous visitors, hunting for memories. The sound of the water seeping up the shoreline was calming. A pile of old, rotted driftwood sat, abandoned, covered in snow. It sparked a vision: a bonfire on the beach.
“Grace!” a man called from the distance. She looked up. He stood on the deck overlooking the lake at the top of the bluff, waving at her. She slowly climbed the stairs, each step a little harder than the last, each one reminding her that going up was so much worse than down, that perhaps taking on a hundred steps in the freezing weather was a bad idea for her ribs and lungs.
“I’m so glad you came,” Dave said. “I didn’t mean for you to go down to the beach, but I thought this would be the right place to talk alone.”
“It felt familiar. I wanted to see if I remembered.”
“So this is for real? You don’t remember anything?”
“No.”
“Like, you don’t remember the accident? Or you don’t remember that day, or what?”
“I don’t remember much. I didn’t remember the restaurant. I didn’t recognize you.” It was as if she’d kicked a puppy. “Sorry. I don’t remember my life. It’s—”
“That’s awful.”
“I’ve had some flashes; at least I think they were memories. Honestly, they’ve got me on so many meds right now, it’s hard to know what’s real and what’s not.”
“But you remember this place?”
“Yeah, something about this place feels good.”
Dave’s smile returned. “We came here together.”
“You and me?”
“I wanted to call you so badly, but your sister said that you had to rest and that you weren’t to be disturbed.”
“I don’t understand.”
“So much has happened. I just wanted you to know that I didn’t do anything.”
“What do you mean?”
“To Michael. I mean, of course I w
anted to,” he added—lightly, like there was something funny about the comment—“but I would never hurt him.”
“Why would I think that? Were we together? I thought I was with Michael.”
“You were. It was . . .” He paused and smiled before adding, “Complicated.”
She studied him: this old guy—well, maybe not old, but midthirties—with a big belly and clumps of greasy hair that kept blowing into his eyes. She didn’t know what her type was, but she couldn’t imagine he was it.
“You’re not a bad person,” Dave continued. “I didn’t mean to call you here and add to the confusion. I just wanted us to be able to talk alone. I thought you might be scared. I want you to know that I’m here for you. Anything you need.” He tried to take her hands in his, but she pulled away.
“Was I not happy with Michael?”
He stared into her eyes before answering. “I don’t know. I wish I could help, but of course you’ve never been the easiest person to read.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean you looked happy on Friday, the last time we worked together.” He stopped, as if there was some significance she was supposed to understand. She didn’t. “He was killed that weekend, right? What do the police say? Who do they think would have done it?”
“I don’t know. I don’t seem to have an alibi for the time of death, and I can’t remember anything, so I guess they don’t know what to make of that.”
“Shit. Well, it’s probably better if you don’t mention our relationship to the police if you’re a suspect. If they think you were cheating on Michael, I’m guessing that wouldn’t look good for either of us.”
Cheating, and with this guy? She couldn’t believe it. Grace looked back out at the lake. “You and I were here together?”
“Right here. This is where I first kissed you.” He reached out to her hands then, as if they could savor this memory together.
The thought turned her stomach. She didn’t know anything about herself, but she instinctively wanted nothing from this man. His proximity was unnerving, his clear attraction almost scary. She shoved her hands into her pockets.
“Do the doctors think this memory issue is temporary?” he asked.
“They’re optimistic. They said that usually memory loss from head trauma is less global, but it’s like someone’s taken an eraser to my mind. They say it will improve in time. I’ve been getting flashes. I knew where to turn for the restaurant and how to find this place, so maybe it’s starting to come back.”
“Jesus, Grace. Are you able to get home okay? I could lead you if you like.”
“No, no. I’ve got it. And my phone has a map, so I should be fine.”
“Well, if you need anything,” he said, lifting her hands from her pockets in an awkward move for both of them, “call me.”
He seemed to know too much about her history. It felt creepy. His body was too close to hers. She pulled her hands from his grasp.
“I’d better go.” She started toward the truck.
“Okay. You have my number. Call anytime. And don’t worry, they’ll figure it out.”
She stopped and pulled out the phone to check the contacts—Dave. She stepped back and showed him the screen. “Is this you?”
Dave looked at the number and nodded. “That’s me. I mean it. I’m here for you, okay?”
She stepped back from the man, suddenly unable to get away fast enough. “Okay, thanks. I should go.” She walked to the truck and got in. He raised his hand in a weak good-bye.
TEN
GRACE WOKE IN A DARKENED LIVING ROOM. Clouds had rolled in and the sun was gone. She sat up, turned on the table light, and checked the clock on the kitchen wall. She’d been out for a couple of hours. Her headache had only dulled, though her body no longer ached. She’d found her way back to the house by memory after leaving Dave at the beach, which felt like a great improvement, though her head had pounded from the effort, and maybe from skipping her meds. She had put the truck back where it had been parked so Lisa wouldn’t know—she didn’t want to hear the scolding—but struggled to get out of the cab. Every move had felt like swimming in molasses. She knew that staying in the truck was a sure way to freeze or, worse, upset Lisa, so she’d held her head in her hands and tried to breathe, disregarding the pain brought on by each inhale. She’d made it to the kitchen, grabbed the pile of pills from the counter, and found her way to those couch cushions.
Now she almost felt like a new woman. She raised her arms all the way over her head: incredible. She stood, breathed again, surprised that her ribs expanded with ease. She felt a wave of energy. There was so much to think about.
She opened the giant pocket doors to the onetime library, now filled with boxes. The chaos mirrored her mind. Everything was here; it had to be: her history, memories, family—but they were packed away, trapped beneath masses of tape. She pushed her way into the room and found an old desk practically buried under boxes. Using a knife, she cut open the nearest box. It held hanging files labeled Credit cards, Utilities, Mortgage, Insurance. Nothing that would mean much, but she studied the bills, reading charges, expecting a spark that didn’t come. Buried among insurance documents were several bills for psychiatrists, psychologists, and counselors. Years and years of bills. Did she really want to remember? Maybe there was a reason she’d forgotten. One of the files was marked New Haven Fertility and inside the file were statements for treatments dating back to the early eighties. Perhaps that explained the age gap between Lisa and her.
The next box was more promising. A file labeled Grace contained her history—at least her school history. Report cards, school projects, even a few photos from elementary school. She scanned one picture, a kindergarten class posing in front of a playground swing set. The sun was shining into their eyes; the grass behind them was green. It took a minute, but she found herself in the group. It was that dress, a yellow sundress with gigantic daisies. Her favorite. All the children beamed at the camera except her. She looked distracted, maybe sad.
Grace skimmed through the report cards and teacher comments from year to year. “Grace is a lovely girl,” “I hope that she will get more comfortable with the group and begin to join in the discussions,” “She’s so quiet, sometimes so distracted, but when I see that smile come out, I know she’s in there,” “Keep working on her math.” She reread one several times. It was written by her kindergarten teacher: “In light of all she’s been through, I think she’s doing fine.” What had she been through? Sitting among the open boxes and files, she felt overwhelmed by the history of a life she didn’t recognize.
She went back to the basement and opened the boxes of clothes marked Girls’ Dresses. She wanted to find that daisy dress, to tap in to her younger self. She sorted through a dozen neatly folded dresses of assorted sizes and colors without feeling a real connection, but then she saw it: a simple, bright-yellow cotton sundress with big daisies. She pulled it out of the box and held it to her nose, inhaling deeply, as if smelling it would take her back. But it didn’t.
She looked down into the box and saw another one. The exact same dress, but instead of yellow, the primary color was orange. She pulled it out and checked the labels. Both were size 4T. The two dresses seemed a hint of something, maybe her own pleading, her love of that dress. She envisioned a little girl in a store, begging her mother for both. But it was wishful thinking. She was crafting a history, trying to fill the void with meaning. Her momentary nostalgia for something she assumed was a symbol of happiness began to dim. She laid the dresses side by side. Was it just the emptiness of staring at her past without remembering it, or was it something else?
“I think we found our murder weapon,” Bishop said, hanging up the phone. “That was the crime lab. Turns out some officers in the New Buffalo station submitted evidence last week after getting a call from the recycling company that sorts trash bins behind Bellaire Ap
artments. They found a shotgun and a bloody shirt.”
Hackett dropped his half-eaten sandwich on the desk and wiped his mouth. “When was this?”
“Monday, before we’d found the body. They turned over the items to the crime lab. A faded yellow T-shirt with a smiley face on the front, a ‘Be Happy’ logo on the back, covered in blood that’s a match for our vic. The gun was registered to Michael Cahill. They’re sending us scans of the evidence photos.”
“Anything else?”
“The gun was wiped clean. No prints. But maybe we can link that shirt to Grace.”
Hackett stopped himself from responding, but he shook his head and looked away.
Bishop threw down his pen. “What is it?”
“Cahill won a lot of money that we can’t find. He was a gambler and drug user. We’ve got pictures of him having sex with another woman. But I’m getting the sense that you just want to pin this on Grace.”
“I learned a long time ago not to overlook the obvious. You do and it’ll bite you in the ass.”
Hackett blew out a breath. “What are you talking about?”
Bishop rocked back on the hind legs of his chair, like a professor ready to school his charge. “We had a suspect for a murder years ago. Had motive, opportunity. No one else. But we kept trying to find the smoking gun. Just to be sure. In the meantime, this person killed again. Sometimes, rookie, you don’t get to be a hundred percent. You just have to go with your gut. Grace lived with him, had every reason to want him dead from what I can see, and she has no alibi. That car accident may very well have happened after she ran from the scene.”
“Well, my gut says she didn’t do it.”
“We’ll see.”
Heat rose to his face. Hackett took a sip of soda and let his focus shift back to his desk. He let a minute pass until the tension faded from the air. “Maybe we should see who lives at those apartments, right? I mean, what if the perp lived there and was just dumb enough to dump the murder weapon? And we’re still looking for some blonde who was with Cahill at The Rack. Those naked photos are dated the same day he was seen leaving with the mystery woman.”