Unremembered (Unremembered #1)(26)

Somehow I doubt it.

I’m starting to get the feeling my life was never normal.

‘That one’s nice too,’ Heather comments. ‘Let’s add it to the pile.’

I slide it over my head and hand it back to Heather.

There’s a knock on the door. ‘How’s it going in there?’ Irina asks.

Heather takes inventory of the items she’s placed in her collection. ‘We’re almost done.’ She holds up the purple dress to me. ‘I think you should wear this one out. It looks so pretty on you.’

‘If you hand me the tag, I’ll ring it up,’ Irina offers from the other side of the door.

‘Great.’ Heather pulls the price tag from the dress and places the hanger on the hook. Then she scoops her selections into her arms. ‘I’ll pick out a few accessories and meet you by the cash register.’

‘OK.’

She slips out the dressing-room door and I’m left alone with my reflection.

Lacey and her giggling cohort exit a few moments later and the room falls silent. I stare at the girl in the mirror wearing nothing but her underwear. I take in her smooth honey-coloured skin, long lean legs, glossy chestnut hair and violet eyes. Despite everything that’s happened – despite the efforts I’ve made – she’s still just another unfamiliar thing that I hope to recognize one day.

Heather said I was beautiful. The nurses at the hospital said I was beautiful. Even Irina said I was beautiful when she showed us into this dressing room. But I can’t see it.

I don’t know what beautiful looks like.

And suddenly I find myself wondering if that boy from the supermarket thinks I’m beautiful too.

That spot in the centre of my forehead begins to glow with heat again. Like it did when he stood before me in the parking lot. I try to push the thought from my mind, feeling embarrassed for even entertaining it.

Just then, I hear Irina’s voice through the closed door. She’s whispering but I hear every word.

‘No. It’s her. I swear,’ she says. ‘She has those same purple eyes. It’s the girl. The one from the news, who survived that crash. She’s here buying clothes.’

My whole body turns to ice and I yank the door open and see that she’s speaking into her cellphone. ‘Please don’t,’ I plead. ‘Don’t tell anyone that I’m here. I can’t handle any more media circuses. I can’t go through that again.’

Irina’s mouth falls open and her cellphone slips from her hand. She barely manages to catch it and fumble it back to her ear. ‘I’ll call you back,’ she says hurriedly, and tucks the phone into her pocket.

‘I’m so s-s-sorry,’ she stammers, her eyes wide. ‘It was my sister. She won’t tell anyone. I was simply so excited to meet you. We never get celebrities in the store.’

‘I’m not a celebrity,’ I insist. ‘I’m just a girl trying to figure out who she is and where she came from.’

Truth.

It feels good.

She nods and gestures quickly between the two of us. ‘Well, this has to be some kind of clue, right?’

‘What?’

‘The fact that you speak Russian, of course. And so flawlessly! Not even an accent!’

I blink. ‘What are you talking ab—’ But before I can finish the question, I hear it. The words. The unfamiliar, sharp sounds. They’re not Portuguese. And they’re certainly not English.

‘They did not mention that on the news,’ she says. And I now hear it in her voice too. The same language.

Russian.

I speak Russian.

On top of everything else.

‘There must be some mistake,’ I say, switching to English and going back into my dressing room. I close the door and lock it, falling on to the small stool and burying my head in my hands.

I haven’t cried since the day Kiyana showed me my own face in the hospital. But I can’t help it. The tears form on their own. I have no control over them. They stream down my face. I sniffle and try to wipe them away but it’s an endless task. They just keep coming.

‘Are you all right, dear?’ Irina calls through the door, thankfully in English.

‘Yes,’ I lie, although I can’t imagine it’s very convincing.

‘I’m . . . going to help your . . . moth– um . . . the woman you came in with.’ I hear Irina’s footsteps retreat and I start to sob again.

Mother. That’s what she was about to say.

My mother.

Even she knows Heather’s not my mother. Even she knows I have no family. At least not one that cares enough to come claim me. Who is my mother? Does she speak Russian? Portuguese? Both?

Is she good at math like I am?

Does she hate to shop too?

Is she so busy that she doesn’t have time to watch the news and see that her daughter is lost and alone and in desperate need of some answers that make sense?

I hear a faint knock on the dressing-room door. Irina must have told Heather that I was upset. And Heather, being the kind, caring replacement mother that she is, came running to help.

I sniffle, rub the moisture from my cheeks and pull myself to my feet.

When I open the door, however, I’m startled to see the boy standing in front of me. His wavy dark hair is swept back. His forehead is creased in concern as his soft chocolate eyes take me in. Then he tilts his head to the side, studying my current predicament.