Read Online Unremembered by Jessica Brody - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jessica Brody
Ads: Link
Francisco.’
‘And
secondly
,’ he continues, ignoring me, ‘and probably more important, um, hello? You speak Portuguese?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘How could you not know? I heard you back there.’
‘Heard me what?’
‘Speaking Portuguese,’ he clarifies, sounding exasperated. ‘To that woman.’
I glance over his shoulder at the young woman in the blue dress. She’s taken the seat I just vacated. I think back to our conversation, suddenly hearing it differently in my memory.
‘Você sabe quando o ônibus para São Francisco chega?’
‘Cinco e quarenta e cinco.’
‘I speak Portuguese?’ I repeat Cody’s question.
‘It would appear so.’
I reflect on what this means. Where I might have learned it. Perhaps I lived there once. Or perhaps I really
am
from Portugal or Brazil, just as the woman speculated. Is that why no one
has come for me? Because they live in another country?
‘When I was little I had a nanny from Portugal,’ Cody says. ‘She used to watch Portuguese soaps all the time.’
‘Do you think that might be where I’m from?’ I ask.
Cody shrugs. ‘I guess it’s possible. But you don’t speak English with an accent so I don’t know.’
I don’t know either. I index this incident away in my mental file, adding it to the slow-growing list of clues I’ve collected. The only problem is, so far the clues don’t
exactly fit together in any coherent way.
What does Portuguese have to do with the locket? Or with this tattoo on my wrist? Or with the boy who claims to know me?
‘I’m learning all sorts of interesting stuff about you,’ Cody says, that peculiar distortion suddenly back in his tone.
‘Me too.’
A loud voice comes from a speaker above our heads, announcing the arrival of bus 312 to Los Angeles. ‘Well, that’s us,’ Cody says. ‘Should we go find that lost mind of
yours?’
I gaze out the window at the large silver-and-blue vehicle pulling noisily up to the kerb. There’s an illustration of a dog on the side. He’s running. To where? I don’t
know.
I wonder if he does.
There’s a sign on the front of the bus that reads LOS ANGELES .
It’s a start. I suppose I can’t ask for much more at this point.
‘Yes,’ I reply to Cody, taking a deep breath. ‘Let’s go.’
13
GRUDGES
The bus isn’t smooth like the car we took from the hospital. It’s jerky and smells funny. And there are no buttons to make the windows go down. As
soon as we sit, Cody takes his phone out of his pocket and I get excited because I think he’s going to show me more about the Internet. But instead he holds the phone close to his face and
becomes incredibly absorbed in running his fingertip across the screen in rapid motion, causing images of small animals to move around.
I face forward and allow my eyes to drift shut.
But the second they close, he’s there. The boy. His mouth is curved in that easy smile. His eyes gaze at me with an undeniable longing.
‘So you
do
remember . . . At least some part of you does.’
My eyes flutter back open. I stare at the seat in front of me. Blue cloth. A fold-up table. A pouch made of string. I try to distract myself by counting the threads in the fabric, but it
doesn’t work.
My mind still wanders. To him. His smooth, settling voice speaking such jagged, unsettling things.
I wish proving or disproving his claims were as easy as solving Goldbach’s conjecture. A few lines of formulas on a whiteboard. A few calculations and it’s done. Circled. Disproved.
Moving on.
But it’s not.
So here I am. On this bus. Travelling one hundred and seventy-five miles to try to refute something I’m unable to refute on my own.
Maybe then it will go away – this feeling I get every time I see his face in my mind. It starts deep in my stomach and spreads quickly. Growing stronger by the second. And if I focus on
his eyes, it becomes unbearable. It’s like a sickness. A prickle just under my skin. A clenching of muscles.
And
‘And
secondly
,’ he continues, ignoring me, ‘and probably more important, um, hello? You speak Portuguese?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘How could you not know? I heard you back there.’
‘Heard me what?’
‘Speaking Portuguese,’ he clarifies, sounding exasperated. ‘To that woman.’
I glance over his shoulder at the young woman in the blue dress. She’s taken the seat I just vacated. I think back to our conversation, suddenly hearing it differently in my memory.
‘Você sabe quando o ônibus para São Francisco chega?’
‘Cinco e quarenta e cinco.’
‘I speak Portuguese?’ I repeat Cody’s question.
‘It would appear so.’
I reflect on what this means. Where I might have learned it. Perhaps I lived there once. Or perhaps I really
am
from Portugal or Brazil, just as the woman speculated. Is that why no one
has come for me? Because they live in another country?
‘When I was little I had a nanny from Portugal,’ Cody says. ‘She used to watch Portuguese soaps all the time.’
‘Do you think that might be where I’m from?’ I ask.
Cody shrugs. ‘I guess it’s possible. But you don’t speak English with an accent so I don’t know.’
I don’t know either. I index this incident away in my mental file, adding it to the slow-growing list of clues I’ve collected. The only problem is, so far the clues don’t
exactly fit together in any coherent way.
What does Portuguese have to do with the locket? Or with this tattoo on my wrist? Or with the boy who claims to know me?
‘I’m learning all sorts of interesting stuff about you,’ Cody says, that peculiar distortion suddenly back in his tone.
‘Me too.’
A loud voice comes from a speaker above our heads, announcing the arrival of bus 312 to Los Angeles. ‘Well, that’s us,’ Cody says. ‘Should we go find that lost mind of
yours?’
I gaze out the window at the large silver-and-blue vehicle pulling noisily up to the kerb. There’s an illustration of a dog on the side. He’s running. To where? I don’t
know.
I wonder if he does.
There’s a sign on the front of the bus that reads LOS ANGELES .
It’s a start. I suppose I can’t ask for much more at this point.
‘Yes,’ I reply to Cody, taking a deep breath. ‘Let’s go.’
13
GRUDGES
The bus isn’t smooth like the car we took from the hospital. It’s jerky and smells funny. And there are no buttons to make the windows go down. As
soon as we sit, Cody takes his phone out of his pocket and I get excited because I think he’s going to show me more about the Internet. But instead he holds the phone close to his face and
becomes incredibly absorbed in running his fingertip across the screen in rapid motion, causing images of small animals to move around.
I face forward and allow my eyes to drift shut.
But the second they close, he’s there. The boy. His mouth is curved in that easy smile. His eyes gaze at me with an undeniable longing.
‘So you
do
remember . . . At least some part of you does.’
My eyes flutter back open. I stare at the seat in front of me. Blue cloth. A fold-up table. A pouch made of string. I try to distract myself by counting the threads in the fabric, but it
doesn’t work.
My mind still wanders. To him. His smooth, settling voice speaking such jagged, unsettling things.
I wish proving or disproving his claims were as easy as solving Goldbach’s conjecture. A few lines of formulas on a whiteboard. A few calculations and it’s done. Circled. Disproved.
Moving on.
But it’s not.
So here I am. On this bus. Travelling one hundred and seventy-five miles to try to refute something I’m unable to refute on my own.
Maybe then it will go away – this feeling I get every time I see his face in my mind. It starts deep in my stomach and spreads quickly. Growing stronger by the second. And if I focus on
his eyes, it becomes unbearable. It’s like a sickness. A prickle just under my skin. A clenching of muscles.
And
Similar Books
