The Leaving (6 page)

He clipped a film to a light board and switched it on.

Scarlett’s insides—rib cage, esophagus, all—lit up in black and gray.

Brightest of all was a thumbnail-sized white oval in her gut.

She thought she might throw up.

Wanted
to, even.

“
I can’t even
. . .,” her mother said slowly.

Scarlett stepped closer to the film.

Mesmerized by that glowing, misshapen moon.

The shine of it hurt her eyes.

Up.

Up.

Up.

Feet floating.

She turned to the detective when she said “What
is
it?”

Lucas

At a low-rise building in a complex full of low-rise buildings, a smiling, youngish black man with a head covered in tight cornrows that led to ponytail dreads greeted Lucas. He wore a white lab coat over a T-shirt that had a drawing of a shark on it, and Lucas imagined that he’d just been surfing; he seemed balanced and invigorated-looking in a way that made Lucas feel a little bit dead inside.

“Doctor Todd Sashor.” He shook Lucas’s hand with both of his. “Cognitive-science specialist. Welcome home.”

“Thanks.” Lucas didn’t want to release Sashor’s warm hands. He was the first person who had seemed genuinely happy to see him.

“Let’s get to work, shall we?”

Lucas nodded, let go reluctantly.

They went into the lobby—modern and clean—and up to the third floor, where Sashor pushed open a glass door that opened up on a large lab: glass cabinets on the walls and a few desks and filing cabinets and computers. He introduced two assistants—one male, one female—who then busied themselves around the room.

“I should confess I’ve never had to try to devise an intake process
or test of this kind. So, we’re winging it a bit. First we’re going to test you on some basic brain functions and skills,” Sashor said. “We want to try to figure out what kinds of things you’ve learned and know and remember. Then we’ll sit and talk. Cool?”

Lucas nodded.

He took a math test (so easy), and then a more advanced math test (still easy), and then a test on world history (aced it), and one on general science (likewise). He filled in a blank map of the United States and much of the world. Then played checkers (he won) and chess (he lost) with the female assistant.

He was shown a series of pictures and asked to say the first word that came to mind. Same with a bunch of black ink blots.

He gave up on a trivia test with questions about pop culture when it was clear he didn’t know any answers at all.

Likewise, a test about literature.

It bothered him he could not think of a favorite book.

He did not appear to be able to speak any other languages.

He was
generally
up to speed on current events—“At least as much as the average teenager, is my guess,” Sashor said.

Then he finally sat down face-to-face with Sashor, and the questions began and blurred.
Do you remember anything about where you’ve been? Were there windows? What could you see? Do you know if the person who took you was male or female? Were you allowed to go out? How long were you in the van? Have you ever been made to do something against your will?

Lucas almost laughed, shifted in his seat. “I’m pretty sure we wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t been taken against my will.”

“Good point,” Sashor said. “Have you ever been made to do something against your will . . . sexually?”

Lucas turned and looked out the window; across the street, a sign
read Cheesecake Factory. “I really don’t think so.”

“Have you ever had
sex
?” Sashor asked with some hesitation, and Lucas wondered whether this line of questioning was maybe going off script but then remembered there really
was
no script.

He didn’t mind.

He was curious, too.

“I’m not sure.”

“Kissed a girl?”

“No idea.”

“Have you ever kissed Kristen?”

“No idea.”

“Scarlett? Sarah?”

“Don’t know.”

Sashor raised his eyebrows. “Have you ever been in love?”

A surprise: “Yes.”

“With whom?”

“No idea.”

Which was a lie?

“Then why’d you say yes?”

Lucas paused for a second, considering. “Just a feeling.”

A feeling about Scarlett.

It felt like protecting her to not name names.

Moving on: “Do you remember anything from the day you were taken?”

“No.”

“Anything suspicious in the days leading up to the event?”

“I have no idea.”

“Do you remember things from before the abduction?”

SKIDDING SIRENS BLOOD

“Like kindergarten? Preschool?” Sashor asked.

CUBBIES. RED. SUPERMAN BACKPACK.

Lucas nodded. “I do. My mother died in a car accident. I was there. In the backseat. But I was fine.”

Sashor nodded, then sat back in his leather chair. “What’s the earliest memory that you can recall?”

Lucas looked back out the window, where a few meaty clouds had appeared. Dark gray and villainous. He closed his eyes and thought hard and had to push away:

CAROUSEL WHITE FIRE TEETH COTTON CANDY

This time, as he whirled, other images decorated his trips around.

BLUE BIKE. BLOODY KNEE.

SMALL BLACK DOG: WALKER.

BASEBALL MITT. BLEACHERS.

READY OR NOT, HERE I COME!

Lucas said, “I remember learning how to ride a bike, falling, hurting my knee badly. I remember playing hide-and-seek with my mom. That might be the only real memory I have of her before the accident. I remember the crash scene. I remember my preschool classroom, what it looked like. I remember a ball field, like going to watch my brother play? But earliest? I don’t know. I remember our dog, Walker.”

“Your dog walker?”

“No, the dog was named Walker. Because when you took him out it was like he was walking you instead of the other way around.”

Sashor took a note, then looked up and said, “Do you remember a man carrying wrapping paper?”

“
A man carrying wrapping paper?
” Lucas repeated.

Sashor didn’t make eye contact. “Yes, do you remember a man carrying wrapping paper?”

WRAPPING PAPER MAN CARRYING

“No.” Lucas was tiring of not being able to offer up anything useful.

“What kind of wrapping paper was it?” Sashor asked, as if he hadn’t heard.

CHRISTMAS WHITE BEARD

RED
HAT

“Santa Claus.”

“You remember the wrapping paper?” Surprise lit Sashor’s eyes.

“I don’t know. Do I? Or am I just picturing the first random wrapping paper I could think of ?”

“Begs the question.” Sashor took another note.

“Why are you asking me about wrapping paper?” Lucas tried to read the note but was too far away.

“Police asked me to.”

“How are they ever going to catch who did this if we can’t remember?”

“Memory doesn’t always cooperate or align with our goals, but we might get lucky.” Looking back at his paper. “Do you remember anything else at all about the first few days of kindergarten?”

“Kindergarten.” Lucas sat for a minute with the idea of it. The whole notion of kindergarten. Did he remember . . . kindergarten?

CUBBIES. RED.

“Not really. Just the classroom. My backpack.”

Sashor pushed a photo array toward Lucas. Max as a kid, then a series of sketches that aged him. “Have you ever seen this boy?”

“The FBI agents showed this to me,” Lucas said. “And no, I don’t remember him. At all. Before or after. And I have no idea if I kissed him, either. In case you were going to ask.”

Sashor smiled, then took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. For some reason, Lucas felt eager to please him. He also wanted a professional opinion. So he made this deal with himself:

He would talk about the carousel.

Not the tattoo.

Not until he found out tonight if the others had tattoos, too.

Not until he spent at least a little time trying to figure out what to make of it.

A camera shutter tattoo.

What did that even mean?

“I do remember one other thing really vividly,” he said tentatively.

“What is it?”

“Riding a carousel. It was by the ocean. I get dizzy whenever I think about it.”

BLUE-AND-WHITE HORSE. GOLDEN SADDLE.

OLD-TIMEY PIANO.

PEANUTS.

ROUND AND ROUND.

It sounded even more ridiculous when spoken aloud than it had when it had just been in his head.

“How old were you?” Sashor seemed to pep up.

“I don’t know. It feels recent. Like I was too old to be riding a carousel but I liked it anyway?”

“No such thing as too old to ride a carousel,” Sashor said.

Lucas smiled. “Do you think it really happened?”

“Well, there were no drugs in your system, nothing that could cause
hallucinations. So either it happened or it was put there as a decoy, a distraction.”

“How would someone even do that?”

“False memories are actually pretty easy to create. Like if your brother told you that when you were kids you dropped your ice-cream cone and cried so hard that the woman in the shop gave you a new cone, you’d believe that it happened, even if you didn’t remember it. And then you’d eventually tell the story as your own and even add details, like what flavor of ice cream it was and what the weather was like.”

“Seriously?” Lucas couldn’t think of his own favorite flavor.

“Seriously.”

“So do you have a diagnosis?” Lucas asked. “Like a name for it? Apart from us all just generally being messed up.”

Sashor explained
anterograde amnesia
, which is the loss of the ability to create new memories after an event, leading to a partial or complete inability to recall the recent past. And how it was possible to suffer from this condition while long-term memories from
before
the event remained intact, which was why he remembered his father, his brother, the house. This was also typically in contrast to
retrograde amnesia
, where most memories created
prior
to the event are lost, while new memories can still be created.

“I guess it’s possible that someone or something triggered the first condition,” Sashor said. “Because, presumably, during the time you were gone, you were able to make memories—and then, eleven years later, triggered the second condition. Leaving a long gap in between.”

“But what would that trigger be?” Lucas wished he’d thought to take notes.

“The abduction itself could have been the first trigger? Your release, the next?”

Lucas had no theories. “How do I still know how to play chess and brush my teeth and all?”

“Neither of these conditions affects your
procedural memory
.”

“But how can I retain a memory of knowledge but not of experiences?” Lucas pointed at the map and his high-scoring world history test.

“Those kinds of processes are handled by different parts of the brain, as well. Working in tandem, sure, but separate physical locations,” Sashor said. “Honestly, unless they find the person responsible, I can’t imagine we’ll ever know what the purpose of the experiment was.”

“Experiment?”

“I’m a scientist, so that’s where my mind goes, yes.”

Lucas felt hopeful for the first time. “There can’t be that many experts in this field, right?”

“There are a
lot
of people around the globe trying to crack open one of the mysteries of memory and grab the spotlight. Probably half of them are unhinged or obsessed in some way.” Sashor seemed to pause to reconsider what he’d just said. “It’s also possible that you’re all very good liars. And that you remember everything and are putting one over on the rest of us.”

Lucas felt himself bristle. “Why would we do that?”

“To protect the identity of the person who took you?” Sashor said. “Because you’re suffering from Stockholm syndrome?”

“It’s nothing like that.” Lucas sat forward in his chair.

Sashor smiled sadly and stood. “But of course you’d say that.”

AVERY

Avery’s mom was parked in front of the television, surrounded by crumpled tissues. “The Homecoming,” as they were now calling it, was headline news with at least two networks promising “constant coverage.”

Sarah and Adam were being interviewed by a daytime anchor with hard-looking hair. On the bottom of the screen, it said,
VICTIMS OF THE LEAVING DON’T REMEMBER WHERE THEY’VE BEEN.
Avery couldn’t stop staring at them, actually crawled across the floor to sit crisscross-applesauce in front of the TV to see them better. They looked like aliens, like fake people, maybe because she’d never imagined she’d ever see them for real. It was like reading a book, then seeing the movie and not liking the casting. What did the others look like? Would they also seem beautiful and fake and all wrong and not at all what she’d pictured, if she’d even pictured them, and she wasn’t sure she had, not in years, anyway.

The anchor dude was midquestion when Avery was able to focus her attention on what they were talking about. “. . . but you’ll cooperate with the investigation?”

Sarah and Adam swapped a look, and Adam said, “We’ve spoken to the police and FBI, yes, but beyond that, we really feel like we’ve
met our obligation, and we won’t be submitting to physicals or mental evaluations. We’re within our rights. We wish we
could
help, but we don’t remember anything. And we really want to get back to normal.”