Mother begins to sob. She scoots her chair back and comes to me. Her arms wrap around my shoulders and she kisses my cheek, my hair. ‘You’re remembering, Jenna. Just like your father said. This is just the beginning.’
Remembering.
Jenna Fox is inside me after all. Just when I was ready to move on without her, she surfaces. Don’t forget me, she says.
I don’t think she’ll let me.
Visitors
Kara.
And Locke, too.
They come to me. Mother and Father are right. Bits. Pieces. More. It comes back. These pieces wind through the night. Faces that wake me. I sit up, hot, afraid.
I had friends. Kara and Locke. But I don’t remember when. Or where. School? The neighborhood? I can’t remember where we went or what we did. But I see their faces. Looming close in front of mine, breathless.
I knew them. I knew them deeply. Where are they now?
I sit in my bed, in the dark, listening to the midnight creaks of our house, trying to conjure more than their faces, trying to push them into rooms, desks, and voices that will trigger more. But only their faces, close, eye to eye, are revealed. They linger before me like they have found my scent.
Tell me. Tell me who you are.
Tell me who I am.
Timing
Lily slides the garage door up. It screeches and shudders from lack of use until it finally completes its noisy path. Inside the dark cavern is an old pink hybrid wedged between stacks of boxes.
‘I’ll back it out, and then you can get in.’ Her voice is sharp. ‘And don’t tell your mother. I’ll catch it if she finds out I took you out in public.’
‘I’d rather stay home.’
‘I’d rather you stayed home, too. But I have errands to run, and I’m not taking a chance on you gallivanting off again.’
‘I wouldn’t.’ Gallivanting?
Lily grunts. She squeezes between stacks of boxes and backs the car out, and I get in beside her. ‘Are we going to take the T?’
Lily brakes. ‘You remember the T?’
I am annoyed with everyone asking what I do and don’t remember. It’s all a matter of degrees. Do I remember riding somewhere on the T? Having somewhere important to go? Riding with someone who mattered to me? No. Do I remember what it looks like and what it does? Yes. I give the best response I can. A shrug.
‘Well, this isn’t Boston, and there is no T. And the shuttle doesn’t go where we need going so I’m driving the whole way. Problem
with that?’
I don’t answer.
She puts the car in gear and lurches forward, passing the houses on our lane. There are only five. The others are not Cotswold cottages. Each one is different. An English Tudor right next door, then a large Old Mission style estate; next a sprawling Craftsman, and last, the white house that Mr Bender paired with the word careful. It is a massive Georgian with tall, white pillars at the entrance. I am amused that I know the styles. But I am sure in Mother’s office there are volumes and volumes on architecture. Maybe the old Jenna read them.
Mr Bender said the homes in this neighborhood cost a fortune. Looking at these, I believe him. We also still have the brownstone in Boston, which I am sure costs a fortune as well. ‘Are Mother and Father rich?’ I ask.
‘That’s an odd question.’
‘I’m odd. Remember?’
‘Yes. Pretty much filthy.’