Read Online Revive by Tracey Martin - Free Book Online Page A

week.”
    One of those disordered facts in my brain files itself away. “Sunday evenings. He calls every Sunday evening at eight.”
    Fourteen calls since September, ranging from three minutes to thirty-two in duration. In my head, I can hear his voice, but his face is a mystery, and I have no idea what we talk about on those calls. But whatever. It’s better than nothing.
    Kyle looks relieved again, possibly more so than when I hummed that Gutterfly tune. I hope this means he’ll drop the doctor-hospital crap. He nudges me. “So you going to call him?”
    â€œYeah. Just want to finish my coffee first.”
    Actually, first I want to reconcile this certainty that I don’t have parents with the vague memory of talking to my dad every week. It doesn’t make sense, so there are two possibilities here. One, the man I spoke to wasn’t my dad and I lied about it for the same reason I was lying about everything else. Or two, everything I’m certain about is wrong.
    I’m not sure which possibility scares me more. Both scream that trusting Kyle with even this much information might be a mistake.
    I shiver and break off more of the muffin, biding for time. “Tell me about the dance.”
    â€œNot that much to tell,” Kyle says. “It was boring, like most dances. But you looked awesome.”
    I throw him a smile, my growing mistrust stopping me from being flattered or flirting back. As Kyle talks about who we hung out with and shares stories about people I don’t remember well, I search the backpack for a phone. There’s got to be one. Who doesn’t carry a phone?
    At last I retrieve it. It’s stuck at the bottom of the bag under the hat and mittens. I’m also hauling around a sketchbook, a set of fancy pencils, a water bottle and some protein bars. Weird. Was I planning on doing some drawing today? Do I draw? I push the questions aside, more to ponder some other time.
    My thumb hovers over the phone’s screen, and I’m aware that Kyle’s watching me again. I must act normal. Must hide my confusion. But it’s difficult not knowing what normal is anymore.
    As for the confusion… Icons float in front of me on the phone, taunting me. What do they all mean? How do I use this? Relax, I remind myself. I close my eyes and try to clear my mind.
    The less I struggle, the easier it becomes. Like it did at South Station, my body remembers patterns and movements, even if I don’t. My thumb moves, gliding over the screen, and a contact list appears. I scroll through it, looking for one that says “Dad” or “parents” or “home”.
    There is none. I have Kyle, Audrey, Yen, Chase and other names I recognize from the snippets of my recovered memory. But there’s nothing that connects me to anything or anyone outside of RTC. No Dad. No Cole, One, Nine, or any other person masquerading as a number.
    I finish my coffee then think to check the call log. I talked to my dad—or whoever—on this phone. There should be a record of it.
    It takes another second to remember how to pull up the log, but I trust my fingers again to lead me to last Sunday’s date. At one minute after eight, a call came in.
    I stare at the number, waiting—hoping—for it to trigger something. Do I dare call it in front of Kyle? If the person on the other end isn’t my dad, then there must be a reason I hid that information. And if it is my dad, will I freak him out and make him worry when he discovers what’s wrong with me?
    â€œWe need to discuss your next phase,” a man says in my ear.
    I adjust the phone and glance at Audrey, who is sitting mere feet away. “Okay, but I really need to work on this philosophy paper tonight. I’m drowning in work.”
    The man on the other end is unmoved. “Can you leave the room?”
    The memory lasts only a second or two, but it’s enough. The number that called