The Dead Girl in 2A Read online

  She’s writing in a journal. Left-handed. I steal sideways glances from two feet away. She seems unaware of her audience.

  The sense of memory slams into me a second time, more powerfully than before. This is especially jolting because memories have been sliding away rather than appearing lately.

  I look at my arm, which is suddenly washed in goose bumps.

  Jesus, what is happening?

  There’s something else I never would have done a year ago, and that’s start a conversation with the person on the plane next to me. But the familiarity of this woman is so intense that I’m barely aware I’m speaking before I actually hear the words coming out my mouth.

  “Excuse me, do I know you?”

  Three

  The Book of Clara

  10/10/2018

  Dear Reader, Page One. The Book of Clara.

  You have found this book, so I like to think you have a responsibility to read it. It’s all I ask. I want someone to know me.

  I’ll be working backward, starting from the present moment and moving into my past, year after year, until I get to my very first memories, which don’t really begin until very late, maybe around when I was eight. Moreover, lately, I’ve been forgetting swaths of my adulthood, so forgive me if my writing is scattered.

  When I hold the journal to my face, the blank pages have the faintest scent of chemicals, but the black leather cover smells of raw, beautiful flesh. A worn saddle from two hundred years ago, hung to dry in a dusty barn. I close my eyes and imagine a life back then, but the moment doesn’t last. That’s been happening. My mind fizzles. I think my brain is a battery that has reached the end of its useful life, no longer able to hold a charge.

  Which is one reason for this journey, and this journal entry. I want you to know some of what I’ve seen, of what I’ve experienced. The sum of the parts that add up to the existence of Clara Stowe. You will likely judge me for what I’ve done in the past year. Say to yourself, Why would she make those decisions? And you will likely be right in asking. Strange things have been happening. Strange and beautiful, leading me to make a decision I surely won’t be able to explain here through words. But I’m at least going to try.

  What kind of strange things?

  I don’t even have to reach back in time for an example. There’s one right next to me.

  This is the longest I’ve been surrounded by people in some time, yet I’m much calmer than expected. Perhaps my sense of purpose is more powerful than my unease with the world at large. Still, I cannot escape the craving to be back in my apartment, surrounded by books and blankets, cozy, cocooned, and removed from society.

  The airplane smells strangely of sawdust and sweat, broken-down people and, I think, fear. Maybe it’s a fear I’ve never noticed before, a collective worry we’ll crash, sending our bits and pieces scattering somewhere over a tiny stamp of America. I don’t have this fear, or at least it’s far down on my list, because just being in the outside world is horrifying enough. A plane crash would be a terrible way to die, surely, but the real shame is no one would ever read these words. They’d incinerate along with luggage and bones and hair.

  We’ve been flying for about twenty minutes, and I’ve been able to sneak enough glances at the man sitting next to me to form the distinct sense I know him. But that’s not possible, is it? First class on a 757, seats 2A and 2B, departing from Boston Logan, bound for Denver. I’m not even supposed to be in first class, but when I checked in, my seat had been upgraded. But yet there it is. That energy of familiarity about this man, crackling and popping. Perhaps even his scent is familiar. His cologne, maybe.

  He could be my age, give or take a couple years in either direction. His face has a thin layer of stubble that looks less stylish and more a concession. Close-cropped hair, brown. Blue oxford shirt, sleeves rolled up over forearms that are grooved by muscles, telling me he’s no stranger to the gym. Jeans. Black sneakers, clean.

  On his left ring finger is a simple gold wedding band, which this man slides up and down over the knuckle with his right hand. Back and forth, as if it might burn through his skin if it settled too long in one spot.

  I can’t discern anything concrete about why he’s so familiar, and whenever I dare glance over, I have only his profile to observe and his energy to feel. There’s a toughened sadness to him, like a cop pushing past his emotions to continue working a brutal crime scene.

  There’s nothing specific that tells me why I should know this man, other than the primal sense that I do, but I no longer trust my hunches. Reality has become a river for me, part of it deep and permanent, other areas dangerously shallow and in high risk of drying out.

  We share a drink rest between us, his side occupied by a whiskey, mine by water. He turns on his light, and I risk another glance. As I do, I meet his gaze.

  My god.

  I know these eyes. No. Not quite the eyes, but the way he looks at me. Unique as a fingerprint.

  I think I might—

  Four

  Jake

  Shit. I’ve startled her, I can see it. I scramble.

  “Sorry, I’m not trying to be weird, I promise. But…it’s just that I have this strange sense I know you.”

  The tip of her pen hovers over a journal page half-filled with perfect, flowing script, and when she looks at me, I see her eyes for the first time. Coffee-brown, flecks of cinnamon. The familiarity deepens even more.

  I’m now certain I’ve fucked this all up. I don’t know this person. I just had another misfired synapse, and now I’ve freaked this poor woman out at the start of a long flight.

  “I’m sorry,” I manage to stammer. “I just—”

  “That is strange,” she says. Her voice is soft, almost meek. “I was thinking the same thing. You look familiar.”

  She just threw me a lifeline. Maybe I’m not crazy. Yet.

  She squints and shakes her head. “No, no, that’s not quite right. You seem familiar, but I can’t say you look familiar.”

  “I’m Jake Buchannan.”

  I pivot in my seat to face her more directly, then reach out my right hand. She gives it a light shake. Her fingers are cold.

  “Clara Stowe.”

  “I don’t recognize your name.”

  “Me either. Do you live in Boston?”

  “No,” I say. “Just outside. Arlington.”

  “I don’t ever get out there,” she says, adding cryptically, “or anywhere, really. I live in the city. North End.”

  “Maybe we know each other professionally?” It’s worth a shot. “What do you do?”

  “I used to be a teacher. But I’m not working anymore. You?”

  “I’m a writer. Mostly freelance. Men’s magazines, an article here or there with the Globe. Ghostwriting work pays the bills. I also have an incomplete novel sitting on my hard drive.”

  “A novel,” she says, her eyes widening. “What’s it about?”

  I used to be uncertain. The book, started years ago, was about a man who struggled to find how he fit in the world, but the plot—if there was one—was vague at best. I would think about it from time to time, occasionally write a thousand words, then delete half of them and move on to a writing project with a deadline and a check attached. And though I haven’t touched the manuscript in some time, the entire plot revealed itself to me recently, in a moment as powerful and uncontrollable as my waves of emotion. The entire plot, start to finish, chapter by chapter, all in my head, as clear as if it were a work by another writer that I’d studied for years. This moment occurred six months ago, and it was as close to an epiphany as I’ve ever had.

  Self-actualization.

  I haven’t written it out yet, and am almost afraid to, as if it might not be the book I think it is. And though I’m losing more of my short-term memories, the details of the book root deeper in my brain, every detail, not
one element lost in the fog of my mind.

  “It’s about nostalgia,” I answer. I vow to myself in this moment to finish writing it as soon as my current assignment is finished. It’s time.

  “Nostalgia.” Clara softly shakes her head, seemingly sucked in by that word. I break the ensuing silence.

  “So we don’t know each other professionally. What else could it be?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “It’s probably something simple.”

  “Maybe,” she says. “Maybe it doesn’t matter at all.”

  I’m getting the sense she doesn’t want to talk anymore, and my impulse is to leave her alone. God knows, I don’t want to come off as a creep, but she did say I was familiar to her. I give it one last effort. “But…aren’t you curious?”

  Clara now turns more fully toward me, loosening her seat belt in the process. She takes a deep, meditative breath, slowly lets it out, then locks her gaze directly on me. She’s about to say something, then holds back.

  She softly shakes her head at me, as if wishing me away, and then goes back to writing in her journal.

  Five

  The Book of Clara

  10/10/2018

  I made the decision last week, not too long after the repressed memory surfaced. I’d never felt so certain about anything before. Things were suddenly so much clearer, more so than in years, fresh smells and bursting colors. Affirmation of an inevitable decision. I knew where to go.

  The Maroon Bells. Those humbling twin peaks in the Elk Mountains of Colorado. I’ve only seen pictures, but I have a connection with them beyond their beauty. I don’t think I’ve ever been to Colorado—if I have, I would have been just a child—but I’ve had the sense if I ever visited the Maroon Bells, I’d feel like I was coming home.

  Most of the money I have comes from my adoptive parents. They don’t understand my situation, but they’ve been kind in their support. I had enough for a plane ticket.

  The airline workers were curious with me at the airport. A one-way ticket to Denver. No bag to check. I’m sure I looked suspicious—I was nervous enough already, being this far outside the womb of my apartment. I was even pulled aside at the security point and asked some extra questions. A gnomish little TSA agent asked why I was going to Colorado, and I was tempted to tell him the truth. But that would have just complicated things, so I simply said I was visiting a friend and didn’t know how long I was going to stay.

  He scrunched his face a few times before letting me go on my way.

  Then everything was fine. In fact, for no reason at all, the gate agent called my name out, then upgraded me to first class. Me. A woman with no status in the world, much less with this airline. Definitely a message from the universe. Confirmation.

  Everything was clear. I had complete and total purpose, perhaps for the first time in my life.

  Then the man on the plane started talking to me.

  Six

  Jake

  Time slows. The silence grows thick, and with each moment that bleeds out, I’m become more obsessed about how I know this woman. I order another drink, which probably isn’t the best idea. There’s been too much drinking lately.

  Dinner is served and cleared without another word between us. I keep my headphones off, tired of storms. I just sit here, sipping whiskey, giving myself memory tests, and trying to ignore what seems almost like a supernatural presence next to me.

  That’s it, I think, vaguely pleased with myself. Clara’s a ghost. I’m probably the only one who can see her.

  Just as this thought exits my mind, she breaks the long silence.

  “I haven’t flown in years,” she says. “In fact, I barely leave my apartment. I’m a bit of a recluse.”

  Okay, she wants to talk. Good.

  “You barely ever leave your apartment, yet here you are flying first class to Denver? Must be a special occasion.”

  “It is,” she says, offering nothing more.

  I tread lightly.

  “How does it feel to be flying?”

  She thinks about this. “Unsettling.”

  “Are you afraid of planes?”

  “I’m afraid of the world.”

  There’s a lot to unpack in that one sentence, and I don’t ask her to do it.

  A few moments pass, and she adds, “Listen, Jake, it’s just that… Well, I am curious about you. It’s just that I’m really focused on something, and I don’t know if it’s good for me to be distracted from that.”

  “I get it,” I say, not really getting it. “But we are here, and we’ve got a little time left in the flight. Maybe we treat it like a game to pass the time…you know, Twenty Questions. We’ll figure out how we know each other and then go our separate ways in Denver.”

  She looks at me, really looks at me, with a slight tilt of the head. A few seconds later, she closes the journal, lays the pen on top, and straightens into a small stretch. She wears the thinnest trace of a smile.

  “Twenty Questions,” she says. “Well, okay, I suppose we don’t really need to keep count. I’ll start. So, Jake Buchannan, why are you going to Denver?”

  “I’m meeting a client. He hired me to ghostwrite his memoirs.”

  “His memoirs? What does he do that he has a book’s worth of memories?”

  “Honestly, I don’t really know. But I suppose I’ll find out.”

  A guy named Alexander Eaton contacted me two weeks ago looking to hire me, then insisted on flying me immediately out to Denver. Once in a while, I’ll get a cold call for a memoir job, someone who’s seen my website or otherwise found me online. These almost never go well. They’re either shocked at the fee, which starts at $20,000 for a slimmer volume and goes up from there, or I meet with them and realize they have nothing to say aside from one interesting story that might fill one chapter. Then I end up blamed for a thin volume about a dull life.

  I initially told him I wasn’t interested. I definitely needed the income, but something seemed a little off with the guy, and I pictured myself spinning my wheels and not getting paid. It’s happened before. But this Alexander Eaton refused to take no for an answer, telling me to name a price. I literally laughed at the clichéd line, but he politely waited for an answer on the other end of the line. I thought about it a moment, then said $75,000 for three hundred pages, with a $10,000 nonrefundable retainer. I said I had the right to stop work for any reason after fifty pages, no questions asked.

  He immediately agreed, then told me to book first-class airfare on this specific flight, and he’d arrange a room at the Four Seasons in Denver.

  That was unexpected. And, to be honest, a godsend.

  I asked him what he did for a living, but he declined to answer, telling me he preferred to talk in person. This was strange, since most ghostwriting subjects will talk about themselves ad nauseam any opportunity they’re afforded, so I spent a little time Googling his name. I found information about a few different Alexander Eatons, but couldn’t connect any of them to Denver.

  True to his word, the retainer hit my bank account a few days later. Everything just fell into my lap, and the money came at a time we needed it most. Em’s medical bills from the accident seem endless, and the insurance company had just denied coverage for a series of doctor-recommended occupational-therapy sessions. Whoever Alexander Eaton truly is, I’m grateful to him. He’s helping me take care of my little girl, which matters most right now.

  “How long have you been in Boston?” I ask.

  “Seven years. You?”

  “In the area, nearly twenty. What kind of teaching did you do before…before you left?”

  “I was a middle-school teacher,” Clara says. “Do you have kids?”

  “One,” I say. “A daughter. She’s eight. That can’t be the connection.”

  “Do you work in the city?”

  I think of
the office in the house I occupied until a month ago. My single-dad apartment lacks one, though I didn’t make that a priority when finding a new place. I hopefully won’t be there long. “About half the time. I lease a small space on Exeter Street. But I don’t think that’s the connection either. What is it?”

  We exchange more bits of our lives. I tell her I’m married, but don’t tell her I’m separated. I tell her about my daughter, Em, but don’t tell her about the accident. I suppose I’m avoiding talking about my shame. Shame that I was the one who lost control of the car. Shame that my daughter might have permanent impairment as a result of the crash. Shame that my marriage is now crumbling, and that I’m struggling to be the provider I’ve always thought I needed to be.

  Everything is just a goddamn shame.

  Clara tells me her history, summarized in pithy detail, holding back, I’m guessing, enough to stay a bit in her shell. She’s thirty-four, a year younger than me. Grew up in Maine, college in upstate New York, moved back to Maine and worked as a middle-school teacher before getting a better job in Boston. Unmarried, no kids. Never been outside of the northeastern United States. This is in stark contrast to me, though in all my travels, I can’t overlap any of her geographical and chronological history with mine.

  “So you were a teacher. First in Maine and then in Boston?”

  “That’s right,” she says. “Ten years.”

  “Middle school. I think that would be a tough age to teach. You must really love it.”

  “I did, yes.”

  “Will you go back to it?”

  There isn’t the slightest hesitation. “No.”

  “So…so you said you’ve been living as a bit of a recluse,” I say.

  “Yes.”

  “Can I ask why?”

  The plane suddenly drops, not severely, but enough to elicit a group gasp. Clara rides it with an expression of wonder on her face, like a child on a roller coaster.