Do You Remember(12)

Chapter 7


Don’t trust the man who calls himself your husband.



I stare at the text message on the screen, as I grip the phone in my right hand. I read it and reread it, hoping maybe it will say something different the second time. I do have a brain injury, after all.

But no. It still says the same thing.

My fingers are shaking as I type a reply:



Who is this?



Three little bubbles appear on the screen, flashing over and over. I sit there, frozen, waiting for the response.



Meet me.



I should say no to this stranger. The logical part of me is screaming out that this is extremely fishy. Somebody is texting me, trying to scare me, taking advantage of the fact that I have memory problems. Maybe they want to weasel some money out of me. Who knows what they want. I should block the number, ignore these text messages, and get on with my day.

Then I think of the message I saw scribbled on my thigh this morning before the shower washed it away. I wrote it in a place that I knew Graham wouldn’t see. It was a message to myself. Something more personal than that letter I wrote.

Find…

Find what?

I have no idea what I had been trying to communicate to myself. But I have a gut feeling this text message might be the answer.



Meet you where?



The reply comes after several seconds:



Do you know the dog park on seventh?



I know where that is. There’s a park on Seventh Street, and within the park, there is an enclosed area where people can take their dogs and let them roam free. I never had a dog before, but I’ve passed it several times. It’s about five blocks away from here. After a hesitation, I type:



Yes. When?



More bubbles flashing on the screen. I squeeze my left hand into a fist, hard enough that my fingernails dig into my palm.



We can meet this afternoon. Tell Camila you want to take Ziggy to the park before you go grocery shopping.



I stare at the message, shocked by the number of details this mystery person knows about my life. They know about Camila—they know the name of my dog, for God’s sake. And they somehow know Camila is going to want to go grocery shopping later.

I should tell them to forget it. This is too creepy.

But instead of deleting the text messages like I should, all I can think is that I can’t wait for the afternoon. I need more information. I can’t just sit here, twiddling my thumbs, wondering if the man I woke up next to in bed this morning is some sort of imposter.



Can we meet now?



More bubbles on the screen. God, why does it take this person so long to type a simple response? But when the reply appears on the screen, my stomach drops.



No. You can’t leave the house.



I stare at the words. You can’t leave the house. I look over at the back door, with the lock that requires a key to open. But that’s not the only door in the house. There’s also the front door. I can go out that way.

My heart is pounding as I grab the phone and march into the living room, Ziggy excitedly bounding after me. He wants to leave as much as I do.

But when I get to the front door, the lock on the front is identical to the one on the back. I fumble with the deadbolt, unlocking it and trying the doorknob. But no luck. The stranger is correct. I can’t leave this house.

I’m trapped.

I look down at the screen again. The stranger has written to me again: Tess?



You’re right. I can’t leave.



I know.



That feeling of contentment I had only a few minutes earlier has vanished. My head spins, a panicked sensation rising in my chest. For a moment, I’m scared my legs are going to give out from under me. But I make it over to the sofa. I can’t help but notice it’s a brand new black leather sofa that’s a far cry from the ratty futon that I remember sitting in just yesterday.

But it wasn’t yesterday. It was a long time ago. Years.

My hands are shaking almost too badly to type, but I manage to get out three words:



What’s going on?



Those bubbles again on the screen. Goddamn it. Why can’t this person just tell me what’s going on?



Meet me this afternoon. Text me when you’re leaving. I’ll be there.



I shake my head, staring down at the screen. OK.



Write my number on your arm where nobody can see it. Then delete all these text messages. Don’t tell anyone about it.



I don’t question these instructions. I locate a pen in a little cup on the kitchen island. I yank up the sleeve of my sweater and carefully transcribe the ten digits of the phone number. I check and double-check to make sure I’ve got all the numbers copied correctly.

Even though I would’ve sworn I didn’t know how to delete text messages, I swipe my finger on the screen, and almost instinctively, I hit the delete button. I’ve done this before. My fingers remember how.

I wonder if I’ve gotten these text messages before.

I bring up the list of contacts on my phone. Graham, Dad, Camila, and Lucy. The mystery texter is not listed. Obviously, Graham knows how to get into my phone since he was the one who handed it to me this morning, and this person does not want him to know they have contacted me.