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“Yes,” I say. “Why didn’t you tell me Lisa Milner contacted you?”
31.
There’s a pause on my mother’s end. Long enough to make me think she’s hung up. Seconds pass in which I hear nothing but the whoosh of air sliding across the car’s exterior. But then my mother speaks. Her voice is lukewarm and without inflection—the aural equivalent of melted vanilla ice cream.
“What a strange question, Quincy.”
I huff out an angry sigh.
“I saw the email, Mom. I know you gave her your phone number. Did she call you back?”
Another pause. A bit of static crackles from my phone before my mother says, “I knew you’d be angry if you found out.”
“When did you talk?” I say.
“Oh, I don’t know.”
“You do, Mom. Now, tell me.”
More pausing. More static.
“About two weeks ago,” my mother says.
“Did Lisa say why she was so suddenly interested in me again?”
“She told me she was worried.”
This sends a chill scudding through me.
Quincy,I need to talk to you. It’s extremely important. Please, please don’t ignore this.
“Worriedforme? Oraboutme?”
“She didn’t really say, Quincy.”
“Then what did you talk about?”
“Lisa asked me how you were doing. I told her you were doing great. I mentioned your website, your nice apartment, Jeff.”
“Anything else?”
“She asked—” My mother stops herself, thinks, carries on. “She asked if you’ve recovered any memories. Of what happened that night.”
Another chill goes through me. I switch on the car heater, hoping that will make it go away.
“Why would she do that?”
“I don’t know,” my mother says.
“And what did you tell her?”
“The truth. That you can’t remember a thing.”
Only, it’s not the truth. Not anymore. I remember something. A keyhole-size peek into that night.
I take a deep breath, inhaling the dusty hot air rushing from the heating vents. It does nothing to warm me. All it manages to do is make my throat itchy and dry. My voice is a rasp when I say, “Did Lisa mention why she wanted to know this?”
“She said she’d been thinking about you lately. She said she wanted to check in on you.”