Forget to Remember, page 5
Carol felt overwhelmed by all the information and her lack of response to it. She knew she should react in some way, but to her it sounded like a family she might have read about in a novel. She asked Vigiano what Cynthia was like as a child.
“She was, as I recall, headstrong, independent, creative, and fun loving.”
Carol laughed. “That’s almost exactly what the handwriting expert said about me.”
“She was editor of her high school newspaper. I remember she interviewed me once for a story she was writing. She liked to have her own way, and she usually got it.”
“I can relate to that.”
“Carol, I’d really like to meet you in person.”
“Are you coming to Los Angeles?”
“Not in the near future. No, I mean I’d like to have you come here. Then you can meet Mrs. Horton also. She would be able to tell if you’re Cynthia.”
“I don’t have any money. Besides that, I can’t fly because I don’t have a government-issued I.D. I can’t get one because I don’t have a birth certificate.”
“Yes, that’s a problem—not the money; I can pay for the trip out of the estate, since I have reason to believe you may be Cynthia. But the inability to fly is a problem. You could go AMTRAK, but that would take several days each way. Going by Greyhound would take even longer.”
“I’m sorry; I don’t know what to suggest.”
“Let me think about it. Give me the telephone number and address where you’re staying.”
Carol glanced at Frances. Frances didn’t shake her head no and Carol didn’t know why she shouldn’t give out the information. Everything seemed to be on the up and up. Mr. Vigiano—Paul—sounded straightforward and honest. She recited the address and phone number of Tina and Ernie, and Vigiano said he’d get back to her.
The call ended and Carol looked at Frances with mixed feelings. “Do you think I’m Cynthia?”
“It’s too soon to tell for sure. You could be. Did anything in the call jog your memory?”
“Not really. I’m not sure I could do what Cynthia was doing in London.”
Rigo had shared the receiver with Frances and heard most of the call. “You mean the nude modeling?”
“No, writing a novel. I know I can write, and I can picture myself being an editor of a school newspaper. I seem to have a basic command of the English language. I can write a declarative sentence. But a whole book? What would I write about? I mean, even when I had my memory I probably didn’t have enough life experience to do that.”
Frances said, “Unfortunately, we’ll probably never know since the manuscript appears to be lost. It might provide valuable clues to your identity for anyone who found it, despite the fact it’s supposed to be fiction. They say a writer’s first novel has autobiographical elements. Or maybe they all do.”
A desire was growing inside Carol. “I’d like to go to North Carolina and find out the truth. Am I Cynthia or aren’t I? Even if I have to go by train. It would be fun to take a train across the country. It might help me remember things. Maybe I picked the name Carol because it’s part of Carolina.”
Rigo showed alarm. “Going cross-country without an identity is a dangerous business.”
Frances nodded her agreement. “Why don’t you wait until we have the results of the DNA tests—yours and Mrs. Horton’s? If you don’t match, there’s no need to go, because that means you’re definitely not Cynthia. If you do match, you have to go.”
Carol had caught hints from Rigo that he was afraid she’d disappear. She was glad he was concerned about her, but she was chafed by the idea that he always had to be with her. She wanted to run her own life. She was going to run her own life.
CHAPTER 8
Carol suggested they walk to the football game. It couldn’t be much more than a mile to the high school from the house, mostly downhill. Of course, it would be uphill returning. Since Palos Verdes went from sea level to 1,500 feet, a walker or jogger had to go either up or down. There wasn’t a lot of level terrain.
Rigo said he’d walked to school and had even walked home. He admitted that after he owned a car, he pretty much forgot about walking. “I need to drive because I have to go directly to the restaurant after the game. Of course, I’ll take you home first.”
“No, I’ll walk home.” Carol thought of the Ramirez house as home. It was the only home she knew. She’d started taking walks in the hilly neighborhood, between the time Rigo left for work and his parents arrived home. She wanted to gain strength and stamina. Walking uphill let her know how out of shape she was. She was sure she’d been physically fit before she was attacked.
Once they were in Rigo’s car, it occurred to Carol he’d be late for work. “The game is going to overlap your working hours. Won’t you have to leave early? Friday must be one of the busiest nights at the restaurant.”
Rigo grinned. “I’ve got a special dispensation from my boss to arrive late on the days we have home games. I just have to work harder when I get there. And I may not be able to eat dinner until late.”
“You’re too skinny to have played football yourself.”
“I don’t like any sport where you get hit by somebody twice your size. Tennis is my racket.”
They parked in the high school parking lot, and Rigo paid the nominal fee for the tickets. Carol didn’t like not having any money of her own, and she vowed to change the situation. Maybe she was Cynthia Sakai. If so, she’d be financially set for life. That would be nice.
She and Rigo had spent the last two days scouring the Internet for information about the Sakai family. They had looked at the missing persons photo of Cynthia. Carol remembered what Rigo had said about it.
“This picture makes her look almost weird. I mean, she was apparently a model, but you’d never know it looking at this shot. I’m into old movies. One I like is a cult movie called Fast Times at Ridgemont High, which had Sean Penn in it. More important, a young and very beautiful Phoebe Cates was in it, surely one of the most gorgeous women who ever lived. Yet, I’ve seen a PR photo of her in which she looked almost ugly. I think we’ve got the same situation here.”
“What made you think of Phoebe Cates?”
“You did.”
Carol knew Rigo was just trying to be nice. After all, she had scars and bald spots. She was wearing her beret. Still, a woman liked to hear compliments, however insincere.
They walked into the stadium and sat in the bleachers. Most of the spectators were noisy students or parents. The teens couldn’t sit still. They were always running around to get something to eat or talking to their friends.
Carol saw the view beyond the stadium was very similar to that from the Ramirez house. It was like looking down from the aerie of a hawk. She had seen several of the graceful birds soaring above the canyons, scanning them, trying to spot a juicy rodent to eat for lunch. From somewhere she remembered their vision would allow them to read a newspaper at a distance unimaginable to humans.
She was glad she’d brought a sweater based on Rigo’s advice—purchased for her by Tina. Although the September afternoon was still warm, it was cooling off, and the sun was going down behind the bleachers. A breeze had sprung up. Rigo had told her the rule for living in a desert area like Los Angeles was that regardless of the daytime temperature, always take a wrap to wear at night. The dry air couldn’t hold the heat.
She had vague memories of watching football games—the noise, the crunch of players hitting each other, the high spirits, the cheerleaders, the bands, the majorettes. Could she have been a cheerleader—or perhaps a majorette? She would like to get her hands on a baton, sometime, to see if she could twirl one. It didn’t look that difficult.
Rigo stood up and waved as he spotted his friend, Adam, walking around the bleachers. Adam, still dressed in business clothes, climbed up the wooden steps and joined them.
Rigo introduced Adam and Carol to each other. “Carol, this is my friend, Adam. Adam, this is Carol.”
Carol reached out and shook Adam’s hand. He had a large hand, but his fingers weren’t as long as Rigo’s. He was tall and handsome, with the blond hair and blue eyes of a Scandinavian.
He gave Carol a sunny smile. “From Rigo’s description of how you looked when he found you, I thought you’d be a basket case, but I must say he’s been withholding evidence.” He sat down beside Carol, so she was between the two men.
Rigo spoke quickly. “Adam is married and has two children.”
Carol remembered what else Rigo had said about him. “I understand you two have been friends since elementary school. You were on the tennis team together, and you still play tennis with each other.”
Adam had a mock sorrowful look. “We’re going to keep playing until I can beat him. That’s the only reason our friendship has continued this long. Plus the fact that his parents are among my best clients.”
“You’re a financial advisor, aren’t you? Are you skipping out of work early? Rigo is going to start work late.”
“Being a financial advisor is like having my own business. I set my own hours. My office is just a half mile from here.”
“Did you walk here?”
“No, I drove.”
“Doesn’t anybody walk in Los Angeles?”
Adam looked across at Rigo and spoke over the roar of the crowd as the Palos Verdes team made a long gain. “She obviously isn’t from here. We’d love to have you join us on the hill, however. We need some new blood. Your coloring is similar to Rigo’s. Maybe you’re Hispanic. I think Rigo and his family are the only Hispanics living in Palos Verdes who aren’t live-in caretakers and nannies. We could use a few more rich ones.”
Carol was taken aback by this statement. It sounded racist to her. It didn’t seem to bother Rigo who responded in turn. “You’re about to be knocked off your pedestal, gringo. The Asians are taking over the hill. Soon you’ll know what it’s like to be part of a minority.”
“Es verdad. Most of my clients are Asian. They have all the money.” Adam faked glumness but then brightened as he spoke to Carol. “I’d be happy to look after your investment needs.”
“I don’t have any money.”
“You and Rigo are singing the same song. A temporary situation, I assume, at least in your case. Beautiful women don’t have trouble attracting money. I’m not so sure about Rigo.”
First Rigo and now Adam. If enough men implied she was beautiful, she might start believing it.
***
Carol declined offers from both Rigo and Adam to drive her home. It almost seemed as if they were competing for her attention. She suspected competition formed a significant part of their relationship.
She made it up the hill, puffing slightly less than she had several days before when she had started walking, and strolled the long driveway that went between two other houses, to where the Ramirez house was set near the edge of the cliff. Ernie and Tina weren’t home yet. She knew this because a FedEx package was sitting at the front door. They had given her a key. She unlocked the door and carried the flat cardboard container inside.
Only then did she glance at the address on the package. She did a double take. Her eyes weren’t playing tricks on her. The package was indeed addressed to Carol Golden. How could that be? She looked for the address of the shipper. It was Paul Vigiano’s law firm.
Recovering from her initial shock, she wondered what Paul, as he wanted to be called, was sending her. She tore off a cardboard strip and flipped up the flap to get to the contents. There were several computer-printed pages and an envelope. She glanced at the first page; it was a letter from Paul. Without reading it, she looked at the second page and realized it was an airline E-ticket. The passenger’s name was…Cynthia Sakai. Was this some kind of a joke?
She quickly tore open the envelope. The first thing she saw was a considerable quantity of bills—twenty-dollar bills. There was also a small plastic card. She pulled out the card. It was a driver’s license from the state of North Carolina. Her picture was on it—one of the pictures Rigo had taken of her, except her scars had been erased. The name on the license was Cynthia Sakai, and the address was Chapel Hill.
Carol went back to the letter. Below the usual addresses, dates, and such at the top of a business letter it read:
Dear Carol,
I talked to Elizabeth Horton about you and she wants to meet you as soon as possible. The enclosed ticket will allow you to fly to Raleigh-Durham using the name Cynthia Sakai. After all, this may be your name! The driver’s license will serve as your identification. It is a legitimate North Carolina license and nobody will question it. It isn’t the license Cynthia had when she disappeared, but that disappeared with her.
I have made reservations for you at a local hotel. All your expenses will be paid while you’re here. To cover any incidental expenses you might have I’m enclosing $500.
It’s in the best interests of all of us (you, Mrs. Horton and myself) that we establish whether or not you are actually Cynthia Sakai without delay.
Please feel free to call me if you have any questions. I look forward to seeing you on Monday evening. Somebody will meet you at the airport.
Yours sincerely,
Paul Vigiano
Attorney at Law
Carol looked at the driver’s license again. It said she had been born on August 10, 1984, which would make her twenty-five years old. That was all right with her. It sounded like a good age. Could she really do this? By using a fake driver’s license, she’d be breaking the law.
She felt guilty. She’d probably always been a law-abiding citizen. Her fingerprints weren’t on file. But almost anything she did broke the law. Just by living she was probably breaking the law because she didn’t have the documentation the law required. When she looked at the problem like that, it didn’t really matter what she did. A growing excitement and anticipation inside told her she was no longer worried about the law.
She heard a noise at the front door. Tina and Ernie were home. She stuffed everything back into the cardboard container and ran up the stairs with it. She placed it in the drawer of the dresser in her room, underneath the underwear Tina had bought for her. She wasn’t sure why she was doing this. She only knew she wasn’t ready to discuss it with them.
CHAPTER 9
The alarm went off at five a.m. It startled Carol, even though she’d been in and out of sleep for a couple of hours, waiting for the buzz. She reached under the pillow, where she’d placed the clock to muffle the sound, and throttled it.
She jumped out of bed and turned on the light, listening for any other noise in the house. She didn’t think the alarm had awakened anybody. Ernie and Tina arose about six on a work day, and Rigo, who had worked the Sunday evening shift last night, would sleep for several more hours.
She quickly dressed, including putting on the sweater she would need against the morning chill. She picked up the small suitcase she had found in the garage and went downstairs, barefoot. She used the downstairs bathroom, gulped a glass of water, and grabbed a muffin before she walked out the front door and quietly closed it behind her.
It was still dark outside, but streetlights lit her way, and she had sidewalks to walk on here in Rancho Palos Verdes, unlike a couple of the four cities that made up the Palos Verdes Peninsula. She had a short walk to the bus stop on Hawthorne Boulevard, mostly downhill. The suitcase couldn’t weigh much more than ten pounds. It contained her clothes, a comb, a toothbrush, and a few makeup essentials—in other words, all her possessions.
She had checked out the Los Angeles metropolitan bus system on the Internet. She could get to LAX with just one transfer. She had broken one of her twenty dollar bills at a bank in the shopping center on Hawthorne, so she had the correct change. Even if Ernie and Tina got up before the bus came, they probably wouldn’t realize she was gone. If for some reason they became aware of her departure, they would think she was out for an early morning walk. She had taken such walks on Saturday and Sunday to condition them. They wouldn’t send out a search party this early.
There was already some commuter traffic on Hawthorne, heading down the hill to offices and stores and factories that could be anywhere from a few miles to an arduous drive away. The residents of Palos Verdes worked everywhere, and the earlier they got started in the morning the easier their commute became.
She crossed Hawthorne with the light and sat down on the sheltered bench provided for bus passengers, feeling she was starting to live her life again.
***
Rigo had a job interview at ten, so he’d set his alarm for seven forty-five. On the way to the shower, he noticed Carol’s door was closed. This was unusual; she usually left it open except when she was asleep. She hadn’t slept this late since she’d arrived.
He showered, shaved, and got dressed, then went downstairs to eat breakfast. His parents had gone to work. Rigo counted cereal bowls and determined Carol hadn’t eaten breakfast. May she was out walking, but she was usually back by now. He called his mother’s cell phone, ostensibly to tell her good morning and let her wish him a successful interview, but he also asked, casually, whether she’d seen Carol. She hadn’t.
Back upstairs, Rigo hesitated, not wanting to make a tsunami out of a ripple, but then the thought came to him she might have suffered a relapse because of her head injuries. He knocked on her door. No answer. He called her name. He opened the door slowly. The drapes were still closed, but he could see the bed was empty.
