Seven Missing Months

Elias had never considered 2018 missing. That was what made it worse.

If someone had asked where he lived that year, he could answer. A one-bedroom flat near Halden University. If asked where he worked, he would say research consulting and part-time teaching. He remembered marking student papers, repairing a leaking radiator, attending a colleague's wedding in June and spending Christmas alone because his father had influenza.

There was no blank wall in his autobiography. There were simply seven months filled with the wrong density.

Ivo, working from home after being warned formally to stop helping, sent Elias a spreadsheet of employment traces through an encrypted local transfer. The records were mundane enough to be convincing. Payroll from Halden continued through 2018, but reduced to sixty percent workload from March through September. Travel reimbursements placed Elias in Dunley three or four days most weeks. Building records at Calder Avenue showed a temporary consultant badge assigned to E. Venn.

There were hotel bills Elias did not remember paying. Train tickets he did not remember taking.

A dentist appointment in Dunley while he supposedly lived two hours away. He opened his handwritten notebook from March 2018.

Lecture preparation. Grocery list. Reminder to call Dad. A note about a student's dissertation. Then forty-three pages had been cut out.

Not torn roughly. Removed with a blade close to the binding. The notebook resumed in October.

Elias held it beneath a lamp and examined the spine. Tiny paper fibers remained where the pages had been excised. He could not remember doing it. At the back cover he found a penciled number.

43 = enough.

His handwriting.

Enough for what?

He checked other notebooks. April through September were represented by two thin books he remembered using. Both contained suspiciously ordinary material. Shopping. Work. Books read. Weather. Almost no emotional content. Almost no Mara.

Yet bank records showed payments to Pember Station, a storage facility, Calder Avenue cafes and a pharmacy near Morrow's annex. He called the storage facility.

They still had an account under his name.

"Active?" he asked.

"Dormant but paid through standing order," the clerk said. "Small unit. Locker class."

"Can I access it?"

"With identification and the key."

"What if I've lost the key?"

"We can drill the lock with authorization."

"What number?"

A keyboard clicked.

"Three twelve."

Elias closed his eyes.

Vale Street.

Calder Avenue.

312.

The number had traveled backward into childhood because adult Elias had rehearsed it until it acquired age. He went to the facility that afternoon.

Locker 312 contained almost nothing. A cardboard box. Two shirts. A pair of shoes. An obsolete digital recorder with its battery removed. Three cheap notebooks wrapped in plastic.

Elias sat on the concrete floor before opening them. The first notebook began May 2018.

His handwriting looked different. Faster. Less controlled.

Page one:

Rules.

1. Paper first.2. Never trust a reconstruction because it feels worse.3. Never trust one because it feels better.4. Separate what Mara said from what I need her to have said.5. If Lena tells me to stop, ask whether she means clinically or personally.6. If I ask to be made certain, refuse me.

Elias read the sixth line several times. The next page had been ripped out.

Later entries referred to M.A., T.C., J.Q. and LO. Mara Aster. Tess Calder. Jonah Quill. Lena Ors.

June 14:

Met M. I did exactly what she expected. Asked for proof before I hugged her. Elias put the notebook down.

His vision blurred.

He waited until it cleared.

June 14, later:

She looks older. Obviously. Stupid sentence. Scar under chin. Hair tied back. White cup. She said, "He'll come anyway." I remembered the sentence before she said it. Need to tell Lena.

Elias felt the storage room disappear around him.

White cup.

Older Mara.

Are you sure you want him here?

He'll come anyway.

The flash on Alder Row had been real.

Not imagination.

A fragment from 2018.

He turned pages faster.

June 15:

Mara won't tell me where she lives. Good. I hate that it is good.

June 21:

I threatened police. She left. I think I have ruined this again.

June 24:

Tess says wait. Lena says stop trying to convert panic into action. I hate when they're both right.

July 3:

Mara called.

Then nothing for six pages.

The next entry:

I know where she is now. Beneath it, in block capitals:

THIS IS THE THING TO LOSE.

Elias sat on the floor of Locker 312 holding proof that he had once found Mara and then designated the knowledge itself as dangerous. The second notebook was labeled CONTINUITY.

He did not open it yet. He was afraid it would tell him exactly what he had asked to forget.