Читать книгу Only Daughter - Anna Snoekstra - Страница 9

3

2014

A tube of white light surfaces in the thick black. I close my eyes again. It’s too bright. My throat is dry and my head throbs. Groaning, I rub my eyes. Something catches on my cheek. Blinking the blurriness away, I look at my wrist. Around it loops a plastic hospital band, with the words Winter, Rebecca in bold type. Looking around groggily, I see the officer from last night asleep in a chair at the foot of the bed.

Oh, God. This is going to be so much more difficult than I’d thought.

Standing in that dark toilet block, the cold and fear and exhaustion had seemed like the bigger of two evils. But now, waking up in this hospital bed with a sleeping detective blocking the door, I realize that maybe I’d made a mistake. I’d been so stupid to think that I could just start a brand-new life, that it would be that easy.

The room is quiet. There is only the sound of the cop’s sleeping breath and the muff led chatter from a few rooms away. There’s a window to my right. Maybe I could make it.

As quietly as I can, I push myself up to sitting. My arm is bandaged and stinks of antiseptic, but it barely hurts. Must be because of whatever is in the drip attached to my hand. Looking down, I see that I’m wearing nothing but a thin hospital gown and underwear. Someone undressed me. For a moment I could laugh—how many times have I woken up in a strange bed out of my clothes?

The detective snorts a loud snore, waking himself up.

“Bec,” he says, rubbing his eyes and smiling.

I stare at him. No way I’m getting out that door now.

“Do you remember me from last night? Vincent Andopolis.” He looks at me carefully. This is happening too fast. I have no idea how to answer him.

“Everything’s a bit fuzzy.” My voice is still thick with sleep and painkillers. Best to keep it simple while I try to figure out what the hell I’m going to do.

I do remember him. He’s the missing persons detective who’d called my two chauffeur cops “morons.” I hadn’t been able to make out much of him last night; he looks different in the cold, sterile hospital lights. His grey eyes and wide shoulders hint at the attractive man he must have once been, but his gut pushes tightly against his shirt and his hair is more salt than pepper.

“Have you been here all night?” I ask.

“Couldn’t have you disappearing again. Your mom is ready to sue us as it is,” he says with a lopsided grin. “How is it feeling?” He motions to my arm.

“It’s fine,” I say, although it’s throbbing painfully, then notice a small pile of things on the chair next to his. He follows my gaze.

“Your parents are talking to my partner.” He clears his throat. “There are a few things we still need to do before you can be reunited.”

There is a pair of pyjama pants, a T-shirt and some underwear all neatly folded on the chair, with a hairbrush on top.

“They’ve already been in here?” Surely not.

“They couldn’t really believe it until they saw you.”

My mind reels. They’ve been in here. They watched me sleep. Yet they still believe I’m their daughter. I guess the bruise on my face worked on them, too. The biggest hurdle was already over and I wasn’t even conscious for it. I can’t help but smile. Andopolis beams back at me.

“I have to be honest, Bec. I couldn’t be happier to see you. It’s like a miracle.”

A miracle. What a dope. How could this guy be a missing persons detective? The panic I felt a few seconds ago flushes out of me. Perhaps it won’t be so hard to go through with this.

“It is a miracle,” I say, flashing him my best shit-eating grin.

He says nothing, just gazes at me. I guess he thinks we’re sharing a moment.

“When can I get out of here?” I ask.

“Probably by the end of the day. We’ve just got a few things to get through and then you’ll be all set.”

“Like what?”

“Well, I’ve got a few more urgent questions for you. Then there are some tests to run, just to make sure you’re well.”

I try not to blink. I’m screwed.

He pulls a notebook out of his pocket. “The New South Wales police informed me you stated that you were abducted.”

I nod. The less I say the better until I figure out what the hell I’m going to do.

“Do you know the person or people who took you? Before you were taken, I mean.” I can see the eagerness in his eyes.

I shake my head.

“Do you remember where you were held? Any details would be helpful.”

“It’s all blurry. I can’t really remember,” I say slowly. He watches me calmly, as though he expects me to say more. The silence swells between us.

At last he looks away, flicking his notebook shut and returning it to his pocket. “I’ll give you some time, and we can resume this after your tests are done.”

“Then I can go home?”

His eyes fix on mine, as though he’s waiting for something.

“Is going home what you want?” he asks finally.

“Yes, of course.”

I try to smile reassuringly, and after a few moments, his lopsided grin returns.

“The nurse will be in soon.”

The door clicks shut behind him and I jump out of the bed. My head swims but I ignore it. Letting the drip trail behind me, I go to the window first. It’s just a panel of glass, sealed on all sides, no way of opening it. I guess they’re afraid of people jumping; three floors could still do some damage. Outside, people stream around the entrance. Doctors and paramedics enter; sick people hobble out. There are cars and taxis and ambulances. Even if I were to put on the clothes Rebecca’s parents left, it would be a stretch to be able to just walk out of here.

I go over to the chair and hold out the pink T-shirt and cat-print pyjama pants that the parents left in front of me. Looks like I am about her height and weight. They’d just about fit. Lucky. I pick up the brush. Glinting copper hairs are caught between the bristles.

When the nurse comes in to take me for tests, I’m back in bed, innocent as a baby lamb. If I can get through this, I’ll have earned a new identity. The rewards of this game are just too great to give up on.

I keep my fists clenched as the doctor prods me. He’s worked his way down my body, looking for any kind of injury. Now he talks loudly to me from between my legs.

“This will be a little cold.”

“It might sting a bit.”

“Almost done now.”

I wear a humiliated expression, but really I’ve gotten used to having men poke around blindly down there.

“Thank you, Rebecca. You’ve been a good sport,” he says. “You can get up now.”

He pulls the curtain closed behind him, as though I have any modesty left to preserve. I pull on my underwear, listening as he talks to the nurse.

“Can you prepare the swab for a mitochondria? We’ll need three vials for the syringe, as well.”

I don’t think so. There’s no way I’m giving them my DNA or my blood, and not just because they’ll know I’m not Rebecca Winter. But because then they might find out who I really am. The curtain opens.

“Ready, then, Rebecca?” the doctor asks.

The nurse meets my eye as she scampers back in, then quickly looks away.

“I need to go home now.”

Putting my head down, I let my hair cover my face. I’m preparing.

“I know it’s all a little intrusive, but we’re almost done. We just need a swab of the inside of your cheek and some blood.”

“No more pain, please. I can’t.” My voice is pitch-perfect, all panicky and high.

Woven between my fingers is a clump of copper strands from her brush. I tug at my own hair, nowhere near hard enough for anything to come out.

“Will this do? I can’t deal with any more.” I raise my hand, the clump of her hair dangling downwards. I don’t look up but I hear the tiniest intake of breath from the nurse.

Then I start crying. Really bawling, like a little kid. Letting the sobs roll out on top of each other. My whole body shakes with it. It’s not hard once I start; I’ve had a lot to cry about these last few weeks. The nurse steps forward, carefully taking the hair out of my hand with her plastic gloves.

Easy.

The car climbs the steep hill of Rebecca Winter’s street, and finally, I can see them: a middle-aged couple who look totally ordinary. My new mother and father. Their backs are braced, their heads down. They are standing in rigid silence in front of their big white house. An old gum tree next to the garage throws dappled light onto the facade. Idealized middle-class suburbia just waiting for me.

The mother’s head snaps up as she hears the car. My heart hammers harder. The hospital could have been a fluke. Unconscious, with a bruised face, maybe they’d seen what they wanted to see. Now that my eyes are open, now that I’m moving and walking and talking, there is no way I’ll fool her. I can sense Andopolis’s eyes flicking up at the rear-vision mirror to look at me. She’ll realize my deception the moment she lays eyes on me. It doesn’t matter how much time has passed. Surely a mother would know her only daughter.

“Usually we would have a support agent here for something like this,” he says. “Your parents didn’t want it, though.”

I nod. I’m too nervous to be appreciative, although this almost definitely will make it easier. Convincing the parents was going to be enough of a feat. It wouldn’t do me any good to have some bleeding-heart liberal with a smile slapped across their smug face trying to “help.” They’d know how victims really did act in this kind of situation.

“You will need to talk to a counselor soon, okay, Bec? But we’ll take it all one step at a time.”

I smile weakly at him. No way I’m talking to a counselor.

We pull into the driveway. For a moment I wish I could stay there; I wish I could hide in the back seat for just a little longer. Andopolis gets out and walks around to my door, opening it for me. Now that I see them, I’m not sure if I can do it. Rebecca—Bec—was a person, not a character, and I’d never even met her. Never even heard her voice.

I can’t look at the mother as I step out of the car. I keep my face turned downwards, my eyes focusing on the white geraniums flowering by the path.

“Becky?” she says, moving closer. She touches my arm tentatively as though I might not be real.

I look up; I have to look up. Her eyes stare into mine. They’re filled with such fierce love, it’s like the rest of the world has disappeared. It’s just her and me; nothing else matters. She wraps her arms around me and I can feel her heart against my ribs, her warmth mixing with mine. She smells of vanilla.

“Thank you, Vince,” I hear the dad say over her shoulder.

“You’re more than welcome,” says Andopolis. “Bring her in around three.”

“See you then, mate.”

I hear the door open as Andopolis gets in his car. Then the engine starts and he drives away. The mom releases me and the father looks me up and down. He’s the ultimate white-collar worker, with his suit and open shirt, his dark eyes and clean-shaven face. He must have dressed for work even though he knew he wasn’t going, still in shock that he was taking the day off because his long-lost daughter was coming home.

“I don’t know what to say, Becky.”

He pulls me in for a hug. It’s different from the mother, a little awkward. I can smell his aftershave and, behind that, a strange rotting smell.

The mother turns and pulls open the door. I think I see her wipe her face.

“Come inside, Bec.”

Her voice cracks and I realize I’ve passed the test. I’m in. This is my house, my life.

From now on, I am Rebecca Winter.

* * *

I’d forgotten how amazing a hot shower is. Being able to wash my hair and shave my legs feels fantastic, even though I have to do it with my injured arm sticking out of the stream. I wrap a towel around myself and happily breathe in the steam. If I’d made the other choice, I’d be cold and alone somewhere right now, wearing my dirty clothes that would probably be still damp from the rain. The thought makes me shudder.

Walking out of the bathroom, I realize I don’t know which one was Rebecca’s room. I open the door next to the bathroom. It’s a cupboard full of folded linen. I slowly open the door opposite, hoping they can’t hear me from the kitchen. This one is a bedroom, nothing on the walls and no furniture except for two single beds. Was this meant to be my room? There’s one more door, so I decide to try that one, walking softly on the carpet so they won’t hear my footsteps from below.

Posters of Destiny’s Child and Gwen Stefani glare at me. The bed is made with pink sheets. A Cabbage Patch doll perches on the bedside table. Year Ten textbooks are stacked on the desk, the first four in the Harry Potter series are aligned neatly on the shelf above, and everywhere, there are photographs. There she is, smiling and posing, her arms around various friends, mostly another girl with long blonde hair. It’s like life stood still in this room, waiting for the same sixteen-year-old to return.

I peer at the pictures of her, gripping the towel around my naked body, my wet hair dripping on the carpet. Even in photographs you can see the life and vitality of this girl. She looks confident and at ease. Looking at her face from all angles, I realize she looks a little less like me than I originally thought. Her nose is smaller, her eyes are bigger—even the shape of her face is slightly different. A decade can change a face a lot, though. I can blame any differences on time.

Time is the other problem. Adding it up in my head now, I realize Bec would be around twenty-seven. I’m only twenty-four. For once I find myself hoping I look older.

I slide the slatted closet door open. Her clothes are hung up neatly, but I can smell the stale air inside. This door hasn’t been opened in a long time. Seeing Bec’s school uniform hanging in front of me makes me feel strange, a little sick inside, so I quickly grab some jeans and a T-shirt and close the door again. Anything is better than these kitten pyjama pants that make me want to gag with their cuteness. They fit me well enough, but still, they’re childish. It feels wrong to be almost twenty-five and wearing a sixteen-year-old’s low-slung jeans and Guess top. Having the fabric so close to my skin, I can smell an unfamiliar musky human smell. It must be the scent of her body, still clinging to the cotton of the T-shirt. A shiver snakes down my spine.

The mother and father sit on the two-seater sofa in the lounge room, an untouched sandwich in front of each of them and another in front of one of the empty chairs across. I sit down, noticing the other armchair has a cat curled up in it. I’ve always wanted a pet.

“Thought we’d have lunch in here today, keep you as comfortable as possible,” says the mom.

“Great, thanks!” I say, not really knowing what she means. I wish I knew more about Rebecca, had a clearer view of what kind of person she was. Since I don’t, I decide I’m best off playing the role every parent wants: the dutiful daughter. I’ll be wholesome, appreciative and innocent. I take a bite into the sandwich, realizing again how ravenous I am.

“This is so yummy. Thanks for making it, Mom.”

“Of course, sweetheart.” She smiles broadly. It’s working.

“I talked to Paul and Andrew last night,” the dad says.

“Really?” Turning things into a question is an easy way to keep a conversation going when you have no idea what the person is talking about.

“Yes. They’ll be flying in later this evening.”

I look around the room. There are framed photographs on the walls: two identical little freckled boys grinning, with Bec standing proudly between them. Growing until they reached her shoulders and then, abruptly, just the two of them, smiles not as wide, continuing to grow into teenagers’ clothes and stubble and then jawlines and suits. They must be her brothers.

“I can’t wait to see them,” I say.

“Good.” He smiles and takes a bite of his sandwich.

“Bet you’ll want to call Lizzie,” says the mom.

I nod, shoveling the rest of the sandwich into my mouth. I don’t know who Lizzie is.

“Just don’t be calling anyone who you think might get in touch with the media. That’s the last thing we need,” the father says.

“Do you really think someone would do that?” I ask, playing innocent.

“You never know, sweetheart.”

Of course they would, but it doesn’t matter. I’ll be avoiding Rebecca’s old friends as much as possible. I already have enough lies to keep track of. I pick the crumbs off the plate with my finger. I want another sandwich, but don’t really want to ask. Looking up, I realize they are both staring at me. I remember what the lady cop said in the car, that I wasn’t acting like I’d been abducted.

“I’m so happy to be home, to be safe again,” I say.

The mother starts crying at that, her chest heaving with painful, guttural sobs, her hands held over her face like a shield. It is a long time before she stops.

When we get to the police station, I ask the parents if they’ll come in with me. I grip the mom’s hand tightly; I need her there with me to answer some of the questions. These people are trained at spotting a lie; no matter how good I am, it’s their job to see through me.

“If you want us to I’m sure we can ask,” says the mom, taking a step forward. The dad holds her arm, stopping her.

“I think Vince will want to talk to you alone, Bec. But we’ll wait right out here.” The mother takes a step back and looks down, her eyes still red and puffy.

The uniformed policeman at the desk ushers me through. Rebecca’s T-shirt is starting to feel a little snug.

A man wearing a brand-new suit walks toward me, his hand outstretched.

“Rebecca Winter?” he asks. I nod and he gives my hand a brisk shake.

“I’m Detective Vali Malik, Vince’s partner.”

“Bec!” Andopolis says, coming over to us, a file under his arm. “You look much better.”

He never mentioned having a partner. “Thanks,” I say.

“Come with me,” Malik says, turning on the heel of his perfectly polished shoe.

Trailing behind the two of them, I peer into a room to my left. Inside is a large board covered in notes that I can’t quite read from here. Stuck to it is a map, a large photograph of Rebecca smiling into the camera and a close-up of a cracked mobile phone in grass. There are a few men sitting at a large table and one of them looks up at me as I pass. Andopolis’s wide hand presses against my lower back, gently pushing me forward. He smiles reassuringly.

“Right in here,” he says as he holds a door on the right open for me.

I’m expecting another cold concrete box like the one in Sydney. Instead they bring me into a sunny room with couches, a miniature table and a plastic tub of toys in the corner. Like Sydney, there’s a large mirror across one of the walls. I wonder if the cops I just walked past are going to come and watch. Malik motions toward one of the couches. It squeaks as I sit down.

“Would you like anything, Rebecca? Tea, coffee?”

“I’m okay,” I say. “Thank you.”

“How does it feel to be home?” Andopolis asks, sitting on the couch across from me.

“It’s amazing.”

Malik sits on the chair to my left, opening a folder.

“That’s great to hear,” he says and smiles.

“Your tests have come back looking good,” Malik says, flicking through some papers in the folder.

Victory. Even I can’t believe I actually pulled that off. But I can’t get cocky now. I need to concentrate on this new stage of the game.

I take them in for a moment. Malik must be at least fifteen years younger than Andopolis. He is all sharp lines and impeccable grooming. Next to him Andopolis looks old and rumpled.

“You weren’t there this morning when I woke up,” I say to Malik.

“No. I was talking to your parents.” He smiles his quick, efficient smile again and continues. “I’m happy that you’re back with your family, Rebecca, but we really have to focus on the investigation. The longer we leave it, the less likely we are to get answers.”

He was right. I didn’t want them getting any answers; I had to hold them off as long as possible. Their notebooks come back out. Ding, ding. Round two. I’d knocked it out of the park at the last round at the hospital, so hopefully I could do as well now. After this, things would only get easier.

“Can you describe the location of where you were held?” Malik, diving straight in there.

“I didn’t really…” I pause for effect. “I didn’t really see the outside. It could have been anywhere. Sorry.”

“That’s okay, Bec. Don’t pressure yourself. How much time do you think passed between your escape and when the police picked you up? You were picked up in Sydney, so presumably you were held near there,” Andopolis asks.

I think about that last night in the cheap hostel at Kings Cross. It was only a week ago, but it feels like much longer. I’d counted my money out on the mattress, knowing I wouldn’t have enough, that I’d have to check out in the morning. I remember trying to sleep. From the window I could hear women screaming outside, bottles smashing, men swearing. I knew that the next day I’d be out there with them.

“No. Not really, sorry.”

It smells weird in here, like a hospital. I guess the toys have to be cleaned every time a kid picked them up. I look at the miniature chair and table, wondering if Andopolis ever sat down there with a child, asking them to use a dolly to play out whatever abuse they’d encountered.

“I know this is hard, but we need you to tell us everything you can remember,” Malik says.

I take a breath, getting ready to tell them what they’re gagging to hear. I’d planned it all out: torture chambers, men in masks, everything. They’d lap it up and I’d lead them on a wild-goose chase around Australia. But then, just as I’m about to begin, the photograph from the investigation room comes into my mind. Rebecca Winter, young and happy. Did I really want to make her fate so ghastly? I look between their waiting faces. I was being silly. Whatever I said had no bearing on whatever really happened to her. It was stupid to even think about that. It was my life now, not hers. I had to be smart about this. Of course, as soon as I tell them a story, they’ll start digging through it and finding holes. Less is more. The cleverest thing to do is to tell no story at all.

“That’s the problem,” I say, quietly. “I don’t remember anything.”

“Nothing?” Malik tries to cover his frustration, but I can hear it there in his voice.

“What about more recently? Do you remember who hit you? Who caused that bruise?” asks Andopolis, eyeing the side of my face. I look down, as though I’m ashamed of it. Really, the story is sort of embarrassing. I was running from a fruit vendor. I’d stolen two apples before I tripped and fell on the curb. No one hit me.

“No.”

“What about your arm?” Andopolis asks, softly. If he’s annoyed he doesn’t show it.

I shake my head.

“When I first came to see you,” Andopolis says gently, “you said that you hurt it when you escaped. Do you remember that?”

“Yes.” No. I’d forgotten.

“So you do remember escaping?” Malik asks.

I take a breath. I’m going to have to give them something.

“I remember breaking the window glass,” I say, remembering the bottle smashing in the bathroom. My body shudders at the memory, they notice.

“My arm got caught, but I kept going. I just remember knowing I didn’t have much time.”

“Why didn’t you have much time?” Malik asks, quick as a whip.

Because I knew the cop outside was going to come in and check up on me. I wonder if there was some way of asking if she lost her job without seeming vindictive. Probably best not to.

I wish I could press Pause on this situation. Go outside for a cigarette and have a real think on the best way to handle it. I was prepared for just one detective, and having the two of them on each side is intimidating. One question rolls out over the next before I’ve had a chance to think.

“How long did you look for me?” I ask. I feel safer when I am asking the questions.

Malik looks at Andopolis. He probably wasn’t even a detective back then, just a rookie in uniform.

“The investigation went on for a long time. We searched everywhere,” Andopolis says slowly.

The intensity in his eyes was starting to make more sense. He must have a lot of burning questions for me.

“Did you have a suspect?” I ask.

“We had a few people of interest.”

“Who?”

“Why don’t we start from the beginning?” interrupts Malik. “What was the last thing you do remember? Before the abduction.”

He was putting the focus back onto me. My mind flicked back to the television show.

“I was at work, at McDonald’s. It’s all blurry after that.”

Andopolis smiles at me, that proud, lopsided grin. I got that one right. He puts the file down on the table between us and opens it. Inside is a spread of what looks like staff photographs, head and shoulders of five different people, all smiling in their McDonald’s uniforms.

“Do you remember these people?” he asks.

“Yes,” I say. “Of course. But…you know. It’s been a long time.” My heart is pounding and the T-shirt squeezes under my arms, making me sweat. This feels like a test.

“Do you remember her?” He points a finger at a young girl. She’s very pretty, even in the ugly uniform. Her blonde hair is pulled up into a ponytail and her eyes sparkle. I realize I do recognize her; she was in most of the pictures on Rebecca’s wall.

“She was my best friend,” I say, and then I remember the father’s words from earlier. “Lizzie.”

“And the others?” Malik asks. That must mean I got it right.

“I remember Lizzie. The rest… I know that I know them…” I try to look upset. “I hate being confused like this.”

“It’s okay, Bec. We’ll take it slow.” Andopolis’s voice is soothing. “These are the last people who saw you before you disappeared. This is Ellen Park. She was your manager.”

She looks like she’s in her midtwenties maybe, with a look of premature worry in her eyes.

“This is Lucas Masconey.” He points to a good-looking guy in his early twenties.

“And Matthew Lang. He was the cook.” This guy is big and beefy with a bunch of silver rings through his ear. “Do you remember him?”

“Kind of,” I say.

“Anything specific?” Malik presses. This Matthew guy must have been a suspect. Trust the cops to go for the most obvious person.

“No,” I say, a little too harshly.

I look down at my hands and force myself to breathe. I had to do something; I was already breaking character. I couldn’t be anything other than a victim, not even for a moment.

“So, how long until you gave up looking?” I ask.

Andopolis looks up at me, something dark passing across his face.

“It’s not that we gave up. The investigation just went cold.” He averts his eyes as he continues and I realize what he’s feeling: guilt. “Every lead was followed. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

I see the guilt there again, even though he tries to hide it.

“Let’s try to concentrate on that day,” says Malik. “We were talking about your last shift at McDonald’s.”

I had to get rid of Malik. I could see he was a good detective, yet he didn’t seem to have much of an ego. He just saw this case as his job and I was an important part of it. But that’s all.

“Actually, I wouldn’t mind a cup of tea. If that’s okay,” I say quietly, looking at Malik.

“Okay,” he says. “Won’t be a minute.”

As soon as the door clicks shut I lean forward.

“I don’t like him!” I say in a panicked whisper.

“Why?” Andopolis asks, surprised.

“He scares me. I don’t feel right when he’s here. Can’t it just be you?”

I can see Andopolis’s chest swell ever so slightly. Idiot. He didn’t like him either; he probably didn’t want to share his case with some new hotshot.

“I trust you,” I add. “Please?”

“Let me see what I can do.”

He pushes himself off the couch and walks out of the room. I wonder what conversation they’re having behind the mirror right now. I force myself not to look.

After a few minutes Andopolis comes back with a cup of tea and the tiniest trace of a triumphant smile on the corners of his mouth.

“Okay, Bec, it’ll just be me from now on.”

“Thank you!” I say.

“It’s fine.” He puts the tea down on the little table next to me. “If you ever feel upset or uncomfortable I want you to tell me. I’ll do everything I can to try and fix it. Deal?”

“Deal,” I say, giving him my best innocent eyes. He thinks we are on the same side.

“Great. Now, when you’re ready, we really do need to talk about that night. The night you were taken. Anything you remember would be so helpful in finding who did this.”

He was treating me like a fragile child, which was exactly what I wanted.

“I do remember something,” I say.

“What?” he asks.

I stare into the middle distance for a while, counting to ten in my head, letting the heavy silence fill the room.

“I was cold and scared,” I say when I reach ten. “Everything was black.”

I talk slowly, letting the suspense build. “I remember hearing sirens. They were getting closer and closer. I thought I was saved. But then they kept going. They got quieter. I knew they weren’t for me.”

I look up at him and his face is twisted with guilt and shame. I have him.

“I’m tired now. And I’d like to see my parents.”

* * *

As the father drives us home, I want to fall asleep in the back seat. I really am tired.

“Do you mind if I have a little nap before they get in?” I ask. I’ve already forgotten the brothers’ names.

“Of course. You must be exhausted.”

Lying down between Rebecca’s sheets, I wonder for a moment whether they were changed. Or whether these are the same sheets that she had lain in, eleven years ago, on the morning that she would leave her house and never return. They must have been changed, surely.

Soon, I hear the front door opening and then two male voices. Her brothers must be here. They’ll expect me to go down and greet them, but the idea of getting up again seems impossible. My arm is throbbing. The bandage feels too tight. I’ll go in a minute, I decide. Let the mother be the one to fill them in on the details, on the memory loss and my arm.

Turning over, I realize I don’t care if they changed Rebecca’s sheets or not. They feel warm and silky soft. Having my own bed in the hospital had been good, but this was amazing. Feeling so safe and comfortable made the week that had just passed feel unbelievable, like some sort of nightmare.

When I wake it’s starting to get dark. I don’t even remember falling asleep. I pull myself out of bed, a foul taste in my mouth, brush my fingers through my hair and open my bedroom door. I have to face them sooner or later and the longer I put it off the harder it will be. Walking down the stairs, I notice the house is strangely quiet, but all the lights are on. For a moment I think maybe they’ve gone out, but surely they wouldn’t have left me here alone so soon.

I hear very faint movement on my right. I turn toward it and the kitchen opens up in front of me. There they are. The mother, the father and the two brothers sitting around a circular kitchen table. Dirty plates are in front of each of them. They must have just had dinner. No one is speaking or even looking at one another.

I hesitate for a second in the doorway, waiting for them to move, to notice my presence, but they don’t. They sit together in silence with straight backs but empty eyes and lowered heads. I guess it’s been a tough day for them, too. Still, something feels strange, slightly off, about this sparkling image of family. But I have bigger problems right now, so I ignore it and walk in to join them.