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Half an hour later and I’ve made three important discoveries.
One: My cell phone is no longer in existence. Either that or it’s turned off or something. I’ve called it from our landline and stood around waiting in every single room of the house and didn’t hear it ring once. Which means it’s either tucked away in Dad’s office, it’s on silent, or it simply vanished.
Just like my memory.
Of course, without my cell, I don’t know anybody’s phone number. Can’t call Chris on our home phone because his information is stuck in the contacts section of my non-existent cell.
But that’s not the only thing that’s missing from around here, which leads me to discovery number two: Besides what Dad showed me this morning in that album, there isn’t a single photograph in this entire house. Which is pretty telling, seeing how much scrapbooking Mom loves to do. She wanted it to be a surprise, but I know she was making me a memory book to give to me as a graduation gift.
Memory book. Ironic, isn’t it?
I know all the places where Mom used to keep her photographs. In cute little storage boxes by the printer in the craft room. On the top shelf of her closet next to her hats.
There’s nothing left.
I know that photos don’t just disappear. They’re saved on hard drives, saved to the cloud, saved on Mom’s Facebook page. I turn on the computer in the spare bedroom, and guess what? Somebody’s changed all the passwords. I try everything. Dad’s birthday. Mom’s birthday. My birthday. I remember everything so clearly. The names of my various goldfish growing up.
Nothing works.
So here I am. No memory, or at least missing a huge three-month chunk. No way to look up anything on my phone or the family computers. No pictures of Chris or anything else for that matter. Think. What do I need to do?
The landline. I still have the landline. But what good is that if I don’t have anybody’s phone number memorized? I walk back downstairs. I have to go slowly because I’m still dizzy. My stomach is empty, but I’m too nauseated to eat.
Back in the kitchen. Staring at the landline phone. What could I do? I know Mom’s cell number, at least. It’s ...
It’s ...
Wait, I know it. I know I do.
Mom’s number. When I was younger and she needed help locating her lost cell, she’d shout out the numbers for me to dial into the landline. I scan the room. There must be something to jog my memory. Some sort of trigger. When Mom lost her cell, she’d tell me to call it. She’d say the numbers were ...
I know there’s a 2. There’s a 2 and a 7. Wait, now that jingle from the pizza delivery commercial is in my head. Dang it. Why can’t I focus?
My eyes dart around wildly until they land on the fridge. That’s it. When Marco and I were little and Mom hired a babysitter, she always kept emergency numbers on the fridge.
I’ve got the landline in my hand and ignore the fact that I’m shaking. Check the fridge. Check the fridge.
Magnets Dad brought home when he went on business trips and Marco and I were young enough to still expect trinkets as gifts. The same flowery notepad Mom always buys from the craft store to keep track of menu planning and grocery lists, except it’s totally blank. A magnet with the contact info for some banker Dad works with. Not going to be any help.
No emergency numbers.
Wait.
There’s something down there between the fridge and the stove. It must have fallen. If I could twist my arm a certain way, I might just be able to reach ...
My heart is racing. I need those numbers. My fingers brush against the side of the fallen magnet.
No. I’ve pushed it back even farther now. I glance toward the hallway, where I’m certain Dad’s going to appear any minute, demanding to know what I’m doing. If my arm was just another inch longer ...
I grab one of Mom’s wooden spoons. See if I can scrape the magnet against the floor, drag it closer to me.
I’ve got it. It’s ...
My hands tremble as I stare at the words. Angelo’s. We Deliver. A local telephone number that isn’t going to help me do anything except order a pizza.
The doorbell rings. I’m not going to wait for Dad to come out of his office or tell me whether I should answer it or not. Right now, even if it’s that nasty detective from earlier this morning, I don’t care. I just need to talk with someone who can explain exactly what’s going on.
I march toward the doorway, ignoring the dizziness. Ignoring the shaking in my body.
It’s time for me to get some answers.