"Good. That's important, Grace. You know how you get when you don't take them."
I don't know how I get when I don't take them. I've never not taken them. I've been on this prescription since I was thirteen and have never missed a day. Linda says this—you know how you get—and I've never questioned it. She's my foster mother. She got me the prescription. She knows my medical history better than I do, which isn't saying much because I don't know my medical history at all.
"I know," I say. "I take them."
"Good. And you're eating?"
"Yes, Linda."
"Because last time you visited, you looked thin. I worry about you in that apartment by yourself."
She doesn't worry about me. Or maybe she does, but it's the wrong kind — not love, just diligence. A task on a checklist. Make sure she takes the pills. Make sure she's eating. Make sure she's stable. Check in monthly. File the report.
Except I don't know about the reports. I don't know about any of it. I just know that talking to Linda feels like filling out a form, and I've stopped trying to explain why.
"I'm eating fine. Work feeds me."
"Okay, sweetie. Well, Paul says bye. Call us if you need anything. And Grace?"
"Yeah?"
"Don't forget the vitamins. I know you think you don't need them, but you do. You've been on them since you were a girl and your body depends on them. You’re about due for a refill, I’ll fill it for you, pick up at the house in a week. Don't try to go without."
There's an urgency in her voice that isn't there for anything else. Not for the eating, not for the visits. Just the vitamins. The one piece of this arrangement she treats with actual weight. I've never thought about why.
"I won't forget," I say. "Bye, Linda."
"Bye, sweetie. Take care."
I hang up. Four minutes and twelve seconds. Four minutes for eleven years of relationship. That's about right.
I put the phone on the nightstand, lie back on the bed, and look at the ceiling.
The fragment from earlier is still in my body.
I wonder who it was. I wonder if it was real or if my brain made it up like some kind of wish-fulfillment, a manufactured memoryto fill the blank space where the real ones should be. I wonder if the vitamins have something to do with it. If the anxiety medication I've been taking for eleven years is the reason I can't hold on to these flashes. The reason they come and go without leaving a trail.
I don't follow the thought. I never follow the thought. Following it would mean questioning the pills and questioning Linda and questioning the entire foundation of the only life I remember.If I pull that thread, what's underneath?
Nothing. There'snothingunderneath. There can't be.
I close my eyes. I think about Carmelo. The back of his hand. The warmth of him walking beside me. My name in his mouth at my door, just "Grace," and it sounded different than it does from anyone else.
My finger taps my collarbone.One. Slow. Two. Slower.
I fall asleep thinking about his voice and don't dream about anything I can remember.
Chapter Nine: Carmelo
TheMarinos'check-inwasthree days ago.
Paul made the call on Tuesday at nine fourteen AM from the back bedroom, away from the windows. I was parked on their street in the rental car, close enough to see him walk from the kitchen to the bedroom, far enough that the motion sensor above the garage didn't trigger. Nine minutes and twenty-two seconds. He hung up, walked back to the kitchen, poured a second cup of coffee and sat down at the table with his wife.
Three days ago. Their next check-in isn't for twenty-seven days. Twenty-seven days before the handler notices the silence. Five to six after that before someone comes to the house. I have a month, there abouts.
I drive to Chestnut Hill at ten on a Friday morning because Friday mornings are quiet on their street. The neighbors on the left both work. The neighbors on the right are retired and leavefor their grandson's school drop-off at eight fifteen and don't come back until after eleven. I've watched this block for three days over two weeks. I know when every car leaves and every door opens, even when every garbage can gets dragged to the curb.
The Buick is in the driveway. The Toyota is gone. Linda is out. Grocery store, most likely. She goes Fridays between nine and eleven. Paul is home alone.