by Karen Hayes
I cast a wary glance over my shoulder. The man is still standing there talking on his phone with his back to me.
I've been walking for ages but I still can't recognize anything. All these streets look identical: red brick, steel stairs and groups of the local hoods hanging out on the street corners. The sun is declining behind the roofs; in the growing twilight, the street looks unfriendly.
A police car speeds past. I hold my breath, watching it disappear round the corner.
Wonder if someone's looking for me already? Most likely. Like that blond guy in the Jeep. His face was pale and clean shaven. Sort of aristocratic. Old world. And the look on that face was so tense - he was like a bloodhound following a trail. He was looking for me. He somehow saw my face behind the window among all that greenery. What did he want with me?
Judging by recent events, it couldn't be anything good.
Finally I find the house I need. A cream-colored, three-story building with a pawnbroker's and a nail parlor on the ground floor. Hip hop music is booming from a car parked up by the staircase.
I walk in. The stairwell stinks of mold. Black graffiti covers the cracked walls. Great place.
There're six apartments on each floor. The door of mine looks strangely deformed. The damage is recent. It looks as if someone pounded the door with a fist. It's covered in thin, dark stroke marks - blood? Did someone try to break in? Is there anyone inside? I dread to even think.
A gorgeous red-haired girl answers the door. She's tall with legs that go on forever, her short silk dressing gown emphasizing her pinched waist.
Her jaw drops when she sees me. Her beautiful eyes open even wider. She tries to shut the door but I stick my foot in the frame.
"I need to come in," I say. "Please."
Reluctantly she lets go of the door handle. I step in. The apartment is small. The bathroom door is ajar; I can hear water running into a bathtub. Further along the corridor there're three bedrooms. Some clothes are heaped up in a corner, next to a pile of boxes; soft music is playing.
I close the door behind me and shuffle my feet, not knowing what to say.
"Are you better now?" the girl asks, fake sympathy in her voice. "Why are you wearing hospital clothes?" she looks past me, avoiding my gaze.
She knows me. The thought gives me strength. "Do I live here? Who are you? Do I know you?"
The girl turns pale. Mechanically she shrinks back.
"It's all right," I insist. "I'm not going to hurt you. I just can't remember anything. I don't even remember your name."
"Don't you really?" she blinks. Her face brightens up. She doesn't look scared any longer. Wary, yes. Still unsure, she proffers her hand. "I'm Rose. We used to rent this place together."
I squeeze her dry hand in mine. Used to? Did I move out? Or did she decide I wasn't coming back?
"Do you know what happened to me?" I ask. "Did you see anything?"
"Did I? You could say that!" shaking her head in bewilderment, she motions me to follow her.
We enter one of the bedrooms. I very nearly stumble over a stack of boxes piled up by the door. The table is littered with makeup and glossy magazines.
She sits at the table. I pull out a plastic chair and perch myself on it.
"The day before yesterday you woke me up at two in the morning. I thought you'd bust your fists bashing on the door."
Ah, so those dents on the front door were my doing, after all. I look down at my hands. My knuckles do look raw.
She rolls her eyes. "You were all covered in blood!"
"Was I injured?"
"I don't think so. You kept saying, 'They've found us! We need to rescue Chris!'"
"Rescue? Us? Who's us?"
"You and Chris, I suppose," she shrugs. She looks perfectly calm now.
She reaches for some nail polish on the table, unscrews the top and begins painting a long groomed nail bright red. It's as if we're discussing lunch, not my stretch at the funny farm. "Then you locked yourself in your room and began throwing things around and ripping them apart. I called 911."
Thanks a bunch, Rose. At least now I know who to blame for my visit to the shrinks.
I try to calm down. This isn't the right moment to lose it; I have to find out everything first. "This Chris, did you find him? Did he come over here?"
Rose shakes her head. "How did you want me to find him? I don't have his number. Chris isn't exactly an uncommon name in NYC. He didn't come here, no. Your parents called. The guys at the studio asked after you."
My parents. The studio. Can't remember any of it. "My parents, are they okay? Who are they?"
Rose's gaze fills with sympathy. "You are in a bad way, aren't you? They live in Philadelphia. That's where you come from. I'll give you their number. You need to call them, they're worried sick."
She's right. I'll have to call them.
"And what's this studio?"
"The dancing studio. We're in it together. The Juilliard School, if the name says anything to you. The starve academy."
"The starve academy?"
"That's what we used to call it, don't you remember? Ah, of course you don't."
The Juilliard School. A dance studio. Was I a flippin' ballerina?
"Never knew I could dance," I mumble before the reality of it even dawns on me. "It's sophisticated shit, ballet, isn't it? I don't think I'm particularly..." I make a helpless gesture.
"Not particularly sophisticated, eh?" she chuckles. "You think I am? You don't need to be a blushing princess to go to Juilliard."
"Juilliard," I repeat pensively, racking my brain for a clue. "Wonder if Chris also studies there?"
"No idea. I've never seen him in the studio. I only know what you told me. 'Cute and loaded'. Your words," she raises her perfect eyebrows. "The gifts he gave you!"
Now I don't understand anything. Cute and loaded? Definitely not my type. I know it. Chris... "So I asked you to rescue him?"
With a nod, Rose screws the top back onto the polish. She gets up and heads for the door. Her every movement is filled with feline grace. She stops in the doorway, one hand on a shapely heap.
"Also," she starts slowly, looking for the right words, as if careful not to anger me again. "I've found a new roommate. She's paid the down payment already. So basically..."
I nod. I wasn't going to stay, anyway. "Not a problem."
Rose points out the boxes containing my things and leaves me alone with them.
I open the nearest box. It's stuffed with crumpled books and clothes, apparently thrown in indiscriminately without looking. I discover a pair of sneakers and set them aside.
I pour the contents of all the boxes onto the floor and begin rummaging through them, pausing occasionally to listen to what Rose is doing. She's not calling the police, luckily. I lay whatever I can use aside and stuff the rest back into the boxes.
I pull out a pair of leg warmers, some gray tights and a black leotard cut deeply at the back.
Now I remember. A mirrored ballet class. Barre exercises. My reflections in the many mirrors repeating my movements. My muscles, aching as I warm them up. A sweet pain.
Yes. I used to do modern dance. I even managed to enter this famous school. I used to love it. And now what? Am I supposed to give it all up? Being on the run and all that?
I pull on a pair of jeans, a T-shirt and a black hooded jacket. In a mechanical, well-practiced motion my hands put my hair up in a bun. I lift the hood. Now that I wear sneakers no one will be able to outrun me.
I bury the hospital garbs deep in one of the boxes under other stuff. Rummaging in the jacket's pocket, I discover a pack of chewing gum. Strawberry flavor. Just what the doctor ordered.
I look in the mirror. A gaunt girl, thin as a rake, stares back at me, her eyes huge and sunken. My ears are pierced in six or seven places but I have no jewelry. Hospital workers must have removed it. I look so... so normal. This city is packed with girls who look just like me.
Excellent. This isn't a good tim
e to stand out in the crowd.
As I stuff a backpack with other things I might need, I can hear Rose rattling furniture in her room, getting dressed. Where is she going? I need to step it up before she does something stupid.
I rummage through some papers on the desk hoping for an ID - a driver's license, anything! No such luck.
So according to Rose I locked myself in my room, ripping things apart? Now what kinds of things might they be?
I walk over to the bed by the wall. Instinctively I lift the pillow and slide my hand under the pillow case. I can feel something hard stuffed inside. There's a hole ripped in the fabric. I force my hand through and feel through the stuffing.
Got it. A wad of banknotes. A very thin one, but still.
I stuff the money in the pocket and reach inside again. My hand closes around something cold and smooth. A phone with a cracked screen. I press my fingertip to the screen; it lights up obediently, recognizing my fingerprint.
The screen shows a theater stage dominated by a barefoot dancer in gray tights, her back arched in a classic modern dance. I check the logs. Lots of missed calls. Studio, parents, a certain "C"... could that be Chris?
I call the number.
"The number you are trying to reach is currently unavailable," a robotic voice says.
I open text messages. Most of them seem to have been deleted. There's only one left:
Club 616 10 pm. Meet me by the entrance, C.
Oh great.
Club 616, I roll the name in my mouth.
A lump starts to form in my throat. My stomach turns heavy and cold. A crimson haze floods my eyes. I can see something. I can see them!
The street is dark. The vague silhouettes in the night, right next to me... I hate them! I want to kill them! I throw a hand in the air and shout something - an order?
Then it's all over. The vision is gone as fast as it came.
My legs slacken. I slump onto a chair. My forehead is streaming with sweat. My eyes are running, my heart aching.
Now I understand that my arrival at the clinic was only the aftermath of something much more important; some vital part of my past.
I need to clean myself up. That might help. I pick up the backpack and walk out into the corridor. Rose is sitting on a narrow bed in the next room, reading a paperback with a half-naked guy on the cover. The phone sits on the dresser opposite, way out of her reach. Good. I thought she'd be busy texting away to 911.
I walk into the bathroom and splash some cold water on my face to calm my breathing. I check the shelves for my remaining stuff: a hairbrush, a toothbrush, a towel on the rack.
My gaze alights on a wristwatch on Rose's shelf. A tiny slim watch on a thin platinum bracelet.
It's mine, I know it. He gave it to me. I can't remember the occasion but I do remember how I refused to accept it for a long time. I'm not used to getting expensive gifts like this. Also, a watch is a bad gift. Bad sign. If you give someone a watch, you might split up with them soon.
Well done, Rose. She knew which of my stuff to shove into a box and which to slide down her own pocket.
I grab the watch and fasten it around my wrist. Much better. It looks good on me; the thin platinum strap hugs my wrist tight. Perfect fit.
There's knocking coming from the front door. I freeze. Could it be the cops? Or the hospital again? What if Rose did call someone while I was busy sorting through my stuff?
I remember rough hands dragging me down the stairs, apartment doors opening, other lodgers staring at my departure. I scream, trying to squirm out of the nurses' grip, then hit my head on a doorpost. Awful.
I'm not going back there. They can forget it!
I switch off the light and stand perfectly still.
Rose patters past me down the corridor. The lock clicks. She removes the safety chain.
"Hi-" she says, unsure.
No one replies. A shriek. Something heavy thumps to the apartment floor.
Slow, heavy footsteps reverberate through the corridor. Closer. They stop by the bathroom door. I'm cowering in the dark, almost facing Rose's attacker. Or murderer?
His soft breathing sounds so close behind the flimsy door.
Chris
The house is impressive. Light stone, five stories, huge windows. A luxurious apartment home with a wide porch, a massive front door and - most likely - an armed guard posted behind it, impeccably polite.
I can almost feel myself driving out of that deep gaping square hole of the underground parking behind the porch. Did I live here? Or do I?
No, I don't think so. Not now, anyway.
It's nearly dark. The street is almost deserted. I stop the car round the corner to be able to watch the porch in the side mirror. The Lair of Two-Face, as I used to call it.
The feelings it evokes in me... they're hard to explain. It's a complex mixture of memories I can't quite place. I should probably walk over and check it out. You never know, the guard might recognize me. Or I might recognize the inside of the house - which in turn might trigger a chain reaction of recognition.
The front door opens, letting out two women: one young, the other middle-aged. They come down the steps and walk down the street in my direction, past a midnight-blue Ford parked right by the entrance. There's somebody in that car too; it's too far for me to see their face.
As the women walk past me, I peer at their faces, trying to recognize them. No, I've never seen them before.
"I can't believe Josh keeps investing in that hedge fund of his," the older one says. "I told him they had problems with SEC but he won't listen, will he?"
These people aren't exactly on welfare, are they?
The women disappear round the corner. I lean toward the steering wheel to get a better look of the building's façade.
My gaze slides up to the vaulted windows of the top floor. The furthest on the left looks familiar. I know it. In order to look out of it, I had to draw aside a blue Disney curtain and raise myself on tiptoe, leaning heavily onto the window sill to watch the quiet street below.
That was a long time ago.
A name enters my head. James.
James Brana.
The fiery letters flash through my mind, blinding me, burning my mind. I close my eyelids and rub my forehead. James Brana, my father. He lives here, in that top-floor apartment... or used to live. My mother and I used to live here too. Not anymore though. It's been years. My mother...
Mother. The word is bitter in my mouth. It tastes of fear and loss.
What happened to my parents? Now I know that my father is still alive. We don't see each other often but I do speak to him on the phone sometimes. My mother is dead. Has been dead for a long time. How did she die?
The house towers next to me: a heavy, palpable proof of my past. I have parents. My father is alive. I'm not a child's clumsy drawing of a human being on the wall anymore. I'm Chris Brana.
I need to go in.
The moment I realize it, I hate the idea. It's not for nothing I nicknamed my father Two-Face. I've always known he was hiding something from me. All my life he's been full of secrets - and at least one of those secrets has something to do with me. I don't like him; I don't even want to see him but there's so much I still need to remember. I need to go and speak to him. I need to find out.
I shut off the softly purring engine, get out of the car and head for the porch. The street is dark and quiet. The two lampposts struggle to dispel the twilight.
The person sitting in the Ford is still there. Or are there two of them? They must be waiting for someone.
I walk unhurriedly, studying the parked cars and the building's front door.
I must have already covered half the distance between my car and the porch when a small van appears from around the corner. The sign on its side says MTC Logistics.
The bearded driver's frozen face is what makes me pay attention. The man stares in front of himself, apparently looking at something behind my back.
Mechanically I turn
round but fail to see anything out of the ordinary. I'm only a few feet away from the porch now: five wide steps, a ribbed wheelchair ramp and the tall, heavy front door, its two halves decorated with large diamond-shaped panes of glass.
Distracted by the van's arrival, I'd completely forgotten about the Ford and its passengers. Now I glimpse some movement inside it and squint at its windows, trying to make out what's going on. There're three of them inside: two men in the front and one more in the back.
They turn in synch, clicking their respective doors open. I catch the dull glint of metal in the hand of one of the men.
An ambush.
Before any of us can react to the situation, something unexpected happens.
The van's driver has just pulled level with the Ford. He jumps in his seat as if someone invisible has just thrown a punch at him. His eyes bulging, he swerves, jerking at the wheel, ramming his van into the Ford.
I watch as the Ford concertinas in a cascade of glass and metal. With a heart-rending screech, the car's roof implodes like a sheet of cardboard. The impact sends the car sideways, pressing its wheels against the curb. The van freezes, blocking two-thirds of the road. Its driver's side is deformed, fragments of the shattered windscreen pouring onto the tarmac and the Ford's roof.
"Hey!" mechanically, I dart for the van. This is the most ridiculous accident I've ever seen!
I force the door open and jump onto the footboard. The driver is alive. The impact had sent him flying to the floor between the dashboard and the passenger seat. I can hear him groan as he struggles to move.
I rest my knee on the seat. "You okay?"
From this position, I can see the men in the Ford well. The one in the back seat is pressing his hand to his eye. There's blood all over his face. The driver is trying to unbuckle himself but the seatbelt seems to be stuck. The man next to him turns his head to me. He's holding a gun with a silencer.
He stares up at me while I'm looking down at him. His door is jammed by the van. He barks something - an order? - and tries fruitlessly to force it open. The Ford's driver is still struggling with his seatbelt; the man in the back keeps pressing his hand to his bloodied face.