Forgotten: A Novel by Catherine McKenzie
He shrugged the shrug of a much older child, a man. “It is the way things are. We are trying to fix it. You may come back in two weeks.”
I glanced at Peter and he nodded his head. There was nothing to be done here today.
“Thank you.”
He flashed me a smile. “You are welcome. You should go now. It is a long way back.”
“I tried to call you when I got back,” I say now to Craig. “Did you change your number?”
He looks up. “I had to. I kept getting these crank calls from people about you.”
“I’m really sorry, Craig.”
“It’s not your fault.”
“Still, if I hadn’t gone—”
“Don’t beat yourself up, Emma. That’s not what I want.”
“But I feel selfish. This whole time I’ve only been thinking about me. I never thought about what you were going through.”
“You didn’t know.”
“I didn’t know you thought I was dead, but what I did think was enough.”
He moves toward me on the couch. “Please, Emma. Don’t.”
His tone is so warm and familiar, it bring tears to my eyes. But despite my new weepy persona, I’ve never cried in front of Craig, not in sorrow or happiness or even anger, not even when my mother died. And somehow, crying in front of him now seems melodramatic and predictable. Like our kiss earlier.
I take a deep breath. “What do you want to do, Craig?”
“About us?”
“Yeah.”
He hesitates. “Do you want me to be honest?”
“Always.”
“Then, I guess . . . I don’t know.”
Somehow, in spite of all the signs, this wasn’t the answer I was expecting. Not after the coded “I love you.” But maybe I misread that? Maybe he wasn’t speaking in code at all, just in trivialities?
“Oh.”
“Are you mad?”
“No.”
“What, then?”
“I don’t know, either. Why don’t you know?”
He shifts away. “I offered to go with you, remember? But you didn’t want me to. You just left. We spoke that one time, and the next thing I knew there was all this horrible footage on the news. It was like you’d disappeared off the face of the earth.
“Then the government released these lists of names of people who were missing. When I saw your name on it, I didn’t know what to do. No one would say it to me directly, but I knew everyone thought you were dead. And then . . . this is hard to admit, Emma, believe me, but someone had the courage to say it to me, that you might be dead, and I felt . . . I felt this . . . I wouldn’t say weight, exactly, but something lifted, and I knew they were right. I knew you were dead.”
The world seems to slow down, and it’s like I can see the words I knew you were dead leave Craig’s mouth and travel to me, but they don’t quite make it. What does sink in is this: Craig not only felt like I was dead but was in some measure relieved by it.
What am I supposed to do with that?
“Who said it?” I ask eventually.
He looks up from his twisting hands. “What?”
“Who said I was dead? Who did you believe?”
“What does that matter?”
“I just want to know.”
“Emma.”
Some instinct propels me to persist. “Just tell me.”
“It was Sophie.”
“Well, that figures.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Whatever.”
He shakes his head. “She was just being a friend.”
But Craig and Sophie were never friends.
“Why are you defending her?”
“I’m not.”
“No, you are.”
I look at him closely. He won’t look me in the eye, and he’s clenching and unclenching his hands, a gesture I’ve always associated with him feeling guilty.
Why is Craig defending Sophie? Why would he believe her, of all people? Why was he even talking to her?
And suddenly, I know. This is what Jenny stopped herself from telling me in the food court, and why Matt seemed uncomfortable when I told him I hadn’t spoken to Craig.
“You’re sleeping with her, aren’t you?”
“What?” he says, shocked, but not, you know, denying it.
“Sophie. You’re sleeping with her.”
“Why would you say that?”
“Am I wrong?”
“Emma.”
“God, Craig.”
Guilt floods his face. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Are you still together?” Do you love her? I can’t quite manage to ask.
“Yes.”
“Well, okay, then.”
I stand and walk toward the front door.
“Where are you going?”
“Somewhere that’s not here.”
Craig follows me. “That’s it? You’re just leaving?”
I pick up my coat off the rack and slip it on. I clench my shaking hands. “Yes.”
“I think we should talk about this.”
“What’s there left to say, Craig? You thought I was dead and you’re sleeping with someone else.” I can feel my throat start to close, my voice getting raspy.
Keep it together, Emma, you’re almost out of here.
“We can’t end things like this.”
“Yes, we can.”
I push past him. He reaches out to stop me, but I’m moving too fast.
“Please don’t go.”
I hesitate briefly, but it’s only a hesitation. I’m out the door before the tears start to fall.
By the time I get down to the street, I’m crying in earnest and cursing myself for putting any faith in Craig. Because that’s what I realize I’ve been doing—keeping him as a possibility. Feeling like if we were together again, everything would return to normal.
But now that’s all out the window. I was prepared to settle for Craig, but he didn’t keep up his end of the bargain. His end of the bargain being pining for me forever, of course. Or at least, for more time than he gave it. In fact, I’m pretty sure the appropriate lag time between hooking up with a new girl when your old girl is missing, presumed dead, is more than he gave it.
And how much time did he give it, anyway? A week, a month? Two? When did Sophie appear with her magical words of wisdom, and just how long did it take him to believe them?
I kick a ball of snow in front of me. Well, screw him! That’s right! Did you hear me, Craig? I don’t need you and your back massages! I’m okay on my own. I can survive with no mom or dad or friends or career or things. Just make me a big ole pity party, and I’ll be there with bells on!
I catch sight of myself in the window of the pub on the corner. My face is a mess: red nose, red eyes, red cheeks. I look ridiculous and pathetic.
And wasn’t I just saying to Dominic that this isn’t me? I don’t want to be a wallower, sitting in a pool of self-pity. I don’t want to be giving myself this pep talk again. Once should’ve been enough. It should’ve been more than enough.
No, I want to be like those people I can see through the glass, sitting at bar stools surrounded by bags full of Christmas presents for their loved ones. They look warm and happy and . . .
I brush the tears off my face with one gloved hand and wipe my nose with the other. I straighten my shoulders and grasp the oblong door handle leading into the bar. In a moment, I’m seated between two smiling, happy, bepresented patrons. Moments after that, my hands are cupped around an Irish coffee and I’m well on my way to being smiling and happy too.
The next several hours pass blithely.
There’s a TV high on the wall behind the bar, see, and halfway through my drink, the anchor begins to talk about m
At least, that’s what it looks like with the sound off.
I look away and hope no one makes the connection, but the footage goes on and on, and eventually I can feel the curious gaze of the older man sitting next to me.
“That’s you up there, ain’t it? On the TV?”
I turn as far away from him as I can without being totally rude. “No.”
“Course it is. You’re even wearing the same outfit.”
Damn. I left my garment bag at the TV station. One more thing I can blame Craig for.
I turn toward him. He’s in his early sixties. The end of his bulbous nose is lined with small veins, and his brown eyes are a little bleary.
“I don’t mean to be rude, but I just want to have my drink in peace.”
“Sure enough.”
I turn away and start mentally kicking myself. Didn’t I come in here for exactly this reason? To have some human contact, some lighthearted interactions with people who don’t know me or anything about me? And although this man knows I’m some sort of news, it’s not the same kind of knowledge someone who’s really in my life would have.
I touch his shoulder. “That was me.”
He shifts his gaze from the TV and gives me a broad smile. “I knew it.”
“Sorry about before.”
“’S all right. You must’ve been through a lot.”
“I don’t want to talk about that.”
“Nah, I can see you wouldn’t.”
“Thanks.”
“First time here?”
The bar at the end of Craig’s street? Not by a long shot. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all.
“No.”
“Another bad subject?”
“Yeah. Look, can I buy you a drink?”
His eyes light up. “That’d be real nice of you.”
So I do. I buy him a drink, and we talk about inconsequential things like the presents he bought his grandkids for Christmas and how he’s waiting for his wife to finish up her shopping. When his wife arrives, we move to a table and I buy her a drink too. They tell me about their youngest son, who’s graduating high school, and what do I think about military college? Johnny-boy can be a bit of a handful, and maybe the structure would help?
It isn’t exactly an episode of Cheers, but it’s pretty nice. And then it’s time to go. Frank and Joanie have to get back to their grandkids, their lives. We say our goodbyes and pretend we might do this again sometime. We all know it won’t happen (we don’t even exchange phone numbers, so how could it?), but it’s nice to pretend. I leave the bar in a happy glow.
Which lasts about thirty seconds into the cab ride home before the reality of my conversation with Craig comes rushing back. Craig and Sophie. Craig and Sophie. Craig and Sophie. However I say it, I can’t make it come out right. And the more I try, the angrier I feel. Angry and stupid. That I care. That I didn’t see it coming. That I care.
When I get home, the apartment is dark and has that empty-building feeling. I call Dominic’s name anyway, but don’t get an answer.
I flip on some lights and dump my coat on the corner of the couch. I feel restless and go searching for the box that the Scotch bottle came from the other night. I don’t usually drink hard alcohol, but I feel like I need to come up against something hard right now.
In the third box I find a bottle of something called Laphroaig, which looks expensive and like it’s spent many years in an oak cask. I check the faded price tag. Yikes. Maybe I should take up photography.
I pull out a cut-glass tumbler and pour a measure. It burns the back of my throat, but the warm feeling follows quickly. I’ve never appreciated Scotch before, but I seem to be getting a taste for it. I turn on the gas fire and settle into the couch, the bottle tucked under my arm. Craig and Sophie. Craig and Sophie. Craig and Sophie. Any way I emphasize it, it just comes out craziness.
I’m still mulling it over when Dominic comes home. He stops briefly in the doorway, giving me a vague “Hey,” then walks down the hall. He doesn’t even make eye contact.
What the hell? What did I do to deserve that?
I walk through the apartment, clutching my glass in one hand and the bottle in the other. I find him in the kitchen, pulling vegetables from the fridge and piling them on the counter.
“What’s with the no hello?”
Dominic puts an onion on the counter and turns toward me. He has a sour look on his face. “I see you found the Laphroaig.”
“Is that a problem?”
“I just would’ve thought someone who had all her stuff thrown out would be a little more respectful of other people’s things.”
“Excuse me?”
“Forget it.” He pulls a knife from the knife block and starts chopping the onion aggressively.
“I’ll buy you a new bottle, okay? Dominic? Hello? Earth to Dominic?”
He doesn’t react, pretending, maybe, that I’m not here.
“Will you put the knife down and look at me?”
He puts the knife down slowly and raises his eyes to meet mine. “That make you happy?”
“I’m over the moon.”
“Well, bully for you. Can I go back to my chopping now?”
“No, I want to know why you’re being such a jerk.”
He scoffs. “I’m being a jerk? That’s rich.”
What did I ever do to . . . oh. Is this . . . because he saw me on TV kissing Craig? No . . . that can’t be right.
“Is this because of Cathy Keeler?”
“If you’re implying that I’m in a bad mood because of your little kiss and tell, then no, it’s not because of Cathy Keeler.”
I feel another crest of anger, but it dissipates. Dominic’s not the problem here. He’s never been the problem.
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about Craig, Dominic.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“No, I should’ve told you.”
“Forget it.”
“But I don’t want to forget it. I’m trying to apologize. Why won’t you let me?”
“Look, Emma, you don’t owe me any explanations, okay? You have a boyfriend. And somehow, you never mentioned him. But hey, I don’t know you very well. Maybe keeping secrets is just how you roll.”
So much for letting go of my anger.
“Did you just call me a liar?”
His shoulders rise toward his ears. “I don’t know, did I?”
“Fuck you.”
“Excuse me?”
“I said, fuck you.”
I know I’m totally overreacting, but it feels good to let it out, even if it’s at the wrong person.
He puts down his knife and walks past me toward the door. I watch his retreating back and I want to make him stop. I want to make him come back and talk to me. So I do the only thing I can think of. I raise my arm and throw my glass with all my might.
Smack! It hits the door frame above him and shatters into a thousand pieces, flinging sixteen dollars of Scotch on the walls and Dominic’s head.
He freezes. My heart starts pounding in my chest as Dominic turns around slowly.
“What the hell is wrong with you?”
“Oh God, I’m so sorry.”
I pick up a tea towel off the counter and try to wipe some of the liquid from his forehead, but he pulls away.
“Are you hurt?”
He takes the towel from my hand and wipes his head and shoulders. “I’m fine.”
“Be careful of the glass.”
“Emma, will you just stop?”
I slump into one of the kitchen chairs. I cross my arms on the table and rest my chin on my wrists. The kitchen tap is dripping, the metal pin
“What the hell is going on?” he asks.
“We just broke up.”
“You and Craig?”
“Yeah.”
“What happened?”
“He thought I was dead and got over me by sleeping with my mortal enemy.”
“You have a mortal enemy?”
“Her name is Sophie Vaughn, and I’m pretty sure she’s half devil spawn.”
The sides of his mouth twitch. “Only half?”
“You’d be surprised how far a little devil spawn goes.”
“I guess. So, you just found out that Craig was sleeping with the devil?”
“Yeah. I’m really sorry, Dominic. About everything.”
“It’s fine.”
“When you walked past me like that, I guess I thought you were mad at me, and—”
“Not everything is about you, Emma.”
“I know that.”
He runs his hand through his sticky hair.
“Careful of the glass.”
“I should take a shower.”
“Will you tell me why you were upset first?”
“It’s no big deal.”
“Sure seems that way.”
“You’re kind of pushy, you know that?”
“So they tell me.”
He sighs. “I got an email that put me in a bad mood. That’s all.”
“I threw a glass at your head because of an email?”
“You were aiming for my head?”
“Nnnoooo.”
“Oh, that’s convincing.”
“What was in the email?”
He stands and crosses to the sink, turning off the tap. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Tell me.”
“You’re relentless.”
“It’s part of my charm.”
He pulls out his iPhone, opens an email, and hands it to me. It’s from Expedia, transmitting him an itinerary for a trip somewhere.
“Getting a trip itinerary put you in a bad mood . . .” I trail off as I look at the email more closely. It’s a trip for Dominic and Emily Mahoney. That’s her name. Emily. “It was for your honeymoon?”
He nods.
“When were you supposed to get married?”