A Clean Slate (2 page)

A
s I walked along Bissell Street again, the fall wind felt brittle instead of crisp and the city seemed cool and gray instead of filled with warm autumn tones. I didn't notice the light on the buildings anymore or think about the photos I could take. Instead, I concentrated on figuring out what had happened. There had to be an explanation. I knew that. I hadn't gone to college or worked in the straight-lines, think-inside-the-box world of finance for nothing. There was always a reason for things.

So I hoofed it all the way up to Ben's place in Wrigleyville, entertaining several possibilities. One—this Beth Maninsky was a covert operative for the CIA who'd taken over my town house in order to set up an elaborate cover. Crazy, outlandish, I know, but I'm fond of spy novels, and it was the first potential that came to mind. Two—Beth Maninsky really was Ben's high school girlfriend,
Toni, who was still crazed about him and had somehow arranged to take my place in his life. This also seemed a little outrageous, since I'd only set out for the dry cleaners that morning. She would have needed to work pretty damn fast.

But was that actually true? Had I really left for the dry cleaners just a few hours ago? Suddenly I wasn't sure. I stuck my hands in the pockets of my leather jacket and put my head down, concentrating on each step, each seam in the pavement. My sense of timing still seemed off. I couldn't remember waking up that morning or going to my mother ship, Starbucks, for a Venti Nonfat White Chocolate Mocha, my usual Saturday-morning treat. Still, that kind of memory trick happened, didn't it? It was like driving home on your normal route and suddenly discovering you're in your driveway and yet you can't recall the drive itself.

Something niggled in my brain—a third possibility. I really had sold my town house and I really couldn't remember it. I felt even colder with the thought, and I turned my collar up against the wind.
Ridiculous,
I said silently.
Preposterous.

Luckily, I didn't have to argue with myself much longer because I'd reached Ben's building, a squat, multi-unit place that made up for its lack of character with cheap rent and a great location, only a few blocks from Wrigley Field. I peered at the vertical list of names next to the buzzers, and, thank God, there it was. BENJAMIN THOMAS, fifth from the top, right where he should have been. I hit the buzzer.

A shot of static came over the intercom. “Who is it?” said a woman's cheery voice.

“Sorry. Wrong buzzer.”
Please, please, please let it have been the wrong one.

I peered at the list again, and with exaggerated slowness, I put my finger on the brown button next to Ben's name and pressed.

Same staticky burst. Same woman's voice—not as cheery this time—saying the same words.

I froze. Something was wrong. Really, really wrong. But somehow my eternal optimism (or maybe my eternal stupidity) kept insisting there was a logical reason for all of this—something I would laugh about later.

I couldn't laugh now, though, couldn't even manage a smile, just a simple question laden with trepidation. “Is Ben home?”

“Kelly?” the woman said, clearly irritated.

“Yes?”

“Jesus. Not again.” A fizz of static, and then the intercom went silent.

I stood chewing on my bottom lip once more, debating what to do—piss off this woman in Ben's apartment by hitting the buzzer again or break in and kick her ass. After about fifteen seconds, someone appeared behind the glass door. I squinted and made out Ben's small, lean frame, his rock-hard legs in blue jogging shorts. Raising my hand, I gave a half wave, then let it fall.

Ben opened the door, but he didn't invite me in or even come out on the front stoop with me. He just sighed, holding the door open with one arm, shoving his other hand through his damp brown hair. He'd obviously just come back from running. He had that pink flush to his cheeks.

“Kell, you've got to cut this out.”

I tried to get my mind around his statement. I forced myself not to rush inside and hug him. “What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean. Stopping by like this, calling at all hours. She wants me to get a restraining order.”

“Who?”

A chest-heaving exhalation. “We've had this conversation. Don't make me go through it again. I love you. I always will.”

Just like you'll always love Toni,
I thought.

“But I'm with Therese now,” he continued, “and you have to accept that.”

I put my head in my hands and rubbed at my temples. An
other possibility came to mind—this was all an elaborate hoax. Laney would jump out from behind Ben at any minute and scream, “We got you!” The problem was Laney would never be that cruel, nor would Ben. He may not have been the most romantic guy, but he was always kind.

“C'mere, Kell.” Ben stepped out and let the door close behind him. He grabbed me in a hug, just as I hoped he would. I could smell the clean, outdoor scent of his sweat and feel the muscles of his back beneath the long-sleeved T-shirt.

“I don't know what's going on. I don't understand anything.” I squeezed him tight, hoping that this gesture would make it all go away, this whole horrible day, but too soon the embrace was over. He let me go, and I felt the cool air swirl around me again.

“I know it's been rough, but you'll get through this. You always do.” He pushed his hair off his face and gave me a smile I recognized—the one he saved for his grandmother or the restaurant managers he would cajole into giving us a table.

I opened my mouth to tell him what had happened this morning, how I suddenly couldn't make sense of anything in my life, but he gave me that patronizing grin again.

“You're tough.” He punched me lightly on the arm like we were buddies, like we hadn't been lovers for four years, like we weren't supposed to be engaged soon.

“Ben,” I said, trying to ignore his patent condescension, “something's going on that I don't understand. I don't remember all sorts of things. I don't remember us breaking up. I—”

“Kell, I just can't do this again. I can't rehash the whole thing over and over, okay?” He cupped my cheek for a second, the way you would a child who had food on his face.

I pulled my head away. “No, you don't get it.”

“I do. I get that you're going to make it through this. You're going to be okay.” He spoke these last words in a soft, hang-in-there-kid kind of way that infuriated me.

I glanced down at a spot on the sidewalk that looked strangely like old blood, then back up at his pitying eyes. “You're absolutely right. I'm going to be fine. Fantastic even.”

“There you go,” Ben said in what was probably the smuggest tone I'd ever heard. “That's the ticket.”

Yeah, that's the ticket all right, I thought. The ticket out of here. I didn't have a clue what was going on, but I wouldn't give him the satisfaction of seeing me fall apart.

“I'll see you around.” I tried to sound flip, like I didn't care, but I could feel the tears welling in my eyes. “See you,” I said again, then turned away.

As I walked up the street, my head down, my hands in my pockets, I could hear Ben buzzing his apartment, and the woman's voice say over the intercom, “Ben, is that you?”

“It's me, hon. Let me up.”

 

I stopped at Chuck's, the first bar I found. Inside, it was dark, with at least five different football games blaring from at least ten different TVs. The tables were full of people cheering and screaming, baskets of fries and pitchers of beer in front of them. I slipped onto a stool at the bar.

“What can I get you?” the bartender asked me. He leaned forward and dried a spot of water on the wood with a quick flick of his towel.

“Beer.”

“Okay. Well, we have twenty-three different labels, so what kind do you want?”

“Doesn't matter.” I usually drank margaritas, but it seemed too festive a drink.

The bartender stood there for a long minute, staring at me, before he moved toward a silver tapper and picked up a glass.

What was happening to me? What had happened to my town house, to my relationship with Ben? I wished desperately that I could rewind the day back to that moment at the dry cleaners when I was being pissy about losing a pair of
black pants and the fact that my job wasn't so great. If I could just go back, I would
truly
realize how lucky I was right at that moment. I would appreciate it somehow.

But my mind kept skidding away from the dry cleaners and rushing through the rest of the day. Why hadn't I known that my place had been sold, that Ben and I had broken up?

The bartender pushed a glass of amber beer in front of me without a word. I took a sip, and I made myself review what I
did
know about myself. Name: Kelly McGraw. That was correct, wasn't it? Beth Maninsky seemed to know that Kelly McGraw used to live in her house, and Ben had called me Kell, so that had to be right.

What else? Parents: Sylvie and Ken McGraw, who'd had me while they were married for a very brief period and living in Fort Myers, Florida. My father was a complete shit who took off a year after my birth, and my mom reverted to her maiden name, Sylvie Custer, even though she hated it. It was too close to custard, she always said, and made her sound like some sort of pudding.

Childhood: my mom worked her way from being a secretary at a TV station to a production assistant there, and a few years after that, she married Danny Rosati, a local crime boss who was the subject of an exposé she'd helped put together. Danny wasn't much of a dad to me. He always treated me more like a pet, patting me on the head and giving me treats when I was good. He did give me my first camera, though, and for that I'd always be grateful. My mom gave birth to my half-sister when I was six. She was named Delores after Danny's mom, but except for Danny, everyone called her Dee. Dee was always a frail kid, but she had the greatest toothy smile and the loudest laugh you'd ever heard.

After my mom divorced Danny, we moved to Atlanta so she could work for a better TV station, and we stayed there until after my freshman year in high school, when we moved
to Chicago. I joined the yearbook staff at my new school because at least I could take pictures, even if they were of people I didn't know—and that was where I met Laney. We'd been best friends ever since. We went to different colleges but visited each other constantly and shot up our phone bills. After we graduated, we got an apartment together in Lakeview and shared it until a few years ago.

Laney is the most energetic person I've ever met. Sometimes she'll call me at eight in the morning, before she leaves for her account exec job at a marketing firm, and she'll tell me that she's already done her laundry, given herself a leg wax and taken a kick-boxing class at the gym. Laney was
the
person, other than Ben, who'd saved me when Dee died last year in a car accident. My mom and I couldn't comfort each other; we reminded each other too much of Dee. My mom left Chicago—fled really—for L.A. last April to take a job with an entertainment news show, and Laney and Ben became my only family in town.

What happened after April? I tried to think about stocks I'd researched at work, weekend trips I'd taken, street fairs I'd gone to over the summer. Nothing. I couldn't remember anything from May up to now, the beginning of October, a span of five or so months.

I took a gulp of my beer, hoping it would help, maybe induce some kind of alcoholic flashback. Nothing again. I had to talk to someone about this. Ben was out. Laney was my only support now, and she was in Palm Beach. Or was she?

I sat up straighter on the stool and pushed my beer away, trying to concentrate. Laney had gone to a marketing conference in Palm Beach for a week. But was that
this
week? I'd been wrong about so many things today.

I threw five dollars on the bar and took off for the pay phone. As I pushed my way toward the rest rooms, I noticed that everyone else in the place seemed to be having a fantastic time. People were slapping high fives when touch
downs were scored, pouring beer for their friends, throwing their heads back and laughing at stories from the night before. I'd had days like this, spent watching football and drinking in a smoky bar when it was bright daylight outside. Those times had always seemed simple, uncomplicated, and yet while they were happening I'd be drifting off about whether I'd make partner, whether I should ask Ben to move in with me. Once again, I wished I could hit Rewind and just enjoy that time, instead of letting my mind take me somewhere else.

Luckily, there was a pay phone in the women's bathroom, so the noise was dimmed. I dialed Laney's number, thinking that even if her voice mail answered I could talk and talk, and she would pick it up eventually. Sometimes, when we got busy, Laney and I communicated solely by voice mail. We knew each other so well that we didn't have to be on the phone to feel like we were talking to each other.

I was starting to think of how I would phrase it, this strange, scary day, when I heard the chipper tones of Laney's hello.