Time Snatchers (39 page)

“Ingestion of a toxin?” volunteers one of the guys.

“Not indicated.”

I’m not sure what bothers me more: the fact that I can’t understand a word they’re saying or that they’re talking about me as if I’m not even in the room.

“Doctor,” I say, “have you ever seen any cases like mine before?”

He smiles. “Not every day. But yes, I’ve seen a couple of cases like yours over the years. The brain is a complicated organ. We still don’t understand it completely. Sometimes it does things to protect itself.”

“Do you think that’s what my brain is doing?” I ask.

“Perhaps,” says Dr. Winton, and out of the corner of my eye I can see the students scribbling “perhaps” on their clipboards.

“I’m going to order some tests for you, Caleb,” he says, and I groan. More tests. “And in the meantime, I’m going to give you something.”

He pulls open the desk drawer and hands me a pen and a spiral notebook. I open the book and flip through the lined pages. They’re completely blank.

“This is your memory book,” he says. “I want you to bring it with you wherever you go. When you remember something, jot it down. Don’t worry about it making any sense. Just write it down as it comes to you.”

I nod. I like the feel of the notebook. My own book, for my own memories.

“And when you’re back next week,” he continues, “we’ll talk about what you’ve written down. All right?”

“All right,” I say.

The doctor smiles and then exits the room, the students trailing him.

As I get dressed, an image flashes in my head. Boy, that was quick!

I whip open the book and scrawl July 29, 1967 at the top of the first page. And before the image fades away entirely I scribble,
girl dressed like warrior.

It makes no sense at all. But for some reason it feels good writing it down. Maybe one day all the memory fragments will come together like the pieces of some giant puzzle.

I close the book and finish dressing. Jim, Diane and Zach are all there in the waiting room when I get out.

Zach leaps up from his seat, and grabs my hand. “Caylid. Mom
said when you’re done your ’pointment we’re going on a picnic, and you’re done, so let’s go!”

I let myself be dragged along. Zach doesn’t let go until we’re outside in the sunlight. It’s so bright I have to squint. It feels good to be breathing in fresh air.

“C’mon. Let’s race there!” shouts Zach.

The next second, Zach takes off, sprinting along a footpath.

As I run to catch up, I can hear Jim’s footsteps right behind me. Ever since I showed up at their doorstep that night, Jim has made sure that I haven’t been left alone with Zach for even a minute. I think there’s still a part of him that suspects I had something to do with Zach’s kidnapping. But it doesn’t make me angry. If I was in his shoes, I’d be suspicious, too. In fact, even without being in his shoes, I’m suspicious—that is, sometimes I wonder if my brain purposely blocked out my memories because I’ve done something horrible.

We follow Zach over a pedestrian bridge that crosses high above a bunch of lanes of traffic. It’s obvious he knows where he’s going.

We come bounding off the bridge onto a grassy area with a bunch of picnic tables and a concession stand. But Zach doesn’t stop there. Jim and I chase after him along another path until he finally comes to a stop in the middle of a small footbridge crossing a pond.

“Look. Ducks!” he cries.

Much quacking follows from both the duck and us. Zach starts waddling, which is a good thing because waddling is slower than running, and by now I’m tuckered out.

As soon as we step off the bridge, Zach announces, “We made it. This is the ’splanade, Caylid. You can walk forever, but we’re not gonna. Look, there’s the river!”

I glance through the trees and sure enough I can see the blue gray
water of the Charles River only a stone’s throw away. But it’s only a quick look because Zach’s tugging at me again.

“C’mon, there’s a better view from up there,” he says, pointing to a grassy knoll.

We race up the small hill, and as soon as we get to the top, we flop down on the grass. When I look up, I’m surprised to see that Jim hasn’t raced up with us. He’s still at the bottom of the hill, waiting for Diane.

Zach plucks a tiny flower from the ground and holds it under my chin.

“Caylid, you like butter!” says Zach.

He hands me the flower and guides my hand so I’m holding it just under his chin.

“Now do me!” he says.

I scrunch my eyebrows and study the color of Zach’s chin. It’s hard to tell from my angle, but I give him the benefit of the doubt.

“You too,” I say. “You are definitely a big butter lover. In fact, I’d say you’d like butter on everything. Even your Cheerios!”

That sends him into gales of laughter. I open my hand and let the wind take the flower. I watch it as the breeze blows it down the hill and clear of the walking path. Another gust comes along, and for a moment, it looks like the small flower will be home free. But the next second, it gets lodged in between some rocks.

Jim and Diane arrive, and she lays out a big blanket for us to all sit on.

The last two weeks have been a whirlwind—appointments with doctors, Child Welfare people and the police. Hours spent in Jim’s old station wagon driving around Boston. All of this to help me try to remember who I am. Where I’m from. How I found Zach. But so far everything’s come up a big fat zero.

It’s not just me who everyone’s interested in. The doctors and police are also talking to Zach and asking him lots of questions. But when it comes to me, his answer is always the same: that I saved him from the bad place and the bad man. It’s a lucky thing for me that Jim and Diane have stuck by my side through everything. Not knowing the whole story has been hard for them, especially Jim, but as Diane said to me after my first visit to the police station, “Zach believes in you, Caleb, and that’s good enough for us.”

Diane hands out paper cups and pours lemonade for everyone from a big thermos.

“Zach, give this one to Caleb, please.”

He does, but not without spilling a bit on my thumb. I lick it up, which starts Zach laughing again.

I gaze out at the Charles River and see a sleek-looking rowboat with eight rowers aboard. The boat is moving at a good clip. It amazes me how well the rowers work as a team, dipping their oars in the river, pulling them through the water and then taking them out, all at exactly the same time.

“Caleb,” begins Jim, “Diane and I have been thinking that maybe, if you agree … we’ll take a break from things. You know, and just enjoy all of us being together. I mean, not worry so much about who you are or that you’re not where you’re supposed to be.”

“But, Daddy, we know who Caylid is. He’s Caylid. And he’s just where he’s s’posed to be,” chimes Zach, “with us!”

I smile at Zach and catch Jim’s eye. He doesn’t say anything. Just nods at the wisdom of his five-year-old son. I nod too and close my eyes. For the first time in two weeks, I feel light. As if a great weight has been lifted from me.

After a moment, I open my eyes and look out over the river. The boat is nowhere in sight.