Unremembered (Unremembered #1)(7)
He shakes his head regretfully. ‘I’m sorry. It’s not a mathematical or scientific formula that we’re familiar with.’
‘S + Z = 1609.’ I enunciate carefully, reading the text letter for letter, number for number, hoping it will trigger something in my memory. Something in this black void I have in place of a brain.
And after five long, quiet seconds, it does.
‘1-6-0-9,’ I repeat slowly. Familiar images start to snake into my mind. Rapid flashes of faces.
I can feel excitement building in the pit of my stomach.
Am I having a memory? Is this what it feels like?
Yes! I remember. I remember water. I remember bits of floating debris. Bodies. A bright white light. Voices.
‘What is your name? Do you know where you are? Do you know what year it is?’
And then suddenly, like a whoosh of air exiting the room, the excitement is gone. Thrust out of me by a single disheartening realization.
I’m recollecting what happened after the crash.
After I awoke among the wreckage of a plane that I don’t remember boarding.
‘That number, 1-6-0-9 – does it mean anything to you, love?’ Kiyana asks, interpreting the strange progression of emotion that must be registering across my face.
‘Yes,’ I answer with an unsettling sigh. ‘I think it’s a year.’
6
TOUCHED
It’s been five days since the crash and they’ve finally agreed to release me. Inevitably coming to the same conclusion that I’ve already come to: I’m fine. That despite inexplicably surviving a ten-thousand-foot plunge from the sky, there’s nothing wrong with me. They’ve assured me that my memory will eventually start to return and when it does I’m expected to call the hospital or the chief of police immediately.
I smile and agree even though I’m exceedingly less confident.
I would be happy simply remembering my real name.
Violet seems to have stuck though. Now pretty much everyone is calling me that. I don’t mind. I suppose it’s as good a name as any.
A woman from Social Services arrives and brings me some clothes to wear out of the hospital. A pair of blue pants that she calls jeans, a plain white T-shirt, a bra that Kiyana has to teach me how to clasp behind my back, underwear with red-and-orange stripes on them, socks, and white lace-up shoes with pink lightning bolts on the sides. None of the items seems to fit right except for the socks. Something the woman apologizes profusely for, muttering, ‘Sorry, I had to guess on all the sizes.’
I don’t mind, however. I’m just glad to be out of that flimsy paper dress.
Mr Rayunas, the man who was unsuccessful in finding anyone related to me (although he promises they have not given up), tells me that I’m to be transferred to the care of a state-appointed ‘foster-family.’
I have no idea what that means. But the significance becomes obvious when a man and woman enter my room later that afternoon and introduce themselves as Heather and Scott Carlson. They show me pictures of a house that exists one hundred and seventy-five miles north of here, a front yard with a rope swing hanging from a tree, and a young boy with big blue eyes and messy blond curls whom they introduce as their thirteen-year-old son, Cody.
These are the pieces that will make up my temporary family. My temporary life. This is where I’m expected to feel at home, until a real one can be located.
I take in their kind-hearted smiles and warm, engaging body language and decide there are worse places I could be asked to go. Plus, no one appears to be giving me a choice in the matter and I’m just anxious to get out of this hospital room.
‘We’ve chosen the Carlsons because of their remote location,’ Mr Rayunas explains. ‘They live in a small town called Wells Creek. It’s on the central coast of California. No one outside of this room will be given the specifics of your whereabouts. As you’ve probably guessed from watching the news, this has turned into something of a media circus. And we want to give you the best possible opportunity to take things easy. Heather and Scott will make sure you’re able to keep a low profile. In the meantime, we’ll be doing everything we can to find your family.’
He signs a document attached to a clipboard and hands it back to Dr Schatzel, who looks disgruntled. I have a feeling that if it was up to him I wouldn’t be going anywhere until this mystery was solved.
I’m glad it’s apparently not up to him.
‘Do you have anything you’d like us to help you pack up?’ the woman identified as Heather Carlson asks me, stepping towards my bed and offering another smile.
I shake my head and indicate the heart-shaped black locket I’ve been clutching in my hands. ‘This is all I have.’
Heather presses her lips together and retreats to her husband’s side, looking sorry she asked.
Kiyana enters my room, carrying a bag made of brown paper. ‘These are the clothes they found you in.’
I peer inside and see a bundle of dark grey fabric, neatly folded into a tight square. I make a mental note to sort through it later.
‘Although,’ she continues, ‘I’d get some new ones if I was you.’ She nods towards the bag in my arms. ‘They’re not the most flatterin’ things I ever saw.’
‘We’ll take you shopping for new clothes,’ Heather promises eagerly.