“We should be writing this stuff down.” I pop up to get a notepad and a pen and come back. “Tell me what else you remember.” I write down everything he says, and the details that don’t match up, like the suit. He’s right, none of it makes much sense.
“The last thing I remember is the job site.” He puts his hand on his chest. “And I get a weird feeling, here, when I think of it.”
“Okay, so we start there. Maybe we should go back to see if it jogs your memory. Maybe I should ask Biff for more details.”
“No, we can’t do that.”
I look up at him. “Why?”
“You said Biff found me, right? He ID’d me. He’ll have a heart attack if I walk back into his office. Besides, I hate to think it, but... What if he had something to do with it? Or something to do with covering it up?” He shakes his head. “No, we can’t talk to him until I remember more.”
My stomach drops, my breakfast sitting there like a concrete block. He’s right, Biff could have had something to do with his disappearance, and that’s an awful feeling. A person you knew, trusted, spent time with, lying to you like that. But then, maybe there was a good reason Biff was mistaken. Maybe Grady had been robbed, and that other person had had his stuff on him. And maybe his face had been crushed, so that Biff just assumed it was Grady. And maybe... Maybe I was reaching. Although nothing seems too ridiculous with my formerly-dead husband sitting at the table across from me.
I write ‘Biff’ on the notepad and circle it several times.
“You’re not hungry?” I ask then, glancing at his plate. He hasn’t taken a single bite of his food.
He looks down at his plate and then shakes his head. “I thought I was, but my stomach is a little upset.”
“It’s probably stress.” My own stomach is roiling from all of it, and probably a touch of morning sickness too. Why haven’t I told him yet? I’m not sure, but I suppose it’s best if we deal with this other huge, crazy thing first. There will be time to really celebrate later.
But I’m not sure his reaction is just stress. He still looks gray and bone thin, and unhealthy. “I think you should see a doctor. You don’t look well.”
“It’s just the strain of everything,” he says quickly. “Like you said. Besides, I can’t go to my doctor, because they have a death certificate on record. I don’t know how to explain that yet.”
“Okay. The police?”
He shrugs. “For what?”
“You’ve been missing for six weeks.”
He shakes his head. “Memory loss isn’t a crime, and we have no proof one was committed. We can’t prove I didn’t just—” he waves a hand in the air, “leave the country and go on a six-week bender with a bimbo. The police won’t do anything.”
I wasn’t sure I agreed, but considering my track record with them, I let it go. The police hadn’t been any help the one time I’d really needed them.
“Did you?” I ask about the bender. Could he have left me? I didn’t want to believe it, but right now it felt like less of a big deal than him dying. And at least he’d come back.
A shadow of anger passes over his face and then fades, but there’s still a muscle twitching in his broad jaw like he’s grinding his teeth. He looks down. “I don’t know. I feel like I would never do anything like that to you. But I can’t say for sure.”
And that right there is why I almost change my mind. He couldn’t have left me, right? He’s an honest man, a good man, and he wouldn’t lie to me. He could have said of course not! and I would have believed him. But he really didn’t know, really didn’t remember, and so he’d been honest.
“If it helps, I don’t believe you did. I just want to know what happened to you, where you’ve been. If you’re okay.” That is mostly true.
The muscle in his jaw relaxes, and he nods. “That’s all I want to know, too.”
“So no doctor, no police, and no talking to your boss. What do we do then?”
He scrubs a hand over his mouth. “I guess... I guess we try to figure out where I’ve been.”
“Okay, so how do we do that?”
He shrugs, and we stare at each other.
I bite the tip of the pen, thinking. I’m hesitant to bring it up, but I need to know. “The credit card...”
His brows go up, not understanding.
“We can check the credit card statement. See if you’ve made any charges while you were missing.” I pop up out of my chair and go to the box of papers in the closet. “I never thought to check it before,” I holler back at him, “because everything had seemed so cut-and-dried.” It’s a small lie.
Flipping through, I find the credit card statement, carry it back to the table, and lay the page flat. And then sit back, watching his face. I know what he’s going to find. There’s only one charge I didn’t personally make in preparation for his funeral.
For a hotel room, on the night he disappeared.
***
Grady
There’s a charge for a Motel 6 off the highway, made by me, on the night I disappeared.
I look up from the paper to meet Maisie’s accusing eyes.
“I have no idea,” I say, putting my hands up.
Blowing her bangs away, she looks at the paper again. “Well, it’s not much to go on anyways. The charge isn’t enough for more than one night.”
She stands up and grabs the plates, and I can’t help but feel like I’m in trouble. But I have no recollection of driving there, making the charge, or whatever came after.
She’s silent while she covers my plate with plastic wrap and puts it in the fridge. Then she stands there looking at me, hands on her hips. “Well, are you coming?”
“Coming where?” I can tell she’s still upset.
She sighs and drops her arms back to her sides. “To the hotel,” she says patiently. “It’s the only lead we have.”
My brain must still not be working well, because of course that’s what she meant.
I stand and then look down at my mothball-scented pajamas. “I think I need something else to wear, though.”
“Right.” She leaves the room and I follow at a slower pace. “Wait here.”
I try to enter the room after her, but the bedroom doorway is like an invisible barrier I cannot pass. From there I watch her go to the closet and rummage. She brings me some jeans and a shirt I recognize, and passes them to me.
“I packed most of it away to donate at some point because it was just too painful to see them hanging in the closet everyday, but I saved a few things.”
In my hands are my favorite non-work jeans and one of my favorite shirts.
She puts her hands in her back pockets. “At least this way you don’t have to go anywhere smelling like mothballs. Get dressed, and I can wash the rest for you later.”
Then she sweeps past me and the invisible barrier breaks. I go into the bedroom to change.
I’m pulling up my jeans when I see the shrine on the dresser. It can’t be called anything else, and it’s surreal to walk up to it and realize my wife made it. For me. Because I was dead.
There’s a big framed picture of me from a few years ago hung on the wall above the dresser, and several smaller candid shots of her and I tucked into the frame. Next to it, in a small white and gold frame, is our wedding picture. Then there’s my pocketknife, my hardhat. My travel coffee mug. Even my deodorant and cologne. My favorite candy, an unopened can of my favorite soda. There’s dried flowers and our wedding cake topper.
It’s weird. Obviously, my supposed death had hurt Maisie very much. Maybe that’s why I still felt a distance between us. Maybe she blamed me for that pain.
Or maybe she’d already let me go.
The thought makes my sluggish heart squeeze with pain, but I have to believe our love can conquer anything, even this. Whatever this is.
The worst part is, I have no freaking clue. I love my wife with all my heart, and would never cheat on her, leave her, or hurt her on purpose.
I do
n’t think.
But here I am alive, not dead. And I’ve been somewhere, done something for the last six weeks, if I could just remember what it was.
I feel her presence at the door and turn to look at her.
She’s standing there, staring at the shrine and spinning a ring on her thumb, distress all over her face.
Inexplicable guilt makes my chest tight. But I didn’t hurt her on purpose. Did I?
“This is nice,” I say, gesturing to it. But nice is an inadequate word. It’s freaky, bewildering, and confusing. Painful, but sweet.
Her lower lip wobbles for a second, but she reins it in and looks down at her hands, where she’s still spinning the ring.
It’s my wedding ring.
With a stuttering inward breath, she pulls it off her thumb and holds it out to me. “Here.”
“Thanks.” I take it from her fingers, and slide it into place. As I do, my soul takes a deep breath and I close my eyes momentarily at the wave of relief. I curl my fist and inhale, opening my eyes to smile at Maisie. I’ve missed it without even knowing, and having it back just feels better in every way.
I’m truly back from the dead.
So hopefully, this trip to the hotel will give us a clue that will take the haunted look off my wife’s face.
***
Grady
When we get to the hotel, we get out of the car. Even though it’s overcast, the sunlight blinds me, and I have to throw up my arm to shield my eyes from it until we get into the shade under the awning.
She pauses in front of the doors and I stop beside her.
“Anything?” she asks, settling her purse on her shoulder. She’s waiting to see if I remember.
I look up at the hotel’s bland facade, and I do receive a memory. But it’s an old one. “The only thing I remember is when we stayed here while we were looking for a house.” I look over at her. “Remember that?” We searched for houses that weekend, but we also used that time like a second honeymoon. We watched TV, got room service. We ate on the bed, sitting across from each other. We made love a time or two. Or three.
She smiles and looks down, a blush on her cheekbones. The smile fades quickly, but she nods.
I grab her hand, like it’s natural, like I didn’t disappear for six weeks, like she doesn’t suspect I abandoned her. She doesn’t say anything, but she doesn’t withdraw her hand either.
I haven’t lost her yet.
“Good morning,” I say to the desk clerk. Her name tag says Bonnie. We exchange pleasantries. “I need some information if possible.” I release Maisie’s hand to unfold the credit card bill and flatten it on the counter. “See this charge here? I need any information you have about it.”
“You don’t remember making the charge?” she asks, eyebrows high.
“It’s a long story. Could you just help us out?”
“Certainly,” the clerk says, typing on the keys of her computer. “What would you like to know?”
“Everything,” my wife says beside me.
Desk Clerk Bonnie’s eyebrows go up again as she looks at my wife and back at me. I know what it must look like, but I’m praying it isn’t. I grab Maisie’s hand again, teeth clenched.
“Okay, it looks like you checked in at 7:45 pm and out at 11:27 am.”
Seconds pass before it’s clear that she’s not going to continue. “Anything else?”
She swallows, and her eyes flick over to Maisie before meeting mine again. “You had a guest.”
Maisie pulls her hand away from mine.
I checked into a hotel, with a guest. And then disappeared for a month and a half. This isn’t looking good. “Does it say who?”
“A Mrs. Josephine Delacroix.”
I sag with relief, and let out a little laugh. There’s no way anything was going on with her. Turning back to Maisie, I say, “The old homeless woman I told you about.” She was probably only in her fifties, but I made sure to add the ‘old’ to dispel any lingering suspicion in either woman.
She nods, relief flashing before confusion sets in again. “But why did you stay with her?”
“Actually, sorry—”
We turn to look at Bonnie.
“There’s a signed credit card authorization on file from you, which means you paid for the room, but I only have Mrs. Delacroix on the guest register.”
She looks appropriately regretful for her initial inattention to detail, so I’m not going to give her any crap. Besides, I’m absolved.
“Thank you,” I say, tapping the counter with my knuckles.
We walk out of the hotel hand-in-hand, but we’re back to square one. In the car, she puts the key in the ignition but doesn’t turn it.
“So what now?”
I shrug. We know the room wasn’t for me and that’s awesome. But where was I in the time that Ms.Josephine—er, Mrs. Delacroix—was asleep in the hotel? And where did I go after that? “I must have bought her a taxi and purchased her a room for the night.”
“Or she robbed you, hurt you, and used your card to get a hotel before disappearing.”
“No,” I say, shaking my head at her. “I can’t explain it, but...that doesn’t feel right.” I look out the car window, seeing darkness and falling snowflakes out my truck windshield instead. Trying again, I close my eyes and picture the snow once more. I’m sitting in my truck, texting Maisie. “I remember the snow falling, the cold.”
My hands are chilled. It’s cold outside, too cold for anyone to be out in it. “I remember pulling out of the parking lot, but I must have gone back to help Ms. Josephine—” I gasp, because saying the words, I remember making the U-turn at the light. I look at Maisie. “That’s why I went back. I remember. I thought she would freeze to death if I didn’t do something.” I have a flash memory of her sitting against the fence, covered in snow like a statue. “I remember her sitting against the fence, but...” My forehead wrinkles as I try to milk my mind for one more drop of memory. I shake my head at Maisie. “I only sort of remember taking her to the hotel.” The truth is, I don’t remember at all. But it makes sense.
“And then...?” Maisie asks, eager. “You didn’t come home after that.”
I didn’t go home after taking her to the hotel. Where did I go, what did I do? The body Biff found couldn’t have been me, so I didn’t go back a third time. But it had my identification on him, so...
“Maybe I was mugged outside the hotel. And somehow the guy with my stuff ended up back at my work?”
“Yeah, maybe. And maybe the homeless woman was your mugger.”
I try to summon the memory of what happened after I dropped her off, but I can’t remember.
Had she done something to me? But no, it couldn’t have been the sweet homeless woman.
Could it?
Because after that is only blackness. Not the fogginess of half-forgotten memories, but a deep, heavy black that sits on my memory, my mind, and my heart like a stone.
And somehow, in that blackness, I remember hearing Ms. Josephine sing.
I glance at Maisie. “I can’t see anything, but I think I remember hearing her sing.”
Excited, Maisie leans toward me. “It seems like we just need to retrace your steps, jog your memory. We should go back to your work and find her, talk to her,” she says, “ask her what she knows.”
I look at her. “We can’t go back there yet, not until we know that Biff had something to do with this.”
Maisie chews her lip. “We could just drive by. Not go in. Just pass by, and see if she’s there.”
“Okay.” We need to, and I know that. But my chest is getting tight just thinking about it. However, we need answers.
Maisie pulls out of the parking lot of the hotel and heads towards my work.
My heart speeds up a few beats per minute and pounds all the way there, and I keep my hands tightly, painfully clenched. I’m sweating, cold droplets running down my back and in my hair. Why? What am I afraid of?
Am I afraid of remembering?
Not remembering? Or something else?
I breathe steadily through my nose to try and calm my pointless nerves.
Maisie slows down as we drive by, but even before we pass we can tell Ms. Josephine is not there. There’s no figure sitting by the fence, and she’d always sat in the same place.
“She’s not here.”
Maisie searches as she drives slowly. “Crap. Getting anything else?”
I’ve been holding my breath, waiting for something to appear in my memory, but nothing does. I breathe out. “No.” That was seriously anticlimactic.
“Damn,” Maisie says. She stops at the light, and we wait for the little bit of traffic coming from other directions. I remember this light, and turning around beneath it. “Maybe it’ll help if we go the other way?”
“Okay.” Maisie pulls through the intersection, makes a turn, and then drives back the opposite. I squint my eyes, trying to stay with what I remember from the traffic light and beyond.
From the direction we’re coming, I can now see everything that was blocked by the trees from the other angle. The guys working, the equipment. And I can hear the motors.
Suddenly I’m in the dark, in the snow, hearing the equipment, but I shouldn’t be. I walk back behind the trailer—red traffic light, red snow, red barrels, red dirt—
I can’t breathe and I need to get out of here, but I hurt and I’m pressed down by something heavy. Maisie! I cry out. Maisie! I need to get to her, get to my wife, but I can’t move and I can’t breathe and the darkness is too damn heavy—
And then everything goes black.
***
Maisie
A Cursed All Hallows' Eve Page 19