Chapter 2
In the days that followed, I started scribbling notes like a student cramming for finals, desperate to remember everything before it slipped away.
[Turn off the stove once the pot starts boiling, the key in the second slot of the shoe cabinet, the locker code 150823. Michael's stomach medicine was on the second shelf of the fridge, to be taken twice a day after meals.]
These were things I never had to write down before. They were as natural as breathing.
Now, I had to pin them to paper, because I never knew if one morning I'd wake up and all of it would be gone.
How do I even describe that feeling? It was like standing on the beach, watching the waves slowly wash the sand out from under my feet.
I looked down, and I knew I was sinking. But there was nowhere to run, because I couldn't even remember which way the shore was.
*****
Tuesday was the first time I ever forgot to turn off the stove.
I was in the kitchen making steel-cut oatmeal with a drizzle of honey, Michael's old favorite. After the water came to a boil, I turned down the heat and let it simmer for forty minutes.
I turned the heat down and went to sit on the couch in the living room to wait.
As I waited, I started scrolling through my phone. When I finished, I spaced out for a bit.
Then the doorbell rang. It was the courier from the delivery locker downstairs.
I went to open the door, signed for the package, and brought it back to the living room to open it.
Halfway through opening it, I caught a whiff of something burning. I froze for a second, then bolted to the kitchen.
The pot was bone dry, oatmeal burnt onto the bottom, and the smoke was so thick it made me cough.
I turned off the stove and opened the window. Standing there by the stove, staring at the burnt pot, my mind went completely blank.
It wasn't a shock. It was nothing. I honestly couldn't remember ever making oatmeal in the first place.
If I hadn't smelled the burning, I probably would've sat there on the couch, zoning out, until the whole kitchen went up in flames.
I pulled out my notebook, my hand trembling a bit, and wrote: [Never leave the kitchen when you're cooking. You've already messed up once. Next time, you're on your own. No one's going to warn you.]
Michael came home early that night.
He walked in, frowned, and asked, "What's that smell?"
"I burned the oatmeal," I said.
He gave me that look of disgust I knew all too well.
He wasn't mad about the burnt pot. He hated that I was even here, living in his place.
"You left the window open all day, and it still reeks," he said, then headed straight for his study.
I opened my mouth, wanting to tell Michael that my brain was messed up again today, that maybe I really was sick for real.
But then I remembered the last time I said something like that, he told me to quit the act. So I kept my mouth shut.
I started scrubbing the burnt pot. Halfway through, I spaced out again and forgot what I was doing.
I looked down and saw I was gripping a scouring pad, the faucet running full blast, water pouring everywhere. Oh, right. I was scrubbing the pot.
*****
The first time I got lost was on a rainy day.
It was Friday, around three in the afternoon. I went out to buy groceries. The market was out the east gate of the complex, take a left. I'd walked that path for seven years.
It wasn't raining when I left home, but halfway there, the first drops started to fall. I didn't have an umbrella.
I quickened my steps, but when I reached a street corner, I stopped.
I didn't recognize this place at all. There was a bakery on the left, a phone repair shop on the right.
I stood there in the middle of the street as the rain kept pouring down, glancing left and right, completely lost. I had no idea which way to go.
I hadn't brought my phone. And honestly, even if I had, I wasn't sure I'd remember who I was supposed to call.
The phone numbers I could actually recall were fading away, one by one.
I still remembered Michael's number, because I'd copied it into my notebook so many times. But that notebook was sitting at home.
I stood there in the rain for ages. Eventually, the lady from the bakery next door came out and pulled me inside to get out of the rain.
"Hey, sweetie, you live around here, right? Do you remember your family's phone number?" she asked.
I thought for a long time, then gave her a number.
The lady from the bakery dialed the number for me. It rang eight times, but nobody answered.
She tried again. Someone finally picked up, but there was loud music blaring in the background.
"Hello? Hi, there's a girl here. She's soaked and looks lost. She said this was her number," the lady said.
Michael's voice came through the phone, and I could hear him laughing loud and clear, even from the other end.
He wasn't laughing at me. He was joking around with someone else nearby.
"Is she short, with a round face, wearing—" he began.
He paused, sounding like he was going through the motions, trying to remember what I was wearing today.
"Forget it. Tell her to grab a cab and come home. She's pretending. She knows the way," Michael said.
He hung up without another word. The lady from the bakery glanced at her phone, then at me, her face a mix of concern and confusion.
"Um, how about I call you a cab? Do you remember your address?" she asked.
I nodded. "I live at Bluecrest House," I finally managed to say, feeling a wave of relief wash over me.
*****
When the cab arrived, I got in.
When we pulled up to the gate of the complex, I sat there, not moving. The driver glanced back at me. "We're here, Bluecrest House."
I stared out the window at the entrance. It didn't look familiar at all. But according to my notebook, this was supposed to be home.
I got out of the cab and swiped my access card. The card still worked for me, almost like it was vouching that this was home.
I walked into the building, took the elevator up, and only realized when I reached my door that I didn't have my keys with me.
I crouched by the door, clothes drenched, water dripping from my hair.
I waited nearly two hours until the sound of Michael's car pulling in downstairs drifted up to me.
The elevator doors opened. He stepped out, suit crisp, hair bone dry, bringing with him that cool, rain-soaked air and his usual gardenia cologne.
When Michael saw me squatting by the door, he paused. "Why are you out here?"
"Didn't bring my keys," I replied.
He took out his keys, unlocked the door, and slipped inside without offering a hand. I pushed myself up against the wall, my knees numb from sitting there so long.
Once inside, he kicked off his shoes and walked straight in, not even glancing back.
"Next time, bring your keys," he said.
"Yeah," I mumbled.
I realized I never got around to buying groceries today. And I remembered the background noise when the bakery lady called, music, laughter, and a woman yelling, "Michael, come check this out."
It took me a long time to piece it together. When she called, she mentioned how loud it was on the other end and said she could hear someone singing Happy Birthday.
It wasn't Michael's birthday. And it sure wasn't mine.
A couple of days later, I found a Polaroid in Michael's coat pocket.
In the photo, Helen was hugging a corgi, who was wearing a birthday hat, and there was a cake with candles stuck in it.
Michael was standing right next to Helen, grinning ear to ear, his eyes curved in genuine happiness.
It was a smile I hadn't seen from him in years.
On the back of the photo, in a girlish, rounded handwriting, it said: [Happy 3rd birthday, Benny. Thanks, Michael.]
While I was crouched by the door, soaked in rain for two hours, he was inside throwing a birthday party for a dog named Benny.
I slipped the photo back into his pocket, pulled out my notebook, and wrote: [Michael won't come pick you up anymore. Stop waiting for him.]
After I finished, I stared at the words for a moment, then added another line underneath: [But you'll forget these words, too.]