Unremembered (Unremembered #1)(16)

‘Sera. That’s your name. It’s short for Seraphina.’

Seraphina.

I walk over to the mirror and stare at my reflection while I repeat the name aloud, dissecting it in my mind.

‘Sera. Short for Seraphina.’

Seraphina . . . Sera . . . S.

I hurry over to the dresser, pull open the drawer, and snatch up the locket, flipping it over to study the engraving on the back.

S+Z=1609.

The equation that I can’t solve. Despite the fact that math seems to come easy to me.

But perhaps that’s the problem. Perhaps the equation has nothing to do with math.

‘You’re not who you think you are.’

I’m not anyone! I want to scream. I don’t even know who I am. How can I possibly be someone I’m not?

My head starts to throb. I return to the chair and rock frantically back and forth, waiting for the motion to calm me once more. But this time it does nothing. I close my eyes and concentrate on the boy. On his face.

I watch his demeanour change as soon as he sees Heather approaching us. His face becomes sombre. Earnest.

‘Try to remember what really happened . . .’

I create a mental index of everything I know to be true:

I like numbers.

I have a tattoo.

I like grilled cheese sandwiches.

And supermarkets.

I have long brown hair and purple eyes.

I survived a plane crash.

A plane crash I have no memory of.

A glitch in a computer erased me from a list.

‘You were never on that plane . . .’

Suddenly my eyes flutter open. I rise from the chair and pace the room. I hate all these unanswered questions. I hate the doubt that he’s planted in my mind. I hate that he’s made me second-guess everything I know.

And mostly I hate how unforgettable he seems to be.

Somehow every memory in my brain has managed to abandon me and yet his face is the face I can’t seem to chase away.

As I walk, I repeat my mantra.

I don’t know him. I don’t remember him. I can’t trust him.

The last line makes me stop. Apprehensively I glance down at the locket in my hand. I draw in a deep breath and pop open the black heart-shaped door, removing the crumpled note and placing it on the dresser.

I ransack the room, searching everywhere until I find what I’m looking for in a nightstand by the bed.

A pen and a blank sheet of paper.

I place the paper next to the yellowed note and slowly, carefully, scrawl out two words.

Trust him.

I glance between the two messages – one yellowed and ragged and faded by lost time and salt water, and the other white and crisp and right now – and I see what I was afraid I would see.

They are exactly the same.

They were both written by my hand.





11


PROOF


Heather and Scott try to make conversation with me during dinner but I’m not really there. My mind is elsewhere.

More specifically, on the note.

The note that I wrote.

But why? This is the question that bothers me the most.

Did I intend it for me? Or for someone else?

It had to be for someone else.

Otherwise, doesn’t that imply that I knew I was going to lose my memory? Why else would I need to remind myself to trust someone? But I know that’s impossible. No one can predict a plane crash. No one can predict amnesia. Did I somehow manage to scrawl out the message right as the plane was going down? Just in case?

And who is him?

Trust him.

I can only think of one person. And he’s the last person I want to trust. Because it would mean believing everything he’s told me.

That there are people looking for me.

That I’m in danger.

That I was never on the plane.

No. I can’t.

There are a million hims in the world. It seems far-fetched and completely irrational just to assume that boy is the one the note is referring to.

But I suppose if I really am the girl who wrote that note, then I at least owe it to myself – to her – to find out for sure.



After dinner I go to my bathroom and wash my face with the cleanser Heather bought for me at the store today. While I was in the hospital, Kiyana taught me how to take care of myself. Teeth need to be brushed, faces need to be washed, fingernails need to be kept clean. I find it annoying that I have to be reminded of these things that seem so basic. So human.

I have started over in so many ways I’m beginning to lose count. And I have a feeling I’m not one who loses count easily.

I notice a light under the door of Cody’s bedroom. I can hear voices. Three in total. It sounds like an argument.

Cody told his parents at dinner that his friends from school were coming over.

I unlock the door and open it, revealing Cody and two similar-aged boys crowded around a giant board with a glossy white surface. It’s covered in red scribbles. Cody holds a matching red marker in his hand.

The voices quiet immediately and all three boys turn to look at me.

‘Haven’t you ever heard of knocking?’ Cody asks. I can infer from his tone that he’s angry with me, although I’m not sure why.

‘I have.’

He releases a funny sound from his nose. ‘Then why didn’t you?’