Unremembered (Unremembered #1)(10)

‘He likes to take things apart,’ she adds, following my gaze. ‘I just wish he liked putting them back together as well.’

I smile, sensing it’s a joke from the way her eyes crinkle when she says it. I like jokes. Kiyana used to make them in the hospital. But they seem very complicated to me. Like something you need a special skill for. I wonder if I ever made jokes.

‘Maybe you went to summer camp,’ Heather muses.

‘Maybe,’ I allow, as I unite the definitions of the two words, creating a visualization of what they might mean. Summer camp. Taking shelter in tents for the summer?

‘He gets home tomorrow,’ she goes on. ‘I’ll make sure he uses our bathroom so you have privacy. You can keep this door locked if it makes you feel better.’ She closes the door to Cody’s bedroom and flips the small knob under the handle, demonstrating how the lock works.

I shrug in response, wondering if I was a private person.

I run my thumb back and forth over the thin black tattoo on my wrist, as though the answer is just beneath the surface of my skin.

‘Are you hungry?’ she asks. ‘I can make lunch.’

‘Yes,’ I say, placing my locket on the dresser and following her down the stairs into the kitchen.

Twenty minutes later, I sit at the table with Scott. Heather sets a plate in front of me. ‘If I knew your favourite food, I would have made it.’

I glance warily at the unfamiliar object that I’m expected to consume.

‘If I knew my favourite food, I would have told you,’ I reply, causing Heather and Scott to chuckle. Their laughter takes me by surprise.

Heather slides into a chair and places a napkin in her lap. Scott does the same so I follow suit, assuming it’s the appropriate thing to do. ‘This is Cody’s favourite so I took a shot. It’s a grilled cheese sandwich. Pretty basic.’

I study my plate, noticing how the gelatinous orange cheese drips over the edge of the bread and seems to cling to the sides. I pick up one half and hold it tentatively between my fingers. This is my first real food since the plane crash.

Heather and Scott watch me closely as I take a bite.

The flavour explodes in my mouth, overwhelming me and filling me with a sense of elation that I can’t quite understand. The texture is both crunchy and creamy, and every time I chew it releases more and more delicious aroma on to my tongue.

I know I don’t remember anything, but I’m certain this is the most wondrous thing I’ve ever eaten. I don’t know how it can’t be. Is it possible for anything else to taste so delectable?

I let out a small, involuntary moan and Heather and Scott both laugh.

The flavour eventually starts to evaporate and the piece in my mouth turns soggy. I swallow it down and immediately lunge forward for another bite. This one is just as enjoyable as the first and I let out sigh of contentment.

‘I guess that means you like it,’ Heather confirms.

I don’t speak, in fear that opening my mouth might allow some of the delicious flavour to escape. I simply nod and smile. Heather and Scott chuckle again.

‘I’m so glad,’ Heather says.

I swallow my second bite. ‘It’s the most wondrous thing I’ve ever tasted,’ I say zealously.

Heather beams and picks up half of her own sandwich. I can’t help but marvel at how happy she looks. And I find myself feeling happy too. Maybe that’s what food is supposed to do.



That night when I retire to my room I empty the brown paper bag that Kiyana gave me at the hospital, spilling its contents on to the bed.

I stare numbly at the unfamiliar pieces of dark grey fabric.

The clothes I was found in.

I so wish they had meaning. I wish I could remember picking them out. Putting them on. Did I keep them in a dresser like the one in this room?

Without thinking, I slip my white T-shirt over my head, step out of my jeans and strip down to my red-and-orange-striped underwear. I guide my arms through the short sleeves of the grey collared shirt, remarking at how soft and worn it feels.

Does that mean it was my favourite?

There are white buttons all down the front. I work quickly, fastening each one. Then I step into the matching grey cloth pants, pulling them up around my hips and securing them with the fabric string that ties at the waist.

I peer at myself in the full-length mirror that hangs on the door to the bathroom. The ensemble is comfortable, but certainly not flashy. In fact, looking at my reflection, I can see it’s very drab. Almost gloomy.

Was I a gloomy person?

Or maybe this is what people wear on long flights to Asia.

Obviously it’s what I wear.

But for some reason now it feels all wrong. The clothes fit physically but the longer I wear them, the more uneasy I become. Suddenly I have a desperate urge to shed them as quickly as possible. I throw the shirt over my head, yank the pants down and kick them from my ankles, feeling better almost immediately.

I stand in my underwear breathing heavily for a moment before putting on a pair of pink cotton pyjamas that Heather loaned me to sleep in.

It isn’t until I’m bending down to scoop up the discarded grey garments from the floor that I notice the small white flap attached to the inside lining of the pants.

I pick them up and examine the flap closely.

It’s a pocket.

And after rubbing the fabric between my fingertips, I conclude that there is definitely something in there.