I run my hands up my face. I want to scream.
When I wake up, everything is clean. No rice, no sausage, no shards of porcelain to cut a bitch.
Whoa! Where did that come from? I feel loopy. She's got this timed down to a T.
Knock Sammy out, bring her crappy food, knock Sammy out, bring her crappy food.
But this time when she returns, she doesn't have crappy food. She's carrying a towel and a small bar of soap.
Finally! A restroom.
"Shower time," she says. She's not as friendly this time. Her mouth is a tight line across her face. I stand up, expecting to sway a little. The needle to the neck was stronger than the other stuff they've been giving me, but I don't feel as foggy. My mind is sharp; my body is ready to react.
"Why are you the only one who comes?" I say. "If you're a nurse, you must work in shifts."
She turns away, walks to the door.
"Hello...?"
"Behave," she says. "Next time things won't go as well for you."
I shut my mouth because she's taking me out of this box, and I really, really want to see what's behind that door.
She opens the door and lets me walk out first. There's another door in front of me. I'm confused. She turns right and I see there's a hallway. Just to my right is a bathroom. I haven't used the toilet in hours, and the minute I see it my bladder starts to ache. She hands me the towel. "Shower only has cold water. Don't take long."
I close the door. It's like a bunker. No windows, raw concrete. The toilet doesn't have a lid or a seat, just a rimless hole with a sink next to it. I use it anyway.
On top of the sink is a new hospital gown and underwear. I study everything as I pee, looking for something. Anything. There's a rusted pipe near the floor, jutting out of the wall. I flush the toilet and move toward it. Sticking my hand inside, I feel around. Gross. A piece of the pipe has corroded away.
I go to turn the water on in the shower in case she's listening. It's a tiny little bit of metal, but with some effort I'm able to detach it from the wall. It's something, at least.
I carry it in the shower with me, holding it in one hand while I wash. The water is so cold; I can't stop my teeth from chattering. I try to clench my jaw tighter, but my teeth still rattle inside my head despite how much I try to still them.
How pathetic am I? I have no control over my own teeth. No control over my own memories. No control over when I eat, sleep, shower or pee.
The only thing I feel I can control is my eventual escape from wherever it is that I am. I clutch the pipe in my hands with all my strength, knowing it could be the only thing that gets me back some form of control.
When I walk out of the bathroom, it's wrapped in toilet paper and stuffed in my underwear, a simple pair of white panties she left for me. I don't have a plan yet; I'll just wait for the right moment.
It's dark now. I've been driving for over two hours without a clue as to where to go next. I can't go back home. I can't go to Charlie's house. I don't know anyone else, so the only thing I can do is drive.
I have eight missed calls. Two are from Landon. One from Janette.
The rest are from my father.
I also have eight voicemails, none of which I've listened to yet. I don't want to worry about any of them right now. None of them have any clue what's really going on, and no one would believe me if I told them. I don't blame them. I keep repeating the entire day in my head, and it seems too ridiculous for me to even believe--and I'm the one living it.
It's all too ridiculous, but way too real.
I pull over at a gas station to fill up my car. I'm not even sure if I've eaten anything today, but I feel light-headed, so I grab a bag of chips and a bottle of water while inside the store.
The entire time I fill my tank with gas, I wonder about Charlie.
When I'm back on the road, I'm still wondering about Charlie.
I wonder if Charlie's eaten anything.
I wonder if she's alone.
I wonder if she's being taken care of.
I wonder how I'm possibly supposed to find her when she could be anywhere in the entire world right now. All I'm doing is driving in circles, slowing every time I pass a girl walking on a sidewalk. I don't know where to look. I don't know where to go. I don't know how to be the guy who saves her.
I wonder what people do when they have no place to go and no place to be.
I wonder if this is what it's like to be crazy. Certifiably insane. I feel as though I have absolutely zero control over my own mind.
And if I'm not the one in control...who is?
My phone rings again. I look at the caller ID and see that it's Landon. I don't know why I pick it up to answer it. Maybe I'm just tired of being inside my own head and not getting any answers. I pull over to the side of the road to talk to him.
"Hello?"
"Please tell me what the hell is going on."
"Can anyone hear you?"
"No," he says. "The game just ended. Dad is talking to the police. Everyone's worried about you, Silas."
I don't respond. I feel bad that they're worried, but even worse that no one seems to be worried about Charlie.
"Have they found Charlie yet?"
I can hear people shouting in the background. It sounds like he called me the second the game ended. "They're looking," he says.
But there's something else in his voice. Something unspoken.
"What is it, Landon?"
He sighs again. "Silas...they're looking for you too. They think..." His voice is heavy with worry. "They think you know where she is."
I close my eyes. I knew this would happen. I wipe my palms down my jeans. "I don't know where she is."
Several seconds pass before Landon speaks again. "Janette went to the police. She said she thought you were acting strange, so when she found Charlie's things in a backpack inside your gym locker, she turned them in to the police. You had her wallet, Silas. And her phone."
"Finding Charlie's things in my possession is hardly proof that I'm responsible for her disappearance. It's proof that I'm her boyfriend."
"Come home," he says. "Tell them you have nothing to hide. Answer their questions. If you cooperate, they'll have no reason to accuse you."
Ha. If only answering their questions was that easy.
"Do you think I have something to do with her disappearance?"
"Do you?" he asks immediately.
"No."
"Then no," he says. "I don't think you have anything to do with it. Where are you?"
"I don't know."
I hear a muffled noise, like he's covering the phone with his hand. I can hear voices in the background.
"Did you get hold of him?" a man asks.
"Still trying, Dad," Landon says.
More muttering.
"You there, Silas?" he asks.
"Yeah. I have a question," I say. "Have you ever heard of a place called Jamais Jamais?"
Silence. I wait for him to respond, but he doesn't.
"Landon? Have you heard of it?"
Another heavy sigh. "It's Charlie's old house, Silas. What the hell is wrong with you? You're on drugs, aren't you? Jesus Christ, Silas. What the hell did you take? Is that what happened to Charlie? Is that why..."
I hang up the phone while he's still in the middle of spouting off questions. I search Brett Wynwood's home address on the Internet. It takes me a while, but two addresses pop up in the results. One I remember, because I was just there earlier today. It's where Charlie lives now.
The other is one I don't recognize.
It's the address to Jamais Jamais.
THE HOUSE SITS ON SIX ACRES, OVERLOOKING LAKE BORGNE. IT WAS BUILT IN 1860, EXACTLY ONE YEAR BEFORE THE CIVIL WAR BEGAN. THE HOUSE WAS ORIGINALLY NAMED "LA TERRE RENCONTRE L'EAU," WHICH MEANS "LAND MEETS WATER."
IT WAS USED AS A HOSPITAL DURING THE WAR, HOUSING WOUNDED CONFEDERATE SOLDIERS. YEARS AFTER THE WAR, THE HOUSE WAS PURCHASED BY A BANKER, FRANK WYNWOOD, IN 1880. THE
HOME REMAINED IN THE FAMILY, PASSED DOWN THREE GENERATIONS, ULTIMATELY LANDING IN THE HANDS OF THEN THIRTY-YEAR-OLD BRETT WYNWOOD IN 1998.
BRETT WYNWOOD AND HIS FAMILY OCCUPIED THE HOME UNTIL 2005, WHEN HURRICANE KATRINA CAUSED EXTENSIVE DAMAGE TO THE PROPERTY. THE FAMILY WAS FORCED TO ABANDON THE HOME, AND IT SAT UNTOUCHED FOR SEVERAL YEARS BEFORE RENOVATIONS BEGAN. THE ENTIRE HOUSE WAS GUTTED AND REBUILT, WITH ONLY PORTIONS OF THE ORIGINAL OUTER WALLS AND ROOF SALVAGED.
IN 2011, THE WYNWOOD FAMILY MOVED BACK INTO THEIR HOME. DURING THE UNVEILING, BRETT WYNWOOD ANNOUNCED THE HOME HAD BEEN GIVEN A NEW NAME: "JAMAIS JAMAIS."
WHEN ASKED WHY HE CHOSE THE FRENCH TRANSLATION OF NEVER NEVER, HE SAYS HIS DAUGHTER, FOURTEEN-YEAR-OLD CHARLIZE WYNWOOD, ACTUALLY DECIDED ON THE NAME. "SHE SAYS IT'S AN HOMAGE TO FAMILY HISTORY. NEVER FORGET THOSE WHO PAVED THE WAY BEFORE YOU. NEVER STOP TRYING TO BETTER THE WORLD FOR THOSE WHO WILL INHABIT IT AFTER YOU."
THE WYNWOOD FAMILY OCCUPIED THE HOME UNTIL 2013, WHEN IT WENT INTO FORECLOSURE FOLLOWING AN INVESTIGATION INTO WYNWOOD-NASH FINANCIAL GROUP. THE HOME WAS SOLD IN AUCTION IN LATE 2013 TO AN ANONYMOUS BIDDER.
I add the page to my favorites in my phone and make a note of the article. I found it after I pulled up to the property--right up to the locked gate.
The height of the gate is impressive, as if it's letting visitors know that the people beyond this gate are mightier than the people who are not.
I wonder if that's how Charlie's father felt living here. I wonder how mighty he felt when someone else took ownership of the property that's been in his family for generations.
The property is located at the end of an isolated road, as if the road belongs to the gate, too. After attempting to find a way around or through the gate, I conclude that there isn't one. It's dark now, so I could be missing a path or an alternate entrance. I'm not even sure why I want past the gate, but I can't help but feel like the pictures of this property are clues.
Considering I'm wanted for questioning, it's probably best if I don't drive around any more than I have to tonight, so I decide to stay here until morning. I turn off my car. If I'm going to be worth anything tomorrow, I need to try and get at least a few hours of sleep.
I lean my seat back, close my eyes and wonder if I'm going to dream tonight. I don't even know what I would dream about. I can't dream if I don't sleep, and I have a feeling falling asleep tonight is going to be impossible.
My eyes flick back open with that thought.
The video.
In one of my letters, I mentioned falling asleep to a video of Charlie sleeping. I search my phone until I find it. I press play and wait to hear Charlie's voice for the first time.
More sleeping.
Not because of pills this time. I pretended to swallow them and kept them in my cheek. She stayed so long they were starting to dissolve. As soon as the door closed behind her, I spit them into my hand.
No more drowsiness. I need to be clear of mind.
I slept of my own accord and had more dreams earlier. Dreams of the same guy as in the first dream. Or should I say the first memory? In my dream, the guy was leading me through a dirty street. He wasn't looking at me, he was looking ahead, his whole body pulling forward like some invisible force had hold of him. In his left hand was a camera. He stopped suddenly and looked across the street. I followed his gaze.
"There," he said. "Look."
But I didn't want to look. I turned my back on what he was seeing, looked at a wall instead. Then all of a sudden, his hand was no longer in mine. I turned and watched him cross the street and approach a woman sitting cross-legged against a wall. In her arms she cradled a tiny baby wrapped in a woolen blanket. The guy crouched down in front of her. They spoke for a long time. He handed her something and she smiled. When he stood up, the baby started to cry. That's when he snapped the picture.
I could still see her face when I woke up, but it wasn't a real-life image, it was a photo. The one he took. A ragged mother with knotted hair, staring down at her infant, his tiny mouth open in a scream, their backdrop the chipped paint of a bright blue door.
When the dream was over, I wasn't sad like last time. I wanted to meet the boy who documented suffering in such vivid color.
I lie awake most of what I assume is the night. She returns with breakfast.
"You again," I say. "Never a day off...or an hour."
"Yup," she says. "We're understaffed, so I'm working doubles. Eat."
"Not hungry."
She offers me the cup of pills. I don't take them.
"I want to see a doctor," I say.
"The doctor is very busy today. I can make an appointment for you. He can probably see you sometime next week."
"No. I want to see a doctor today. I want to know what medication you're giving me and I want to know why I'm here."
It's the first time I've seen anything but bored friendliness on her face. She leans forward, and I can smell the coffee on her breath. "Don't be a brat," she hisses. "You don't get to make demands here, do you understand me?" She shoves the pills at me.
"I'm not taking those until a doctor tells me why I am," I say, nodding toward the cup. "Do you understand me?"
I think she's going to hit me. My hand feels for the piece of pipe under my pillow. The muscles in my shoulders and back tense, the balls of my feet press down on the tile. I am ready to spring if I need to. But the nurse turns, inserts her key into the door, and is gone. I hear the click of the lock, and then I'm alone again.
"I can't believe you got away with that," I say to her. I drop my hands to her waist, pushing her until her back is against her bedroom door. She places her palms against my chest and looks up at me with an innocent grin.
"Got away with what?"
I laugh and press my lips against her neck. "It's an homage to family history?" I laugh, moving my lips up her neck, drawing closer to her mouth. "What are you going to do if you ever want to break up with me? You'll be stuck living in a house that was named after the phrase you use with your ex-boyfriend."
She shakes her head and pushes against me so she can walk past me. "If I ever want to break up with you, I'll just have Daddy change the name of our house."
"He would never do that, Char. He thought the b.s. meaning you gave him was genius."
She shrugs. "Then I'll burn it to the ground." She sits on the edge of her mattress, and I take a seat next to her, pushing her onto her back. She giggles as I lean over her and cage her in with my hands. She's so beautiful.
I've always known she was beautiful, but this year has been really good to her. Really good. I look down at her chest. I can't help it. They've just gotten so...perfect this year.
"Do you think your boobs are finished growing?" I ask her.
She laughs and slaps me on the shoulder. "You're disgusting."
I bring my fingers up to where her t-shirt scoops down at her neck. I trail my fingers across her chest until I meet the dip in her shirt. "When do you think you'll let me see them?"
"Jamais, Jamais," she says with a laugh.
I groan. "Come on, Charlie baby. I've loved you for fourteen years now. That should earn me something--a quick peek, a hand up the shirt."
"We're fourteen, Silas. Ask me again when we're fifteen."
I smile. "That's only two months away for me." I press my lips to hers and can feel her chest rise against mine with her quick intake of breath. God, the torture.
Her tongue slips inside my mouth as her hand cradles the back of my head, pulling me closer. The sweet, sweet torture.
I lower my hand to her waist, inching her shirt up little by little until my fingers have access to her skin. I splay my hand out across her waist, feeling the heat from her body against my palm.
I continue to kiss her as my hand explores more of her, inch by inch, until one of my fingertips meets the fabric of her bra.
I want to keep going--to feel the softness beneath my fingertips. I want to--
"Silas!"
Charlie sinks into the
mattress. Her entire body is absorbed by the sheets, and I'm left palming her empty pillow.
What the hell? Where did she go? People don't just disappear into thin air.
"Silas, open the door!"
I squeeze my eyes shut. "Charlie? Where are you?"
"Wake up!"
I open my eyes and I'm no longer in Charlie's bed.
I'm no longer a fourteen-year-old boy about to touch a boob for the first time.
I'm...Silas. Lost and confused and sleeping in a damn car.
A fist pounds against my driver-side window. I allow my eyes a few more seconds to adjust to the sunlight pouring into my car before I look up.
Landon is standing at my door. I immediately sit up and turn around, looking behind me, to the sides of me.
It's only Landon. No one else is with him.
I reach for the handle on the door and wait for him to step aside before I swing it open. "Did you find her?" I ask, stepping out of my car.
He shakes his head. "No, they're still looking." He squeezes the back of his neck, just like I do when I'm nervous or stressed.
I open my mouth to ask him how he knew where to find me. But then I close my mouth after remembering I asked him about this house right before I hung up on him. Of course he would look here.
"You need to help them find her, Silas. You have to tell them everything you know."
I laugh. Everything I know. I lean against my car and fold my arms across my chest. I stop smiling at the ridiculousness of the situation, and I lock eyes with my little brother. "I don't know anything, Landon. I don't even know you. And as far as my memory is concerned, I've never even met Charlize Wynwood. How am I supposed to tell the police that?"
Landon's head is tilted. He's staring at me...silent and curious. He thinks I've gone crazy; I can see it in his eyes.
He might be right.
"Get in the car," I tell him. "I have a lot to tell you. Let's go for a drive."
I open my door and climb back inside. He waits several seconds, but then he walks to the car parked in the ditch. He locks it and then makes his way to my passenger door.
"Let me get this straight," he says, leaning forward in the booth. "You and Charlie have both been losing your memories for over a week now. You've both been writing yourselves letters. Those letters were in the backpack Janette found and turned in to the police. The only person who knows about this is some random tarot reader. It happens at the same time of day, every forty-eight hours, and you claim to have no recollection of what happened the day before she went missing?"