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That was it. Though she didn’t have to keep more than three years of past taxes on file, she didn’t remember deleting any of the older ones. They were ducks, like the others; just old ducks.
Moving with purpose now, she sat down in front of the computer, hesitated, then got up and disconnected her DSL modem. Could anything she did while she was disconnected from the Internet be detected? She had no idea, but at least she’d made the effort. She opened her files and clicked on “taxes.” In an effort to ward off a headache she silently told herself, I’m cleaning out my files. That’s all. This is an ordinary activity, not an attempt to access an old memory.
When she saw three years of tax returns in the folder, the beginnings of a headache teased her. She closed her eyes and thought about the show she’d watched on television last night, then about the next-door neighbor’s dog, the furry yapper. She liked dogs, but that one was a PITA, a pain in the ass. She deliberately thought about a song she’d heard on the radio yesterday, one that had turned into an earworm she’d been able to dislodge only by deliberately listening to something else just as repetitive; evidently the two had cancelled each other out. To her relief, the headache that teased her faded away.
She took a deep breath and resumed her research. All right, just three years of files in the “taxes” folder. Whether or not she remembered deleting the files, evidently she had. She couldn’t say that would be a noteworthy action, anyway, so not remembering doing so didn’t mean a thing.
Next she opened the right-hand drawer of her desk and pulled out her checkbook. She still paid bills the old-fashioned way, with a check in the mail rather than an electronic transfer, because it struck her as more orderly and safer, speed be damned. There was a neat, short stack of check registers, one for each of the past two years. Year three was with the checks in a neat, black cover. Lizette reached to the bottom of the stack and pulled out the oldest check register.
Was that her handwriting? Yes, definitely. Were there any payments that might indicate unusual activity? No, just as definitely. As she flipped all the way through that register, and then the next one, alarm began to grow. She paid her bills, but apparently that was it. She didn’t appear to have any outside interests, hadn’t gone on any trips, or done much of anything. Had she always been this way? She felt a definite reluctance to think about the subject at all, but, no, she didn’t think so. This didn’t feel right. Hell, she knew this wasn’t her, any more than this face was hers!
Another idea struck: credit cards. She pulled out the file folder containing her paid credit card bills. She had two cards, an American Express and a Visa. Flipping through the statements, looking at what her charges had been, she could only shake her head. Her charges were few, seldom more than one or two a month, and for the most mundane things: gas, groceries, stuff like that. The oldest statement was from three years ago.
She got up and fetched her wallet, pulled out her American Express card. She’d been a “member” for three years.
Oh, shit.
The realization that she didn’t remember applying for and receiving the American Express card was another piece of the monstrous puzzle.
She returned to the credit card statements, looking through them, noting what she’d purchased. As with her checkbook, none of the charges said anything about her as a person. Nothing here helped her reconcile what she saw, what she remembered, with the woman she knew herself to be.
She hadn’t bought a concert ticket, or any jewelry, or a special pair of shoes. That was kind of good, because she didn’t remember going to a concert and if she’d bought a ticket and not gone she’d have been pissed. Nothing stood out; her financial records were as blah as what she remembered. Why, there wasn’t even a single charge to a gun store—
The attack blindsided her, hitting brutally fast, and was
so severe she was literally blinded by the pain. Her body lurched in response and she gripped the armrests of her chair to keep from falling to the floor. Her stomach rolled, but before the nausea could hit she wrenched her thoughts to the song she’d heard on the radio yesterday, the one that had stuck in her mind for a while. She even sang a few bars—badly, because she couldn’t sing worth crap. But yes, that was her voice, the voice she’d always had: a little too deep, a little rough, and entirely off key. It was nice to know some things hadn’t changed.
As soon as she felt in control once again, and the headache faded to a manageable pang, she sat for a moment thinking over other avenues she could explore. Finally she plugged the computer back into the modem, let them connect, and clicked on the “history” tab. She didn’t expect to see anything that she didn’t remember from yesterday or the day before; she was simply looking back over a few days, that was all. She wasn’t looking for anything in the missing years; she was looking for herself.
Why did she never check out any of the news outlets? She didn’t care one bit about politics now, but once she had—
Lizette stopped that thought before her body attacked itself.
Let’s see. Swiftly she glanced down the list of sites, all so familiar. She played solitaire. She didn’t have an account at a single social media site. Occasionally she’d listen to a song on YouTube. That was about it.
Asking why would bring on another attack, so she hummed that song again, took a deep breath, and in one portion of her mind she asked … when did I become a zombie?
She almost laughed. Now and then her coworkers would make a joke about “the coming zombie apocalypse.” If there ever was one, she was better equipped than most people to—This time there was no stopping the pain that exploded in her skull. It happened too fast, slamming into her like a sledgehammer. Not a headache, she thought as she fell out of her chair and curled into the fetal position. It wasn’t a headache; it was an attack … maybe even a warning. She lay on the floor whimpering until she could see well enough to focus on a spot on the rug beneath the plain desk and chair. Concentrating on that helped, and as the pain eased off she began singing softly to herself.
Chapter Six
Two hours later, her stomach now settled enough that she could tolerate putting something in it, Lizette sat on the floor with a cup of coffee—lightened, sweetened, and warmed in the microwave—sitting on the coffee table within reach and the only photo album she could find open in her lap. There were baby pictures, photos of her with her parents, school pictures—not from every grade, but from most. Toward the end of the book there were some snapshots from college, always with friends with whom she had since lost contact. After that, nothing.
When had she stopped taking photographs? Not that she was a particularly good photographer, but still, who didn’t take pictures of…
Of what? She went to work, she read, she watched television. She didn’t participate in sports or join clubs or even date—at least not in a long while, which was weird, because she could remember a time when she’d had an active social life. But that was then, and this was … this was pitiful. What would she take pictures of now? Lunch at her desk?
Over the past two hours she’d been experimenting, exploring the boundaries of this weird crap that was happening to her. Now she could recognize the signs that the headache and nausea were coming, and she no longer doubted that it was any thought of the missing two years that brought on the pain. She had no explanation for that, not even a plausible theory, but she did have the good sense to believe what she saw—or rather, what she felt.
Thinking about—or trying to think about—why she’d stopped taking pictures brought on the first, very recognizable signs of distress, so she stopped trying to figure it out and turned back in the album to photos of her childhood. Halloween, Christmas, a summer vacation at the beach. Damn, she’d been skinny. Look at those beanpole legs! Concentrating on things she definitely remembered did the trick, and once again she was in control of her own body.
The doorbell rang, and she almost jumped out of her skin. Her shoulder bumped against the coffee table, her mug shook, and caramel-colored liquid splashed close to the rim. She steadied the cup, set the photo album aside, and stood.
The hair on the back of her neck was standing up. She could feel alarm like a cold chill all over her body, shouting a warning.
Who would come to her door in the morning, when anyone who knew her would know she was normally at work at this hour? It was too early for the mail, not that she expected a package or anything that would need to be signed for, which would be the only reason the mailman would knock. Door-to-door salesmen were kind of rare these days, and the only friend she had who would check on her—Diana—already had.
Lizette approached the door cautiously, her hands opening and closing as if seeking a weapon that wasn’t there. She eased around to the side, so if anyone shot through the door—shit! Quickly she hummed a song under her breath, concentrating on the tune, warding off the hammer of pain that had drawn back in preparation to knock her block off.
