As much as I try, I can’t possibly imagine how hurt you must be since your father went away. But you can’t let that change who you are. Please stop caring about what other people think. Stop allowing your father’s actions to define you. Figure out what you did with the Charlie I fell in love with. And when you find her, I’ll be here. I told you before I’ll never stop loving you. I’ll never forget what we have.
But lately, it seems that you’ve forgotten.
I’ve enclosed some pictures I want you to go through. Hopefully they’ll help remind you of what we could have again someday. A love that wasn’t dictated by our parents or defined by our family status. A love we couldn’t stop if we tried. A love that got us through some of the hardest moments of our lives.
Never forget, Charlie.
Never stop.
~Silas
“Silas, Coach wants you suited up and on the field in five.”
I sit up straight at the sound of the voice. I’m not at all surprised that I don’t recognize the guy standing in the doorway to the locker room, but I nod as if I do. I begin shoving all the pictures and the letter from the box into the backpack, stowing it away in my locker.
I was going to break up with her.
I wonder if I did break up with her? I still have the letter, though. It was written the day before we lost our memories. Our relationship was obviously on a rapid decline. Maybe I gave her the box and she read the letter and then gave it back to me?
Endless possibilities and theories plague my mind as I attempt to put on the football gear. I end up having to Google how to do it on my phone. Ten minutes have easily passed by the time I’m dressed and walking onto the field. Landon is the first to notice me. He breaks formation and jogs in my direction. He puts his hands on my shoulders and leans in.
“I’m tired of covering for you. Get whatever shit is screwing up your head out of there. You need to focus, Silas. This game is important, and Dad will be pissed if you blow it.”
He releases my shoulders and jogs back onto the field. The guys are all lined up, doing what looks like a whole lot of nothing. Some of them are passing footballs back and forth. Others are sitting in the grass, stretching. I take a seat in the grass next to where Landon has just plopped down, and I begin to mock his movements.
I like him. I can only recall two conversations we’ve had in our life, and they’ve both consisted of Landon spitting some sort of direction at me. I know I’m the older brother, but he seems to act like I treat him with respect. We had to have been close. I can tell by the way he’s looking at me that he’s suspicious of my behavior. He knows me well enough to know something is up.
I try to use this to my advantage. I stretch my leg out in front of me and lean forward. “I can’t find Charlie,” I say to him. “I’m worried about her.”
Landon laughs under his breath. “I should have known this had to do with her.” He switches legs and faces me. “And what do you mean you can’t find her? Her phone was in your car this morning. She can’t very well call you from it. She’s probably at home.”
I shake my head. “No one has heard from her since last night. She never made it home. Janette reported her missing an hour ago.”
His eyes are locked with mine, and I see them shift to concern. “What about her mom?”
I shake my head. “You know how she is. She’s no help.”
Landon nods. “True,” he says. “Damn shame what this has turned her into.”
His words make me contemplate. If she hasn’t always been this way, what made her change? Maybe the sentencing destroyed her. I feel a small shred of sympathy for the woman. More than I did this morning.
“What did the police say? I doubt they’ll consider her a missing person if all she’s done is skip school today. They have to have more evidence than that.”
The word evidence sticks with me as it falls from his mouth.
I haven’t wanted to admit this to myself, because I want to focus on finding her, but deep down I’ve been a little concerned how this looks for me. If she really is missing and she doesn’t show up soon, I have a feeling the only person the police will be interested in questioning is the last person to see her. And considering I have her wallet, her phone, and every letter and journal entry she’s ever written—that doesn’t bode well for Silas Nash.
If they question me—how will I know what to tell them? I don’t remember our last words. I don’t remember what she was wearing. I don’t even have a valid excuse as to why I have all of her belongings. Any answer I give them would be a lie on a polygraph because I don’t remember any of it.
What if something happened to her and I really am responsible? What if I’ve suffered some kind of shock, and that’s why I can’t remember anything? What if I hurt her and this is my mind’s way of convincing me I didn’t?
“Silas? Are you okay?”
My eyes flick up to Landon’s. I have to hide the evidence.
I push my palms into the ground and immediately stand. I turn and run in the direction of the locker rooms.
“Silas!” he yells after me. I keep running. I run until I reach the building, and I push open the door so hard it slaps the wall behind it. I run straight to my locker and swing it open.
I reach inside but feel nothing.
No.
I touch the walls, the floor of the locker; I swipe my hands around every empty inch of it.
It’s gone.
I run my hands through my hair and spin around, looking all around the locker room, hoping maybe I left the backpack on the floor. I swing open Landon’s locker and pull everything out of it. It’s not in there, either. I open the next locker and do the same. I open the next. Nothing.
The backpack is nowhere.
I’m either going crazy or someone was just in here.
“Shit. Shit, shit, shit.”
When all of the contents from the entire row of lockers are on the floor, I move to the other wall of lockers and begin doing the same to them. I look inside other people’s backpacks. I empty gym bags, watching as gym clothes tumble to the floor. I find anything and everything, from cell phones to cash to condoms.
But no letters. No journals. No photographs.
“Nash!”
I spin around to see a man filling the doorway, looking at me like he has no idea who I am or what’s gotten into me. That makes two of us. “What in the hell are you doing?”
I look around at the mess I’ve made. It looks like a tornado just ripped through the locker room.
How am I going to get out of this?
I’ve just destroyed every single locker in here. And what explanation would I give them? I’m looking for stolen evidence so the police won’t arrest me for my girlfriend’s disappearance?
“Someone…” I squeeze the back of my neck again. This must be one of my old ticks—squeezing the stress out of my neck. “Someone stole my wallet,” I mutter.
The coach looks around the locker room, the anger never once leaving his face. He points at me. “Clean this up, Nash! Now! And then get your ass to my office!” He walks away, leaving me alone.
I waste no time. I’m relieved I left all my clothes on the bench and not in my locker with the stuff that was stolen. My keys are still in my pants pocket. As soon as I’m out of my football gear and back into my clothes, I walk out the door, but I don’t go in the direction of the offices. I head straight for the parking lot.
Straight for my car.
I have to find Charlie.
Tonight.
Otherwise, I could be sitting completely helpless in a jail cell.
I hear the lock open again, and I sit up. The pills the nurse gave me make me feel drowsy. I don’t know how long I was asleep, but it couldn’t have been long enough to already be time for another meal. However, she comes in carrying another tray. I’m not even hungry. I wonder if I finished my spaghetti earlier. I can’t even remember eating it. I must be a lot crazier than I thought. But I did have a memory. I d
ebate telling her, but it feels private. Something I want to keep for myself.
“Dinner time!” she says, setting it down. She lifts the lid to reveal a plate of rice and sausage. I eye it warily, wondering if I’m going to have to take more pills. As if reading my mind, she hands me the teeny paper cup.
“You’re still here,” I say, trying to stall. These pills make me feel like crap.
She smiles. “Yes. Take your pills so that you can eat before it gets cold.” I pour them into my mouth while she watches, and I take a sip of water.
“If you behave today, you may be able to go to the rec room for a while tomorrow. I know you must be itching to get out of this room.”
What constitutes behaving? So far there hasn’t been much mischief to get up to.
I eat my dinner with a plastic fork while she watches me. I must be a real delinquent if I have to be supervised during dinner.
“I’d rather use the restroom than the rec room,” I tell her.
“Eat first. I’ll be back to take you to the restroom and to have a shower.”
I feel like a prisoner rather than a patient.
“Why am I here?” I ask.
“You don’t remember?”
“Would I be asking if I remembered?” I snap. I wipe my mouth as her eyes narrow.
“Finish your food,” she says coldly.
I grow immediately angry at my situation—at the way she’s dictating every second of my life as if it’s hers to live.
I fling the plate across the room. It smashes against the wall by the television. Rice and sausage fly everywhere.
That felt good. That felt more than good. That felt like me.
I laugh then. Throw my head back and laugh. It’s a deep laugh, wicked. Oh my god! This is why I’m here. Craaaaazy.
I can see the muscles in her jaw clench. I’ve made her mad. Good. I stand up and run for a broken shard of plate. I don’t know what’s come over me, but this feels right. Defending myself feels right.
She tries to grab me, but I slip out of her grasp. I pick up a sharp piece of porcelain. What type of mental hospital gives you porcelain plates? It’s a disaster waiting to happen. I hold the shard toward her and take a step forward. “Tell me what’s going on.”
She doesn’t move. Looks quite calm, actually.
That’s when the door behind me must open, because the next thing I know there’s a sharp sting in my neck and I’m falling to the ground.
I pull over on the side of the road. I grip the steering wheel, trying to calm myself down.
Everything is gone. I have no idea who took it. Someone is probably reading our letters right now. They’ll read everything we wrote to ourselves, and depending on who took it, I probably look certifiably insane.
I grab a sheet of blank paper I find in the back seat, and I begin to write things down. Anything I can remember. I’m pissed, because I can’t remember even a fraction of what was in the notes inside the backpack. Our addresses, our locker codes, our birthdays, all the names of our friends and family—I can’t remember any of it. What little I can recall, I write down. I can’t let this stop me from finding her.
I have no idea where to go next. I could visit the tarot shop again; see if she returned there. I could try and find the address to whatever property has the gate that’s in the picture in her bedroom. There has to be a connection with the tarot shop displaying that same picture.
I could drive to the prison and visit Charlie’s father, see what he knows.
Prison is probably the last place I should go right now, though.
I grab my phone and begin scrolling through it. I pass the pictures from just last night. A night I don’t recall a single second of. There are pictures of me and Charlie, pictures of our tattoos, pictures of a church, pictures of a street musician.
The last picture is of Charlie, standing next to a cab. It appears that I’m on the other side of the street, snapping a picture of her as she prepares to climb inside it.
This had to be the last time I saw her. In the letter it said she got into a cab on Bourbon Street.
I zoom in on the picture, my excitement getting caught in my throat. There’s a license plate on the front of the cab and a phone number on the side of the cab.
Why didn’t I think of this already?
I jot down the phone number and license plate, and dial the number.
I feel like I’m finally making progress.
The cab company almost refused to give me information. I finally convinced the operator that I was a detective and needed to question the driver regarding a missing person. That’s only half of a lie. The guy on the phone said he had to ask around and call me back. It took about thirty minutes before my phone rang again.
It was the actual driver of the cab I spoke to this time. He said a girl matching the description of Charlie hailed his cab last night, but before he could take her anywhere, she told him never mind and she shut the door and walked away.
She just…walked away?
Why would she do that? Why would she not catch up to me? She had to know I was probably just around the next corner if that’s where we parted ways.
She had to have an agenda. I don’t remember a thing about her, but based on what I’ve read, everything she does seems to have a purpose. But what could her purpose have been on Bourbon Street at that time of night?
The only things that come to mind are the tarot shop and the diner. But in the notes, it states that Charlie never showed back up to the diner, based on information from someone named Amy. Was she going to find Brian? I feel a prickle of jealousy at the thought, but I’m almost confident she wouldn’t have done that.
It has to be the tarot shop.
I search Google on my phone, unable to remember the exact name of the place written in our notes. I mark two of them in the French Quarter and set my GPS to take me there.
I can tell almost immediately upon entering that this is the shop we described in the notes. The one we visited just last night.
Last night. God. Why can’t I remember something that just happened one day ago?
I make my way up and down each aisle, taking in everything around me, not even sure what I’m in search of. When I reach the last aisle, I recognize the photo hanging on the wall. The picture of the gate.
It’s here for decoration. Not something for sale. I lift up on my toes until my fingers grab at the frame, and I pull it down to inspect it closer. The gate is tall, guarding a house in the background that I can barely make out in the picture. In the corner of one of the massive columns attached to the gate is the name of the house. Jamais Jamais.
“Can I help you?”
I look up to see a man towering over me, which is impressive. I’m six foot one, according to my driver’s license. He has to be six foot five.
I point down to the photograph in my hands. “Do you know what this picture is of?”
The man snatches the frame out of my hands. “Seriously?” He seems agitated. “I didn’t know what it was when your girlfriend asked me last night, and I still don’t know what it is tonight. It’s a damn picture.” He hangs it back on the wall.
“Don’t touch anything unless it’s for sale and you plan to purchase it.” He begins to walk away, so I follow him.
“Wait,” I say, taking two steps to his long, single strides. “My girlfriend?”
He doesn’t stop walking toward the register. “Girlfriend. Sister. Cousin. Whatever.”
“Girlfriend,” I clarify, even though I don’t know why I’m clarifying. He obviously doesn’t care. “Did she come back in here last night? After we left?”
He makes his way behind the register. “We closed right after the two of you left.” He plants his gaze on mine and arches an eyebrow. “You gonna buy anything, or are you just gonna follow me around with stupid questions the rest of the night?”
I swallow. He makes me feel younger. Immature. He’s the epitome of man, and the bone in his eyebrow makes me feel like a
frightened child.
Suck it up, Silas. You’re not a pussy.
“I just have one more stupid question.”
He begins ringing up a customer. He doesn’t respond, so I continue.
“What does Jamais Jamais mean?
He doesn’t even look at me.
“It means Never Never,” someone says from behind me.
I immediately turn, but my feet feel heavy, like I’ve sunken into my shoes. Never Never?
This can’t be a coincidence. Charlie and I repeat this phrase over and over in our letters.
I look at the woman the voice belongs to, and she’s staring at me, chin lifted, face straight. Her hair is pulled back. It’s dark, sporadically streaked with gray strands. She’s wearing a long, flowing piece of material that pools around her feet at the floor. I’m not even sure it’s a dress. It looks as if she just fashioned something out of a sheet and a sewing machine.
She has to be the tarot reader. She’s playing the part well.
“Where is that house located? The one in the photo on the wall?” I point to the photograph. She turns and stares at it for several long seconds. Without facing me again, she crooks her finger for me to follow her, and she begins to head toward the back of the store.
I reluctantly follow her. Before we pass through a doorway of beaded curtains, my phone begins to vibrate in my pants pocket. It rattles against my keys, and the woman turns and looks at me over her shoulder. “Turn it off.”
I look down at the screen and see that it’s my father again. I silence the phone. “I’m not here for a reading,” I clarify. “I’m just looking for someone.”
“The girl?” she says, taking a seat on the other side of a small table in the center of the room. She motions for me to sit, but I refuse the offer.
“Yes. We were here last night.”
She nods and begins to shuffle a deck of cards. “I remember,” she says. A small smirk plays at the corner of her mouth. I watch as she separates the cards into stacks. She lifts her head and her face is expressionless. “But that only makes one of us, doesn’t it.”
Never Never: Part Two (Never Never #2) Page 5