PANDORA

by Rebecca Hamilton

  “Wow,” Jenna said. “You’ve got some admirer.”

  I walked to the nearest bouquet. It was a tall pedestal with deep red roses, and a small, white card. I pulled on it to read the message:

  I hope this was as good of a homecoming as any. See you tomorrow night. ~Alexander.

  I rolled my eyes. Admirer, or stalker? “They’re from Alexander.” The flower shop he built in my living room was extremely overwhelming. “How did he manage to get all these in my apartment?”

  “Maintenance probably. He owns this building. He could’ve done it himself, having the master key and all.”

  I snorted. “He doesn’t strike me as a person that would do anything himself unless the occasion required it.”

  “Are you sure you’re not remembering?” Jenna asked with a level of humor I found lacking. Or was it hunger to eat me alive? I still couldn’t read her very well.

  “Explain something to me.” I turned away from the flowers to look Jenna in the eyes. “Why are you two so invested in me remembering anything? What’s in it for you?”

  She straightened her posture and, for the first time since waking up in the hospital, I saw a crack in her composure. Her blue orbs were cold and her lips were taut. “I assure you, I have nothing invested in those memories of yours. It’s Alexander that wants to know who caused the accident and why. I’m just doing what I’m told.”

  “Something tells me he already knows who did it. He’s just waiting on proof.”

  She blinked. “You’re either very observant or you’re remembering more than you claim.”

  “I’m not remembering anything,” I muttered.

  “Right,” she said, dragging out the word as if she really didn’t believe me but didn’t want to push the issue. She reached into her back pocket, pulled out a small rectangle, and slipped it on the small, empty counter space between vases. “This is my card. You can call me if you need anything. Before I forget; your mom stopped by while you were asleep. She wants you to give her a call. I can arrange for a car to—”

  “No need,” I said. “I can take a bus or have her come and get me. Did my dad come with her?”

  She gave me that ‘you-have-got-to-be-kidding-me’ look then shook her head and smiled. “Don’t remember that either, huh?”

  “What don’t I remember now?” I asked, more annoyed by her coyness than my lack of memory.

  “That’s something you’ll have to discuss with your father, not me. Meanwhile, I have to go tend to some errands and get some sleep myself. Tomorrow. Five thirty. Remember that.” She pointed her finger at me with the last few words, then turned on her heels and sauntered to my door.

  “One last thing,” I said before she walked through. “How is that you know so much about me?”

  She smiled from over her shoulder. “I knew you from the Academy.”

  That wasn’t entirely true, but possible. I remembered going to the Academy, but not attending with her. In fact, most of my memories regarding the Academy were missing, almost as if they were erased.

  “G’night, Elsabetha.” Her words carried lightly on the air as she stepped through the door and out of sight.

  As soon as my door sealed, I turned to the overwhelming mass of flowers and stuffed animals. What the hell did I get myself into? Numerous other questions encircled my mind. Questions I needed answers to.

  First, I had to get rid of all the flowers, shower to get the hospital crud off, then make it to my parents’ house before it was too late. My parents weren’t ones to go to bed early, but they had a thing about late-hour visitors.

  FIVE

  EVERY BOUQUET, STUFFED ANIMAL, and balloon from by Mr. Notinthislifetime found their way down my garbage shoot. Only one, card-less bouquet I couldn’t part with. The flowers were different from the others, like three tiny suns standing inside the red clay vase. I put them on the center of my coffee table, sat on my couch, and stared at them.

  My home felt empty. A silver sectional took up the corner of the living room. A black shag rug sat under the glass coffee table. Mismatched barstools faced the bar counter and kitchen. But even after ensuring everything was as it should be, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was missing. Perhaps a long, hot shower would help to clear my mind and discover why I felt that way? Maybe my lack of memory was the only cause?

  At least, that’s what I tried to believe.

  Stepping into my room, I found a long, white, rectangular box at the foot of my bed. The card taped to it read, Wear this tomorrow night.

  Not likely.

  Inside, a black, thin-strapped dress laid delicately on white tissue paper with another smaller box I didn’t dare open. I wasn’t going out with himdamn the consequences. After resealing the box, I slipped it under my bed and went about ensuring that my privacy screen was over my window.

  When my reflection caught my attention, I stopped at the mirror. The gauze was gone. A thin red line, the span of three inches, stretched from the mid-point of my temple, inside my hairline, and curved to just above my eyebrow. Ten blue stitches poked out from my skin and over the line. They made my eyes stand out in a deeper, more denim color, and my hair looked darker brown. My thin lips pulled down at the corners. Or were they always so sad?

  “That’s going to leave a nasty scar,” I muttered under my breath, hoping the scar would fade enough to be a part of the memories I’d forgotten.

  Walking into the bathroom, I swiped my hand over the sensor just inside the doorway. Florescent light filled every corner as a soft, electrical hum played in the background. I decided to forgo the shower, favoring a long, steaming hot, bubble bath instead, complete with lavender and eucalyptus bath salts.

  Something, reflected in the privacy window behind the tub, moved. A blurred figure stood in the doorway behind me, but when I turned, there was only an empty hall.

  Grabbing a towel, I covered myself before cautiously stepping out.

  The hall was empty.

  No sounds came from my home that weren't supposed to be there. I couldn't possibly have imagined the person standing in the door.

  Stepping further down the hall, I peeked quickly into my room, then leaned against the other wall to glimpse the kitchen.

  Nothing.

  I slipped to the other side to look through the living room.

  Nothing again.

  I rushed to my front door and punched the lock button and the bolt button so no one could come in. I also made sure that the privacy screens were set on my windows before letting out a deep breath and returning to my bath. On top of my lack of memories, it seemed that I was also hallucinating.

  Maybe I imagined that voice after all? Great.

  The bath relaxed the tension in my muscles, but my mind went full tilt. Nothing made sense. The questions regarding the events prior to my accident and missing memories were growing insurmountable. The only choice I had was to start with a visit to my parents. At least my mom would know what happened between me and my dad and maybe give me some answers. Maybe she knew what I did right before the accident.

  After getting out of the tub, I thumbed through the hangers in my closet, settling on a pair of jeans, a black t-shirt and a jacket that had the Academy’s emblem on it. Half of the world, with a few crossing rings, planets, the sun, and several different galactic ships were surrounded by the insignia, caelum est semper infra praedominare.

  “Heaven is always within reach,” I said automatically, slipping it on.

  The Academy, School of Defense for Earth and Space, is a place where one is not just recruited, but initiated. Where one could become an elite member of the Aurora Vanguard. We were a club to those who weren’t privileged to know more. But there was much more than that. More than I remembered.

  I slipped on my hiking boots as the feeling of something missing presented itself again. I knew it was something I usually wore that I no longer had. Obviously, my gear was destroyed in the accident, and I certainly did not need it for visiting my parents. W
hatever I was missing remained out of sight, waiting to be found. I stood a few minutes longer, staring at my closet, before turning on my heels and walking out the door.

  SIX

  I STARED AT THE door of the only home I had ever known as a child—a massively updated turn-of-the-century colonial in the heart of southern residential district. The trees were less dense in that part of the city.

  The big, red door was the only one that had to be manually locked and operated. The three small, rectangular windows situated at the top of the door were covered by privacy film, and the porch light illuminated the space around the door, reaching as far as the swing, I helped build with my dad, hanging from the porch’s ceiling.

  After letting out a puff of air, and waiting for the cloud to dissolve, I stepped through the gate and followed the stone path to the stairs. The metal railing felt like it was made of ice as my hand slid over it while I climbed the steps to the porch. I stood, staring at the door, wondering if I should knock, walk in, or continue to gawk until it opened for me.

  “Elsabetha?” a woman said.

  I turned to see my mom carrying a small paper bag of groceries through the gate. I wondered how she arrived so silently until I remembered that my mom gave up driving, preferring the bus system and walking.

  “Mom?”

  “What are you doing here?” she asked, sounding more curious than accusatory.

  “I came to see you and Dad,” I said.

  She looked around me, into the shadows on the sides of the house, as if checking to see if someone was hiding there. “Your father isn’t here. And it’s not a good idea for you to be here either.”

  “Why not?”

  “Elsa, you know your father disowned you.”

  “He what?” That couldn't be true. That was the last thing on earth that could ever be true. I shook my head, tears stinging in my throat. “I didn’t know that, don’t remember knowing that. I don’t remember much of anything.”

  Her shoulders slumped as she approached. Her short hair had turned completely grey from the auburn I remembered. She looked much older than I thought she should. Wrinkles clutched the sides of her silvery-blue eyes and the corners of her thin lips. Her skin was duller than I remembered, and she’d lost weight.

  “You really don’t remember?” She shook her head. “I didn’t think it was possible. You never could be swayed from anything you wanted and remembered everything you were ever shown or told. That’s why you were chosen for the Academy and the Vanguard . . . ”

  She climbed the steps to the porch and stopped in front of me. With a grimace, she lifted her hand to the new line on my face but dropped it before touching me. She sighed, approaching the door and stepped inside, leaving it open for me. The smell of apples and cinnamon filled my nose, pulling me inside.

  Everything seemed as it had always been. There were a few additions to the living room, like the painting of a cabin in some woods that hung above the fireplace instead of our family portrait. There were additional books in the bookshelf that was built into the wall next to the fireplace. My brother had a special shelf on the book case until that was too hard to look at. The memories too painful.

  With the familiarity came comfort. Especially when I saw the coffee table my father built from chopped down branches and trees out of our back yard. He spent weeks varnishing it to the shine it still had.

  I turned my attention to the sound of my mother working in the kitchen. I stepped to the circular table with a bowl of potpourri in the center, filling the air with the cinnamon and apples I smelled before. A few curls of cedar and a couple pinecones were mixed in. My mom loved making her own potpourri.

  She emerged from the kitchen with two dark-brown, unlabeled bottles in her hand. Holding one out to me, I could smell the fizzing liquid, tickling my tongue with delicious anticipation. I gripped the bottle and graciously took a sip, delighting in the taste.

  “Homemade root beer,” I said. “It’s really nice to find one thing that hasn’t changed.”

  My dad made root beer since before I could remember—during my early childhood days. He wanted a hobby we could all enjoy.

  Mom sighed heavily and halfheartedly grinned. She patted my shoulder then stepped to the living room and took a seat on the sofa. I followed and sat next to her.

  “So, what happened between me and Dad?” I asked.

  She dropped her gaze, staring into the neck of the bottle. She rubbed the bumps along the glass and seemed lost in thought. Finally, she said, “Your dad is a strong-willed man and very set in his ways. You’re very much like him, in that.” She sat her bottle on the table and leaned onto her knees. “You two haven’t spoken since your acceptance into the Academy. Things between you got worse when you joined the Vanguard. He’s forbidden me to speak of it and refuses to let your accident change his mind.”

  “Does he not know about my memory loss?”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Will he be home soon?”

  “No, he’s on a business trip. He won’t be back until tomorrow.”

  “Can’t you just tell me what happened so I can start to remember my life?” What the hell did I do to lose my dad, too?

  She lifted her gaze to mine. Regret brewed deep within her, the pain of having lost one child and being forced to shun the other visible in her eyes. I tried to say something, to make the pain bearable, but she said, “I won’t go against his wishes. If you want to find out what happened, you have to remember it on your own or ask him yourself. Even then, give me some time to open him up to the idea.”

  I nodded. Something was better than nothing. “How long?”

  “Come back in a few days, around dinner time. If he’s not yet opened to it, we’ll try for another day.”

  “He’s that upset with me?” It came out meeker than I wanted, full of disbelief, despite the fact staring me in the face.

  “He still loves you. He just needs to let go of his prejudices.”

  “Prejudices?” I asked.

  She raised her hands, palm out. “I’ve said all that I can.”

  “Well tell me about the Vanguard then.”

  She shrugged. “You weren’t even supposed to tell me.”

  “But they’re just a club . . . ” Of course, I knew it was more than that. Half the world thought they knew more about us than they really did. Despite the stories, I knew we were the ones that stopped disasters from happening and cleaned up the messes that resulted from them. Only rumors existed based on witness accounts. Even those were disputable. But I couldn’t remember specifics, even though I remembered more than before. Is there hope for me yet?

  “No. No, they aren’t,” she said. A thick silence fell between us, blanketing the air with an iron weight.

  “That doesn’t make sense,” I said.

  “You weren’t allowed to speak about it. You could never talk to me about anything you were doing, but would always call and say, ‘Hey Mom, still doing well and tell Dad I love him.’” She smiled and stared at her bottle more. “I keep waiting for the day when I have to relive the nightmare with your brother. To lose one child . . . ” She pressed her lips together, fighting back tears.

  “I never knew what happened.” It was true. They never told me. I could never bring myself to ask.

  I remember coming home from school, finding a big, black transporter sitting on the side of the street. The insignia of the Academy freshly painted on the side. I approached the car, my feet getting heavier with each step. I knew something wasn’t right, but before I could get to the side of the transporter, it pulled away from the curb and lifted into the air.

  Walking into the house was like walking into a sauna. The air was thick and hard to breathe. I heard, before I saw, my mom weeping into my dad’s arms. I’d never seen him cry until that day.

  When I asked what happened, all my dad could manage to say was there had been an accident and my brother wouldn’t be coming home. It was choked out. Like the words got stuck in
his throat and he lost the strength to force them out completely.

  “They never found his body,” she said in a distant voice. “He probably had the same thing happen to him. Head injury, no memory . . . ”

  “Mom, I—”

  “Don’t trust anyone. Not even Jenna.” The sudden change in her tone and seriousness worried me.

  “Jenna? Mom, what’s going on?”

  “Sometimes things happen for a reason, Elsabetha. Don’t be in a rush to find the memories you lost. They may lead you to a place you don’t want to go.”

  “Are you purposefully not saying something to me?” I asked, standing and facing her, mere seconds from pacing.

  As the grandfather clock announced the arrival of ten o’clock, she stood and said, “It’s getting late. I have to get up early to run errands before your dad gets home.”

  I nodded, setting my half-full bottle on the table and letting my mom walk me to the door. Before opening it, she turned, wrapped her arms around me, and slipped something into my coat pocket. She whispered, “This may help you find some answers. Don’t lose it and don’t take it out until you’re home.” When she pulled away, she added in a normal tone and volume, “It’s good to see you out of the hospital and looking well.”

  “Thanks, Mom.” I pulled away from her, stepping out the door. I made it to the bottom of the stairs when she called my attention back to her one last time.

  “Don’t worry about your dad. He’ll come around.”

  I turned and gave her a half-hearted smile. My mind was too overloaded to fake a better, more convincing one. She waved and smiled before the door closed. I waited until I heard the click of the lock before continuing down the stone path. I had it in mind to walk until sunrise if I had to. Probably would take until then before I could start to make sense of what I was remembering.

  An hour into my walk, I slipped my frozen hands into my coat pockets. My fingers grazed across something thick and soft. I grabbed it, pulling it from my pocket, and looked at it under a street lamp. It was an old ticket stub. Five years old. The ink faded almost to the point it was nonexistent, but the logo was easy to recognize. It was that of the Aeronauts, our local football team.