The Leaving Part 11

"Kindergarten." Lucas sat for a minute with the idea of it. The whole notion of kindergarten. Did he remember . . . kindergarten?

CUBBIES. RED.

"Not really. Just the cla.s.sroom. My backpack."

Sashor pushed a photo array toward Lucas. Max as a kid, then a series of sketches that aged him. "Have you ever seen this boy?"

"The FBI agents showed this to me," Lucas said. "And no, I don't remember him. At all. Before or after. And I have no idea if I kissed him, either. In case you were going to ask."

Sashor smiled, then took off his gla.s.ses and rubbed his eyes. For some reason, Lucas felt eager to please him. He also wanted a professional opinion. So he made this deal with himself: He would talk about the carousel.

Not the tattoo.

Not until he found out tonight if the others had tattoos, too.

Not until he spent at least a little time trying to figure out what to make of it.

A camera shutter tattoo.

What did that even mean?

"I do remember one other thing really vividly," he said tentatively.

"What is it?"

"Riding a carousel. It was by the ocean. I get dizzy whenever I think about it."

BLUE-AND-WHITE HORSE. GOLDEN SADDLE.

OLD-TIMEY PIANO.

PEANUTS.

ROUND AND ROUND.

It sounded even more ridiculous when spoken aloud than it had when it had just been in his head.

"How old were you?" Sashor seemed to pep up.

"I don't know. It feels recent. Like I was too old to be riding a carousel but I liked it anyway?"

"No such thing as too old to ride a carousel," Sashor said.

Lucas smiled. "Do you think it really happened?"

"Well, there were no drugs in your system, nothing that could cause hallucinations. So either it happened or it was put there as a decoy, a distraction."

"How would someone even do that?"

"False memories are actually pretty easy to create. Like if your brother told you that when you were kids you dropped your ice-cream cone and cried so hard that the woman in the shop gave you a new cone, you'd believe that it happened, even if you didn't remember it. And then you'd eventually tell the story as your own and even add details, like what flavor of ice cream it was and what the weather was like."

"Seriously?" Lucas couldn't think of his own favorite flavor.

"Seriously."

"So do you have a diagnosis?" Lucas asked. "Like a name for it? Apart from us all just generally being messed up."

Sashor explained anterograde amnesia, which is the loss of the ability to create new memories after an event, leading to a partial or complete inability to recall the recent past. And how it was possible to suffer from this condition while long-term memories from before the event remained intact, which was why he remembered his father, his brother, the house. This was also typically in contrast to retrograde amnesia, where most memories created prior to the event are lost, while new memories can still be created.

"I guess it's possible that someone or something triggered the first condition," Sashor said. "Because, presumably, during the time you were gone, you were able to make memories-and then, eleven years later, triggered the second condition. Leaving a long gap in between."

"But what would that trigger be?" Lucas wished he'd thought to take notes.

"The abduction itself could have been the first trigger? Your release, the next?"

Lucas had no theories. "How do I still know how to play chess and brush my teeth and all?"

"Neither of these conditions affects your procedural memory."

"But how can I retain a memory of knowledge but not of experiences?" Lucas pointed at the map and his high-scoring world history test.

"Those kinds of processes are handled by different parts of the brain, as well. Working in tandem, sure, but separate physical locations," Sashor said. "Honestly, unless they find the person responsible, I can't imagine we'll ever know what the purpose of the experiment was."

"Experiment?"

"I'm a scientist, so that's where my mind goes, yes."

Lucas felt hopeful for the first time. "There can't be that many experts in this field, right?"

"There are a lot of people around the globe trying to crack open one of the mysteries of memory and grab the spotlight. Probably half of them are unhinged or obsessed in some way." Sashor seemed to pause to reconsider what he'd just said. "It's also possible that you're all very good liars. And that you remember everything and are putting one over on the rest of us."

Lucas felt himself bristle. "Why would we do that?"

"To protect the ident.i.ty of the person who took you?" Sashor said. "Because you're suffering from Stockholm syndrome?"

"It's nothing like that." Lucas sat forward in his chair.

Sashor smiled sadly and stood. "But of course you'd say that."

AVERY.

Avery's mom was parked in front of the television, surrounded by crumpled tissues. "The Homecoming," as they were now calling it, was headline news with at least two networks promising "constant coverage."

Sarah and Adam were being interviewed by a daytime anchor with hard-looking hair. On the bottom of the screen, it said, VICTIMS OF THE LEAVING DON'T REMEMBER WHERE THEY'VE BEEN. Avery couldn't stop staring at them, actually crawled across the floor to sit crisscross-applesauce in front of the TV to see them better. They looked like aliens, like fake people, maybe because she'd never imagined she'd ever see them for real. It was like reading a book, then seeing the movie and not liking the casting. What did the others look like? Would they also seem beautiful and fake and all wrong and not at all what she'd pictured, if she'd even pictured them, and she wasn't sure she had, not in years, anyway.

The anchor dude was midquestion when Avery was able to focus her attention on what they were talking about. ". . . but you'll cooperate with the investigation?"

Sarah and Adam swapped a look, and Adam said, "We've spoken to the police and FBI, yes, but beyond that, we really feel like we've met our obligation, and we won't be submitting to physicals or mental evaluations. We're within our rights. We wish we could help, but we don't remember anything. And we really want to get back to normal."

The anchor said, "Another of the returned, Kristen Daley, told one of our reporters that she is going to try to be hypnotized to see if she can recall some lost memories. Are either of you interested in pursuing hypnosis?"

Adam said, "I wish my fellow victims well, and obviously we're all coping differently, but I prefer to keep my intentions moving forward private."

Sarah said, "Me, too."

"And surely you've heard about Lucas's father. How Lucas is considered a suspect in that investigation. Does that resonate with what you know about Lucas? Is he capable of violence like that?"

"I have no idea," Adam said. "We believe we were all together, but I can't speak to anyone's character. If he ever did anything bad or good in the past, I have no memory of either."

Avery wanted to reach through the TV screen and smack them both-the anchor, too. Why weren't they talking about Max?

Also, were they a couple? They seemed to be. That happened pretty fast. Or had they been together before coming back? And if they remembered that, why not other things, too?

What if they are all lying?

The topic of the constant coverage then turned its focus to Will's accident. Her dad had been the one to tell her just an hour or so ago, when he'd finally arrived home.

She still hadn't been able to bring herself to call Ryan.

Or cry.

That probably said something about her as a person, but she wasn't sure what.

She was, however, sure that her attempts to motivate her mom to get dressed or to take a shower or to eat or to do anything would not work. Dad was upstairs sleeping, claiming jet lag. The landline had been ringing off the hook all morning-nothing but news stations, if the first few calls were any indication-and so Avery had unplugged it.

Now, peeking out the front window, she saw two news vans, so she went upstairs to shower and get dressed, then went down and out the side door and up through her neighbor's yard, over a p.r.i.c.kly hedge, and out onto the next block.

She blew past the fish market-with its sidewalk that smelled of bleached rot-and the psychic's storefront. Maybe Madame whatever-her-name-was was worth another visit? Now that she had things to ask that didn't have to do with when she'd lose her virginity? She went past the trailer park loaded up with RVs and half thought about hopping in one, driving away to someplace where no one had even heard of The Leaving, if there was even such a place.

She wasn't even sure what her destination was until she was already there, sweating from having walked so fast.

Opus 6.

A news van sat about a hundred feet from the base of the drive, but the guys in it didn't seem to see her. She ducked through the line of mangroves by the street and came out farther up the path to the house. A portion of the area was blocked off with police tape.

Were they really treating it as a crime?

Ryan would know more.

She hadn't been over to Opus 6 in a few years and, of course, it had expanded in new directions. She walked toward the round pool on the far end of the property, where she and Ryan had once gone for a dip when she was maybe eleven and still friends with him. She remembered treating the whole place like a playground. Climbing and jumping and chasing salamanders this way and that.

Somewhere along the way, Avery had lost sight of the meaning behind Opus 6. The purpose of it. It was meant to be a physical reminder to them all of what had been lost, or taken. She felt mortified now that she'd ever let that happen, ever decided it was time to move on; she hadn't even turned up at the tenth-anniversary vigil.

She heard a car and car doors and voices, and someone appeared at the far end of a winding path that led to a flat circle atop the main structure; for a second Avery thought it was her brother. She knew that Max had had brown hair. People had estimated he'd be around five feet ten inches by now.

Spotting her, he walked very slowly forward-like he was as suspicious of her as she was of him. "Can I help you?"

Of course it wouldn't be Max.

"Lucas?" She saw no recognition in his eyes.

"Do I know you?"

It was really him.

They were really back.

Flesh and blood.

Not from central casting.

She hadn't expected him to be so . . . grown.

Such a guy.

So . . . mesmerizing.

"You did," she said. "When we were little . . . You know.

Before." Before life got crazy, before the whole town turned search party, before everyone said dumb things about hugging your children closer at night, before closing beaches and dredging sh.o.r.elines and ribbons on trees and candlelight vigils.

"I'm Avery."

He shoved his hands into his pockets. "I guess the polite thing would be to say it's nice to see you again."