Forgotten: A Novel Read Free

me, okay?” He shoves his laptop into my lap. “Send all the emails you want, all right?”
    I thank him and open a new web browser, leaving the angry email in place. My fingers feel clumsy on the keys, and I have to erase my first few attempts to enter my account information. When I finally get the combination of letters and numbers right, I’m informed in angry, flashing red type that it’s been shut down for sending too much junk mail. I curse silently under my breath at the spammer who hijacked my account.
    “Is something wrong?” the less angry man asks.
    “My account is blocked.”
    “Why not just open a new one?”
    Why not, indeed? I tap on the keys, and in a few moments [email protected] is up and running.
    I hit the Compose Mail button and pause. What the hell am I going to say after all this time? How do I even begin? Are they even going to want to hear from me?
    I can feel the minutes slipping away. I brush those thoughts aside and type Stephanie’s and Craig’s email addresses in as quickly as I can.
    From: Emma Tupper
    To: [email protected]; [email protected]
    Re: Coming home!
    Hey guys,
    This is such an odd email to write! I’m so, so sorry I haven’t written till now. I’ll explain everything when I get home, I promise. Anyway, I’m in London. My flight is leaving soon and should be arriving around 4 p.m. I’m on BA flight 3478. I can’t wait to see you both. I’ve missed you so much.
    Love, Em
    I read it over quickly. It’ll have to do. I hit Send and hand the computer back to my neighbor, thanking him as a chime sounds. A polite, clipped voice announces that preboarding is about to begin. Anyone with small children or needing assistance should come to the gate. General boarding will begin momentarily. I stand and stretch, taking a last opportunity to look around. So this is London. All I’ve ever seen of it is the airport. I’ll have to remedy that someday.
    The polite voice calls the first-class passengers. I line up briefly and walk down the gangway. The plane is brand spanking new. Each passenger gets a capsule, a private space to eat, sleep, and watch six months of movies. Maybe it’s the flashy technology or the warmed-up, lemon-scented towels the flight attendant brings, but a beat of hope starts in my heart. I’ll be back where I should be soon, and then, like the song says, everything will be all right.
    B ut everything is not all right, which I should know when there’s no one at the airport to meet me. Or when the ATM spits out my card like it’s contaminated, and my car isn’t where I left it in the long-term parking lot.
    I should know, but I’m too distracted. Despite everything that’s happened, I feel too happy.
    I’m home.
    Finally, the air smells familiar. I understand the curses hurled at me as I cross the road without looking properly. Even the cold bite of winter and the annoying loop of jangly carols escaping from the outdoor speakers seem perfect, as they should be the week before Christmas.
    So, when I give up looking for my car and sink into the back of a cab, I don’t have a clue. In fact, it’s only after I hand over my last forty dollars to the ungrateful driver and try to put my key into the lock of my apartment that I begin to panic.
    Because the key doesn’t fit. The lock doesn’t turn.
    And it has begun to snow.

Chapter 2: The Old Apartment
    P erfect, just perfect.
    I put down my bag and climb the steep, exterior iron staircase to the apartment above mine. Six months ago, it was occupied by Tara, an out-of-work actress who practiced her lines loudly at three in the morning. We have a tenuously friendly relationship, but she has my spare key, which will hopefully work better than the rusty version hanging from my key chain.
    It’s after sundown, and the darkness feels close, oppressive. The snow falls down around me in broad flakes, illuminated by the porch light. I ring the bell. The ding-dong echoes loudly. I push the button