Harriet Bellows 1

8/3/2019 Harriet Bellows 1

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It was maybe the hottest weekend in the history of weather when Imade the hard-thought choice to venture out into the city proper. The busfrom my block on the outskirts was thankfully air conditioned, but it didnt domuch to protect me from swelter as I walked the four blocks from its mid-citystop to the address on my the business card I held between my fingers. By

the time I had pulled open the lobby door I was nearly panting and any bit ofcovered skin was slick and my poor feet swam in the sneakers Id picked. Iwatched my toes as the elevator went up, regretting not picking my sandalseven though I had considering them.

I checked the card again as the elevator let me out. Fourth floor, officenumber fourteen. Shouldnt be too hard to find, considering the entirehallway was a derelict of tables and power tools. A few of the walls were justplain drywall and pecked full of holes. Most of the doors I passed werepropped open with empty rooms inside. I turned to look back at theelevator. Had the lobby been like this, too? I didnt even need to count,really, but I did anyway and came across the only working door in the place.

Wires hung carelessly in a lanky U over the top of the frame and a sawhorseand tall cardboard box flanked both sides.

March MayweatherDetective, Est. 1938The words were adhered neatly in two lines on the frosted glass. I

double-checked it with the name on the card and went for the doorknob,stopped suddenly by a panic of nervousness. Familiar doubts that had beensnapping at the tail of every thought Ive had since I left came forefront andmy problem just felt really stupid.

It all fairness, it was really stupid. Who suffers this? How many peoplehave shared this problem? Did I really need a detective? Ive never known

anyone to need a detective, most people just go to the police. Maybe Ishould too. No, Ive been over this. No sane policeman would believe me.

I rolled my eyes, holding one arm at the elbow in a nervous bit ofmannerism. No sane detective should believe me either. I huffed. It wouldhave to get the better of me. A shame, since I made the trip. I turned toleave and from my pocket, my phone buzzed. It was a message. FromChloe.

On my break. You go yet?I stewed on it for a moment.My phone snapped shut and I turned again to push through the door.

It opened into a fully-furnished office, much neater then the rest of the floor.

A long leather sofa sat under a mural of framed papers and diplomas. Tallplants sat in all four corners of the room, swaying under the warm breeze letin by open windows. Stationed in front of these back windows was amagnificent old desk. Dark wood and clawed feet, the thing certainly lookedlike in belonged in a detectives office. Papers were in stacks across it andsitting slouched in a tall-back chair and writing feverishly was what Iassumed to be the detective, Mr. Mayweather. I licked my lips, which had


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gone dry and with my hands wringing something fierce, readied myintroduction.

Took you long enough. He said, beating me to the punch, Made menervous, you standing out there so long.

My first thought was to accost him for not knowing what nervous was

in this situation. My next thought, taking second place for whatever reason,was to question as to why he knew I was coming. I looked over my shoulderand saw that the glass in the door, while frosted looking in from the hall, wasfairly translucent from inside.

I My mouth had gone dry again, I dont even know if Im in theright place.

The truth is a great starting-off point.Well see. The man looked up. He was actually pretty young. His

hair was spiky, though didnt seem to have any product in it. His featureswere smooth and if I didnt know better I would think he was some collegestudent. He pointed his pen at one of the overstuffed chairs in front of his

desk. Sit down, lets talk.My stomach jerked backwards like out of a cartoon. I settled it with

slow breathing as I started towards the desk. The man smiled at me and as Igot close enough and stood to offer a hand.

March Mayweather. He said. I forced a smile and shook. Hesqueezed my palm a little tighter then I would have liked. I sat on the edgeof the chair, knees together. We stared at each other for an awkward secondand completely against any rational, controlled thought, I imagined myselfwearing a long boa and leaning in close to kiss sweet nothings into his ear. Itbrought a laugh into my throat and I looked down at my toes to fight it away.

I have a problem. I said.Yes. March stated. He said it like it was some historical fact that he

was confirming.Its going to sound crazy.My favorite kind of problems are the crazy ones.I shut my eyes again. My feet went out in separate directions while my

knees stayed together and I was sure I looked like some flustered little girltoo scared to tell her mother that she had just broken a vase.

SomebodySomebody stole some of my memories.There. It was out. Couldnt be taken back. Id just admitted to a crush

that I liked him. I just told a kid Santa didnt exist. There was a silence. A

horrific, awful silence that Im sure even dinosaurs would put up palms at. Asilence so bad I almost regretted admitted anything. I looked up.

March had leaned back, spinning his pen across his fingers. We againmade eye contact and he smiled, rolling his free hand at me.

Go on. He said.You believe me? I asked.I dont know, give me more information.


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Right. That made sense. I took in a deep breath, straightening up onthe exhale. Believe it or not, I had had this practiced, though in the spacebetween the bus ride where Id rehearsed and at the lobby of this derelict Idall but forgotten.

My name is Harriet Burrows.

March leaned forward and shuffled a clean sheet of paper before him.He wrote as I talked and when I finished he looked up at me.Just taking notes. Keep going.Im sixteen and attend Saint Isabelles out in Wayfield.March hesitated for a moment, tapping his pen twice before starting

again.St. Izzys, huh? I used to go there.He did?Its an all girls school. I told him.Didnt used to be. Used to be co-ed until the powers-that-be decided

that the male gender was inhibiting female education. Speculation, of

course.Of course. I cleared my throat, So, I think somebody stole mymemories.

You thinkor you know?I know. I mean, Im pretty sure. Its hard to explain.Try. March said. I thought back to my little prepared explanation and

thought sour of what I remembered. I went instead with improv.Imagine you have a treasure chest. I explained, And inside was a

magic treasure that kept reappearing, no matter how much you took out.Okay.Thats a memory. I said. My hands were starting to worry with

sweat so I wiped them on the inside of my knees, You can get to itwhenever you want and you always expect it to be there. You can take asmuch of this memory as youd like and use it however youd like. For methough, when I go to take some of this memorythis treasurethe chest isstill there, but the treasure inside is gone. Now, I know that I once had thismemory, or the treasure if youre at all following this silly analogy, because Istill have the chest it came it. The treasure is whats gone.

Isnt that just forgetfulness?I shook my head, No, its not forgetfulness. I know what forgetting

something is and this isnt it. Forgetting something is when you dont evenrealize that you have the treasure at all, chest and everything and then re-

discovering it. This is theft. A memory has been just up and plucked from myhead.

Wow. March had relaxed from his note-taking and was sitting withhis head leaning on a fist. His expression towards me was comparable tothat of a child watching a meteor shower. I laughed. Some of theridiculousness of the situation had come around to me and I couldnt help it.


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This must sound pretty crazy. I said, looking at the floor. It sure didto me. The urge to leave were now gone but I had a pretty strong stirring inmy gut nonetheless, some mixture of butterflies and nausea.

Certainly not the craziest thing ever brought to my door. Marchsaid, Though certainly the most interesting.

What could be crazier than this? I asked.About a year back, some lady came in saying that some neer-do-wellhad off and upped with her roaster chicken and that it was that nights dinnerso she needed it back post-haste.

My natural skepticism came out as doubt, Really?Hand to god. March sat up straight and gave a scouts salute. I

raised eyebrows at him.Did you find it? I asked.Yes, I did. Turns out in was in her crisper drawer all along. One of her

sons had put it there and didnt tell anybody.Even if he was humoring me with a silly story, it was nice to hear and

felt better because of it. I smiled genuinely.So, can you help me? I asked, fidgeting in my seat.I can try. Give me more information. March again leaned over his

paper and readied to write, When you do you think you were robbed?When, whenwhen indeed.I realized Id been taken last Monday, the eighteenth. As far as when

I was actually robbed, it would have to be sometime between then and thefirst of the month. I know that because I remember having the memory whenme and Chloe got stuck on the expressway on the first. There was a badaccident, we were stuck there for hours, late for school and all that. Me andher talked about the memory, I know.

Thats a pretty wide space. March said, dotting his sentence loudly,Any inclinations or clues to help us narrow it down? Any periods ofunconsciousness or any other periods of time where you were susceptible tothievery? He puffed out air, Though, we dont know how memories aretaken, so we wouldnt really know when you wouldbe susceptible to such athing.

A reminder clicked in my head and I reached into the tallest pocket inmy shorts. I had done some research at my schools computer lab, though itwasnt conclusive by any meansthe filters on the net there were prettystringentI did come up with something and had printed it out for just thisoccasion. It was some scientific journal from a college Ive never heard of

and it theorized about a new bit of memory-altering technology. It wascurrently in pre-pre-release beta and used only in certain university hospitalsaround the country, but its results were apparently pretty good and it didwonders in treating post-traumatic stress and other schizoid illnesses bysimply removing the memorial cause of the problem. Something akin totearing the weed out by the roots.

I handed the two folded sheets of paper to March and he startedunfolding them before they even left my hand.


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I did some research. I explained, But only as much as my schoolscomputers would let me.

You dont have a computer at home? March asked absentmindedlyas he read.

No, sir. I said, noting he didnt have a computer anywhere either,

Im in foster care and we dont have the money for that kinda stuff.Private school in foster care? March asked, flipping pages.My mom left behind a sizable amount of money when she died and

since Im not old enough to inherit it directly, I asked if I could use it to go toSt. Isabelles instead and they said yes.

March looked up, Youre a pretty smart girl.Thanks. I said, I try.What about your father? March shut his eyes as he caught himself.

He raised a palm, Sorry, I dont mean to intrude. Im inquisitive, thats all.Its alright. I dont mind talking about my life. Its such a square,

solid thing that I actually find comfort in it. Talking about my life is like

talking about the Roman empire. Its just a story to tell, some bit of history torelate, I dont know my dad, never did. He was gone long before I evenrealized what parents were. And my mom died of heart disease when I wasten, if that was your next question.

The last bit came out much snarkier then I meant. It was bad habit ofmine. I smiled broadly to try and appease it away. March just nodded.

Well, youre that much stronger for it, yeah? He grinned, Anyway,this is really interesting. He gestured at the papers, Seems like somethingworth looking into.

A real lead, huh? I asked. Truthfully, Id be waiting to use as muchdetective lingo as I could, A break in the case?

March laughed, Breaks only come if the case goes stale. Its a lead,but not a break.

Ah. I nodded.Hows your day looking? He asked. I spread my hands.An empty Saturday.Mind waiting while I make a call? He said, I wanna see if this pans

out to anything.Sure. I sat back in my chair, crossing my legs. March took to his

desk drawers and came up with a square rolodex.So, how did you realize that youd been robbed?Both me and Chloe work on yearbook committee. Except last

Monday, nobody showed upsome faculty thing. So we just sat in the roomand shot the breeze for a while.

I see.In that time though we got to talking about the past and Chloe

brought up the same vacation memory wed been talking about when stuckon the expressway. I know I took that vacation, I know I did. Me, her and mymom. I know I had that memory, thattreasure.

And you immediately thought you were robbed?


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Well, no. At first I thought it was just forgetfulness, but the more Ithought about it the more I realized that it couldnt be just that. The nextday, after school, Chloe made some offhanded joke that maybe somebodystole my memory and it just clicked. I put together my timeline then becauseI knew I knew it back when me and her were stuck on the expressway.

And you waited a week to contact somebody?No, I spent the next week wondering who to contact and if it was worthit. I was so nervous to even think about going to see somebody and Idalready nixed the police and my foster parents for reasons of looking crazy.It was a pretty nerve-wracking week, really and the relief that I felt now wasjust so wonderful compared to all the anxiety of working up courage to evencome here. Honestly, it only made sense that I waited a week because whohas their memories stolen? Who does that happen to?

It took some doing. I said meekly.I see. March pulled a card from his rolodex and after digging the

phone out from under a collapsed stack of papers, leaned the receiver

between his cheek and shoulder. He kept looking down at the desk as Iheard it ring and when a male-sounding buzz picked up on the other end hejumped at it.

Vince, yo. Its March. March. He rolled his eyes, Marcus.More buzzing.Fine. How are you?My attention started wandering around and I slid up out of the chair

while he talked. I started a slow pace around the office, reading the walls.There were a lot of photography awards and some newspaper clippings withbig photos and articles attributed to a Marcus Mayweather. A few degreeswere mixed in as well, one from the university of our city, complete with a

Magna Cum Laude in gold etching. The next was from St. Isabelles, a typicalhigh school diploma with the schools emblem in the center and the lastbeing what looked like a photocopied PI diploma from some communitycollege. The date on it read last year and I turned from it to look over atMarch, who had leaned back in his chair and was twiddling the phone cordaround a finger like some valley girl talking to a friend about the hottestgossip.

Yeah, memory theft. I have something saying theres a machPause.Oh yeah?And so the conversation went. March would get a sentence in and the

voice on the other end would buzz-buzz an answer. I kept my loop aroundthe room, stopping at a small end table near the door to pick up thenewspaper and flip over to the horoscope.

I quote: Your days are starting to all roll into one. Be prepared tomake a change, but perhaps not for the better. Maybe you need to takesome time off. Your lucky color is green, your lucky time is 4 PM.


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I checked and the newspaper was date six years ago. I shook my headand as it fell flat back onto the end table, March hung up the phone. Iturned.

Well. He said, Theres surprisingly some legwork here. You want inor you want me to call you or what?

I pointed to myself, I can come?Yeah.In most detective novels Ive ever read, the saucy mistress came in,

asked for whatever she needed to be solved, solved and then vanished untilthe hard-boiled came through. I expressed this to March and he laughed.

Im not Humphrey Bogart. He said, And this isnt the thirties.Your door says it is.March suddenly looked ashamed, I couldnt get that part off the

glass. He squeezed his eyes tight and snapped them back open, You cantag along, this is your case.

Are you sure? I asked, Isnt it dangerous?

I did want to go along. Every adventure book started like this and I justhad this small hope that maybe I could get in on that. False hope, maybe,but it was nice to think of anyway.

Yeah. March came around his desk, I called a supply contact ofmine. A nice guy, deals with selling goods not-so-legal. All veryprofessional, though, so pretty safe.

Black market? I asked.That term is pretty pass. Mostly they call themselves Brokers

now.Likeblack brokers?Uh, I guess?

I shrugged, I dont know much about that kinda stuff.Thats good. March strolled passed me and opened the door,

Keeping your nose clean.We walked out into the hall, back into the derelict.Whats up with this place? I asked.The building is in renovation. The landlords are friends of mine, so I

got to keep my office during.The clients dont mind? I asked, flipping some loose wire with my

fingertips.Not a one. He smiled.

We left the building and returned to the tropical burn of summer. Iswear I could hear the sidewalk sizzling under my feet as we walked theblock to Marchs car. I fanned myself with my hand, but the tiny amount ofair moved was hot and all it did was make my wrist tired. March had his shirtuntucked and his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He walked a pace ahead ofme and I couldnt really help but watch the tips of his shirttails flap behindhim.


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His car was an old Ford beater, something pretty common for this partof the city. There was a shiny silver thing on the inside of the windshield andlooking at it made me squint. He flipped a keychain in his hand and ratherthan pressing a button to unlock the doors, like every car Ive seen in thepast ten years, he manually fought with the lock to open. He slid inside and

let out a raspberry before leaning to open the passenger side.My hair stuck to the back of my neck as soon as I opened the car door.It was like opening an oven mid-roast. I too let out a raspberry and started tofan myself again as I fell into the passenger seat. The leather stuck to theinside of my knees and shoulders and I let out a long exhale.

Didnt anybody ever tell you not to ride with strangers? March asked,gathering up the shiny reflector from the windshield.

Were not strangers. I told him, Im Harriet and youre Marcus.March. He corrected and sneered, It sounds cooler.I wish it sounded forty degrees cooler. I said.You and me both. March closed his door and started the car.

We drove in a silence for a bit. I opened my window and the air, whilenot cool by any means, was not as hot as either the inside of the car or thestill of outside and was nice to the skin. My hair was a mess after fiveminutes of it and I took a quick measure to pull it into a neat tail.

So, how much is this going to cost me? I asked, holding a hair tiebetween my teeth.

March shrugged, I dunno. Payment upon rendering, so well see.Is that a good business model?Dentists use it. Payment after services.Detective work seems a bit more modest then dentistry.Sometimes it does feel like pulling teeth, though. He slapped the

steering wheel as he laughed. I rolled my eyes and cinched the ponytailtight. I ran fingers through the curls to make sure it was neat and returnedmy hands to my lap.

Mr. Mayweather. I started. Whenever I wanted to broach what Ithought was a difficult subject, I used politeness as a buffer. March wavedthe formality off with a flip of the wrist.

March, please. He said, Im not your father.I saw him clench his teeth and apologetically look out the window. I

didnt want to, really, but I laughed.March. How long have you been a detective?A year now, abouts.

Thats it?I was in the papers for ten years beforehand. Im a journalist at heart,

then a photographer.And then a detective?Then a painter and a server and a legal aid and a banquet planner

and then a detective.You lead a busy life.Im a real joat, so my father says.


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A goat?No, no, a joat. A Jack-of-all-trades.Oh. How old are you? I wondered if that was rude to ask.Thirty. He glanced at me, Why the inquisition? Do you not think Im

capable?

I did have one worry.You took my crazy pretty quickly.Like I said, I love the crazy. Its why I became a detective. Back when

I was in the papers, I would love it when I was assigned to a nutso. The kindof work most stuck-up professional writers would snuff at, I ate up. Thefiller pieces about giant pumpkins and bigfoot in the parkI love that kindastuff. I poured my heart and soul into investigating the crazy stuff. I did myshare of good, too, though. I broke that corrupt lawyer case a few yearsback.

That big thing on Chapel Hill?Thats the one. Brought me enough recognition and privilege to keep

doing the fluff pieces. Damn right pissed off the serious side of journalism,though. The professionals, I mean. All were mad that such a non-crediblefluff writer got such serious accolades.

You must have liked watching them burn.Kind of. I dont like getting anybody mad. Though it was fun to see

some humility forced their way.We turned off onto the highway. March kept leaning forward to

double-check signs as we drove under them.Where are we going? I asked.Raywood. He said, You ever been?Grew up there. I said.

Oh yeah? Maybe you help us getthere. March jerked back over hisshoulder to try and catch a sign.

Raywood was a small town tucked inside the big city. It was rows ofsuburbia packed in a square around what was once a fairly respectable lake.The last time I saw it, about a year ago on a joyride me and Chloe took, itwas a sickly green. Whether it was algae or pollution, I didnt know, but I domiss the shimmering spectacle it is in my memories. My memories. I know Ihad one stolen, I know it. When I think back to everything else, I can recall itwith ease and even if I remember something Id forgotten, perhapssomething triggered by another memory, I can say oh yeah, I forgot aboutthat, though I knew all along. Its not like that now. I know what I knew is

gone and it shouldnt be.Maybe were just chasing grasstails. I said, just loud enough to hear

over the din of the engine. March glanced at me quickly and returned to theroad with a serious expression.

Are you giving up? He asked.No. I shook my head, Im just thinking. Maybe it wasnt a human

that took my memory.A ghost, perchance? He grinned.


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Maybe. My house is haunted.I told March about my house. It was an old end-of-the-century thing

built on the outskirts of the city, parallel to the forests. The front steps werenarrow and counted about six too many to be comfortable and the wood allcreaked and moaned no matter how you stepped on it. The inside was nice,

fairly new carpeting, new insulation wiring, though on occasion youd stillfind a odd iron nail stuck into the walls. It truly looked and felt like a ghosthouse. In the deep of night, when I would be lying in my bed I could hold mybreath and hear the foundation settle. There would occasionally be noiseswith it: footsteps and voices and whispering, all proof that the place was hostto specter. And no, I told March, it wasnt just somebody up late. My fosterparents are real strict about bedtimes and Ive never seen them up pastnine.

Any other kids in the house? March asked.Not for about year now. Last to leave was a boy named Henry,

moved out with a nice family to some southern state.

I got a letter from him once, but never wrote back.Must be lonely. March said in a tone almost sympathetic.Its not so bad. Chloe sleeps over a lot and Im hardly ever home.

School, part-time work, extra-curricular, you know.March laughed, Hardly any time for the ghosts to bug you, huh?We looked for them once, me and Chloe. Sat up in the living room

late at night. We even had a Ouija board.And?I put a thumb down, Not a thing. I laughed loudly, Maybe you could

be a ghost hunter next?Maybe, if this detective thing doesnt work out. He glanced at me

again, You and this Chloe seem close.We are. That was the short answer. Chloe was, and is, the closest

thing I have to real family in this world. Her mom openly calls me herdaughter. We interact like sisters. At least, like the sisters we see on TV andin school, I love my Chloe.

March smiled, Thats good.

The house we pulled up to in Raywood was something that couldhardly be called such. It was the size of a garage and had wooden planksover all the windows. The door had a iron cage across it and the fence wastall chain-link.

Yes. I said, getting out the car and wiping my forehead, This has tobe the place.

Vinces not one for subtlety, Ill give you that.We walked to the gate and when I reached to push it open, March

stayed my hand.Its charged. He said. I looked the thing up and down and indeed

saw little clusters of wire jutting out of the ground at every other post.How do we get in? I asked.


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Vince! March yelled suddenly, cupping hands around his mouth. Ijumped at the burst of noise and glared toward him with hands over myquickened heart.

I dont think thats howVince! Get out here! March increased his volume and I couldnt help

but nervously look around to see if we were attracting any attention. A fewpeople on the other side of the street looked our way and a driver at a redlight poked his head out his window. I smiled sheepishly at them and quicklyturned to pull at Marchs sleeve.

March, March stop it!VincI reached up and clapped my hand over his mouth. His tongue flapped

around his lips in surprise and I got a nice palm full of spit. I growled andwiped it off on his sleeve. I fished my phone out of my pocket and held it upto him.

Call him. I said, not bothering to hide my disgust.

He looked down at me and smiled, Oh, I didnt know you had a phone.Much better than my plan. March took the phone, opened it and after amoment of staring, dialed a number.

Anything is. I rolled my eyes, Were you going to throw rocks next?Actually March grinned. The call went through quick and he was

talking in just a few rings, Yeah, were outside. Oh? You knew?Everybody knew. I muttered.There was a rattling and the front door opened. Out came a large man

in overalls. He had on a fedora and walked as though his legs weighed athousand pounds. It was kind of intimidating and by the time he approachedthe gate, I had convinced myself that I could feel the ground shaking under

every step. He reached up to a little box that I didnt notice before on theother side of the fence and pressed at it. He pulled the gate openeffortlessly and huffed out his nose at March.

Hows about you make more of a rustle? He said.He was going to throw rocks next. I snapped. Vince turned to March,

who had both hands up in front of him, my phone under a thumb.Its all business. He said. Vince shook his head and turned back to

me.Who is she?A client. March explained, turning serious, Can we talk?Vince looked me up and down and I felt myself blush a bit as I crossed

my arms over my chest. There was a stretch of really awkward silence. Icould hear the cars on the street behind us and the distant sounds of the cityproper. An ice cream truck sang somewhere and a dog barked. EventuallyVince nodded and me and March followed him inside.

The interior of the house was pretty bland. A concrete floor, somewooden tables, a recliner, TV and a stocky little dorm fridge in the corner. Afootball game was on mute and Vince used a remote to turn it off as he sat


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casually on the armrest of his chair. I was amazed the thing didnt buckleunder his weight.

You looking to buy today, Marcus? He asked. March shook his head.Not a chance, just after information.Then youre still buyin. Vince held up a peace sign, Two large.

You dont even know what I want.Memory Disruptor, right? I know. Two large.March sighed and looked to me. We made eye contact.You have any money?My stomach sank. All that nervousness and anxiety that had ebbed

away came back in spades and I nearly fell to my knees. I could even feel atear form in the pit of my eye. March must have clued in to my panic andslapped hands on my shoulders.

Im kidding! Im kidding. He grit his teeth and from his back pockettook a billfold. He smiled at me and then Vince as he counted out two grandin hundreds. He walked briskly across the room to hand it over. My gut

returned to its upright position and I made fists. Anger rolled over me and ifnot for a tiny voice snapping at me in the back of my head to stay cool, Iwould have punched March right in the cheek.

Whered you get it? What is it? Whod you sell it to? March starteddown on questions as soon as Vince looked satisfied with his money.

Some guy sold it to me as payment for debt. He explained, Said itwas worth a quarter-million, at least. Looked like some old fifties crap to me,like the tubes from an old TV set. Guy was persistent, though. Kept on it sobad I eventually gave in. Cut him a deal. Wasnt two weeks later that someother guy came in, a real richy-rich stuck-up from the Western Hills, askingall about a Memory Disruptor. I showed him through my inventory and he

paid me a cool two mil for it.Did you use it? Did you know what it could do?No way, man. Thing looked like junk to me. Put it in a shoe box and

just left it on a shelf. Thought it was garbage until that guy came it to pick itup.

Where did the original guy get it?Hell if I know. I never ask, just buy and trade. You stay safer by

stayin in the dark.Who bought it? I asked. All eyes went to me. I mean, what did he

look like?Like I said, a real richy-rich. Drove a BMW, had a gold money clip.

Did he pay in cash?No, check.March and me laughed and then there was silence. We looked at each

other, then to Vince.Areare you being serious? March asked.Yeah. Normally I dont account for paperwork like that, but this was

big bucks. Guy explained it was off-shore and all that, safe as a nunssnatch.


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I felt a thrill run down my spine and the nervous mess in my guttwisted with it. I bit my tongue and looked up to March, who had a crookedgrin on his face.

Can we see the check?Cashed it. Got the copy, though.

Can we seeVince stood up, Two large. He said. Another peace sign followed.March sighed and again took out his billfold. The next exchange was quickand both me and March left the house with our expensive prize of a tiny littleslip of paper with an address and name written on it.

The guy was indeed from the Western Hills. The richest part of thestate. Mansions dotted the sloping hills and were all connected by sprawlingfields and perfectly symmetrical roads. Each estate was caged by gates andwalls and as we drove around I felt more and more like a peasant visiting amillion paupers. March whistled.

Can you imagine being this rich?I couldnt. At all. You get so used to a way of life that anything aboveit becomes a daydream.

I wouldnt know what to do. I said.Throw killer parties. March returned.There was some excitement in my stomach and it ran course through

my body. I hung an arm out the window and rapped my fingers on the doornervously. My toes kept knocking together. The heat no longer bothered me.My hair was frizzy, but so what. I was kind of tired, but so what.

I have to admit. March said, This is all pretty crazy.I knew I was robbed. I told him.

There was a sense of relief with this. I had a device to attach to thetheft and a name to boot. It all became instantly plausible and every bit ofnervousness about seeking help vanished. I no longer felt stupid about it.Questions still persisted, of course, like who did it, why and how. How didthis Memory Disruptor work? How did they get to me with it? What did it dowith my memory? I asked all this to March, who shrugged at each question.

And you didnt believe me. I joked.I didnt. March said, admitting it in a near whisper. I sat up straight

and looked at him.You said you did!No, no. I did. March retracted, squirming, I justhad some real

doubts. I didnt want to be mean, though. You looked so scared, like a littleprecious kitten. The more I got into it though, the more it started comingtogether and now here we are, chasing down a Memory Disruptor which mayor may not be the genuine artifact.

I shook my head, You only helped me because you thought me akitten?

Cute girl asks for help, I help.Twenty-first Century chivalry at its best.


14/19

If this is legit, thoughwoo boy. I might go back to the papers withthis kind of story. Something that can alter memory, stolen? And then soldto the broker market! He whistled, What a dig!

The way he worded it scared me some. Nothing overtly terrifying, butscary enough to worry me. Something that could alter memorythat could

steal it? I missed the little memory I had taken, imagine if somebodys wholememory was taken. Theyd be a blank slate, a child again to experience theentire scope of existence for the first time. One could live a hundred lives,should they abuse the thing. Would you be a different person if youexperienced life twice like that? Three times like that? What makes you whoyou are other then the memories around you?

Against better judgment, I asked March.You are who you are. He said, Isnt that it?I didnt know who I was until four-ish. Thats the earliest I can

remember. Before that, did I even really exist?March glanced to me, Are you alright?

Im just thinking. I smiled at him, showing teeth. He shook his head.I thought of our afternoon together. March and his joat ways, me andChloe. Wed shared moments, wed shared the day. I would ,for sure, lookback at this experience and draw from it to move forward as a person. So, asa person without memory, as a baby, what determines how you grow? Whoyou are? I asked myself again: if somebody were to use this fabled deviceand live a hundred lives, would they be a different person each time?

Were here. March said, pulling up to a tall, black gate. Goldennumbers etched into the brick next to it and a speaker lit up a green light.

Who are you? A voice from it said. March opened his door andleaned out to speak loudly at it.

My name is March Mayweather. Im a Private Eyea detective. Ivecome to ask He looked at the slip of paper from his pocket, Ask a Mr.Serge Bolovich some questions.

A pause.He is not accepting any visitors. You must leave.Come on, just a few questions.You must leave.Some force in my mind ordered my body up and over March. My head

came out his window and I leaned far to make sure the speaker could hearme.

Myname is Harriet Burrows! I yelled, You have my memory!

March looked at me like I was crazy. I shrugged at him, kind of a whynotexpression. There was another pause. Longer, thicker. The speakercame on to a long, drawn breath before spoken words.

Come in. It said.I settled back into my seat as the gates opened and March looked at

me, eyes wide.I took a chance. I said, I thought you liked crazy?Sure do. He said and started up the driveway.


15/19

A man in a black suit met us at the doors, pulling open the tremendousthings like they were toys. He led us inside. The foyer was magnificentshiny marble and super-polished brass. A million-crystal chandelier hung likea ghost in the highest bend of the ceiling.

This way. The man directed and me and March followed. We walkeddown many long hallways, past kitchens and bedrooms and big long emptyrooms. The carpet was so plush beneath my feet I could feel it through mysneakers and sort of worried that my sweaty toes were somehow ruining it.

Mr. Bolovich is in a private room. He said, I shall make him awarethat you are here. We werent expecting you so soon. You have caught usoff guard.

Whatre you talking about? March asked.The man looked over his shoulder and raised his nose. March rolled his

eyes.You shall receive your compensation and then be on your way, yes?

I stopped in the hall. March stopped a step ahead of me and the manten steps after him. Both turned to me.Compensation? For what? I asked.Your memories, of course.You stole them.The man twisted his expression and turned on a heel to keep walking.

I looked at March.Things just got weird. He said. I couldnt do anything but agree.

We went down some stairs and came out in a short, plain-lookinghallway, much less lavish then the floor above us. The doors were a normal

grain of wood and all the brass was dingy and needed attention. It was stillheads and tails above anything I was used to. At the end of the hall, theman held up a palm to us and we stopped as he slipped into the room. Sowe waited. And waited.

You got some secret deal going, huh? March asked.Hell if I know. I said.This whole place is kinda creeping me out. All this space, not any real

sign of anybody living in it. You saw how clean that foyer was. Not even anyshoes in the mud room.

What are you suggesting?Nothing. Justmaking observations.

When the door opened again, another man came out. He was tannedand dressed in rumpled shirt and pants. His brow was furrowed. He lookedme up and down and for the second time that day, I blushed and crossed myarms over my chest.

You areHarriet? He asked with an accent working hard on theconsonants in my name.

I am.


16/19

He came in and hugged me tight. I felt his hands clasp behind myback and my arms pressed tight into my chest, creating an uncomfortablepinch. I let out an involuntary yelp and he spun me around once. As soon asI was back on my feet I staggered and March was between us, hands out.

Whoa, whoa, whoa. He said, Whats going on?

This girl is a saint. He said, You are, truly.Footsteps could be heard from somewhere behind us. I ignored themand stared down Serge.

I I moved my mouth but didnt speak. I didnt know what to say.This man was ecstatic over me, like I just given him a kidney. The footstepsgot louder.

What are you talking about? I asked, You took my memories.Serge looked confused. He tilted his head like a dog at a loud noise.No He said. The footsteps took to the stairs. He thought and his

expression cleared.Oh, she hasnt told you. George didnt tell me that.

Who didnt tell her. March asked.The footsteps stopped. I felt a presence.Speak of the devil. Serge said. I turned.Standing at the bottom of the stairway was a girl. My age, dressed in a

long skirt with oxford shoes and a baby-blue blouse. Her hair was short andheld out of her face with two lilac pins. Her eyes went wide for a momentand she smiled. A small noise came out of my throat.

Chloe. Serge said.Chloe? March looked back and forth.Chlo? I choked.She took in a long breath and walked over to me. She hugged me

tight.We need to talk. She said.

Serge provided us with a small room on the first floor where we couldtalk. George, the man in black from before, brought us some tea isextravagantly-etched china. I didnt want any of it. I looked up at Chloebefore me and March to my left. He sat hunched over his tea, lookingexpectantly between the two of us.

Um Chloe said, looking at him. He stuck out a hand,unapologetically.

March Mayweather. He said, Detective.

Chloes face lightened, Oh, yes! Thank you very much.For?She turned to me, Hallie, you have to listen to me. Promise you wont

interrupt.I promised.What I did was with the best of intentions.


17/19

I didnt feel anger towards her, just confusion. After all, this was mybest friend, my sister. I honestly wasnt angry, justlost. I wanted to tellher, but kept my jaw clenched shut.

A few weeks ago I started working at the hospital, you know Shelooked at March, Stuff that looks good on college applications.

Right.There I met Mr. Serge. Hes on the board of directors. A very poshposition, as you can tell. Very nice man, very nice. We became friends. Noteven a full week after I started, his son was in an accident. On the first of themonth. It was bad. On life support, critical condition. Nothing could savehim. The boy is only four years old. Mr. Serge saw the writing on the wall.He used his wealth and brought his son here, home. He told me thats whenhe began looking for the Memory Disruptor. I didnt believe it existed at first,but he found one. He paid so much money for it. Might actually have costhim his livelihood.

He showed to me at the end of my shift, once. I remember it was in

the bright orange of sunset. It looked like tubes from a fifties sci-fi movie.Little bulbs with wires coming out of them. He was in tears, telling me hewanted to use it to give his son a life.

A false life. March said.Chloe wagged a finger, But if youve never lived a life, then false is

real. I wanted to help. He taught me how to use the thing. I took outmemories from him. Memories of Russia, memories of his childhood.Memories of places he knew and loved. Memories of his wife, of his parents.All these things he no longer knows. I gave them to his son. I wanted tohelp. More and more.

This was genuine. It may seem like Im just padding character, but

Chloe is one of the truest, kindest people I know. I hang with her andsometimes I find myself questioning my own character. Am I good enough? Iask things like that.

I took a memory from myself and She looked down at her tea, outthe window and then at me. I saw tears forming in her eyes.

And from you, Hallie. Im so sorry. I did it when you were sleeping aweek ago. I took a memory that we shared. Two sides of the samethought.

I saw March from the corner of my eye lean back and cross his armslike hed figured something out.

I was going to tell you, but was scared. Call it insecurity, call it

cowardicecall it whatever. So instead, I guided you along.Chloe stood up and stepped over to March. She held out a hand and

he straightened up to take it.Mr. Mayweather, thank you. She leaned to kiss him on the cheek.

He cooked at once and looked away.Just doing my job. He said.She looked at me.


18/19

I wasnt angry. Im not sure what I was. Everything made sense, it allfell into place. I couldnt be angry at Chloe anyway. I thought for a longwhile on it and came to a decision. I stood up and without consulting eitherMarch or Chloe, left the room. As expected, Serge and George were waitingoutside, sitting on a gold-colored bench.

Mr. Serge. I said, May I see your son?Of course. He said.I am sorry. I said, not really sure what for.My life is my sons life. For a parent, that is all there is. He smiled.

We all walked back down to the basement room. Last door opened toa white tiled room. Monitors and machines lined the walls and in the centerwas a large hospital bed. Tubes and wires all fed to it, surrounding andleeching the occupant. I looked at it for a long while and when I turned toMarch, he shrugged with a grin. My footsteps rattled off the floor. I pulledup a rolling stool.

The boy was pale and small and looked so tired. His left leg was arounded stump, scars marred his chest. He was sleeping and his chest roseand fell in such tiny moments I wasnt sure he even breathing enough to live.What was he dreaming of, I wondered. Of his life lived? Of his fathers lifelived? Did it matter either way? Everything in my life made me who I was,but I realized then that I was going to be so much more. My memories werejust ajumping-off point. For more and more. I realized then why I wasntangry. I couldnt be angry. Not at this. This was that baby. This was thattreasure chest. I had helped fill it. Even it was against my will, everythingworked out. Me and Chloe would have a stern talk later, but it was alright.

Are you going to get your memory back? Serge said flatly. He

pointed and I looked at the small nightstand next to the bed. On it was a setof three vacuum tubes, all connected by wires to an electrode. One of thetubes flashed with snapping electricity. I looked up at everyone in the room.

Yes. I said, Can I speak to him?Serge looked relieved and nodded, He is weak, but can talk a little. He

hasnt much time left. He approached the bed and turned a knob here aswitch there. He adjusted the boys mask and shook him just slightly. Afterwhat felt like hours, the boys eyes opened and he looked around withoutmoving his head.

Alexei, this is Harriet. She would like to talk to you.I wanted to cry, I really did. I was tired and emotionally cooked but I

wanted to cry. To cry for this boy, for his father. For me and Chloe andMarch and the world. For any reason I could think of. I didnt, but let myeyes water anyway.

Hi. I said, voice cracking.Hello. He said back, so quietly I almost missed it.So. I said, smoothing out the wrinkles in my shorts, I heard you

went on a vacation.I did. He said, To the beach. With my Mama and my sister.


19/19

I shut my eyes, swallowed hard and re-opened them.Will you tell me about it?He smiled.

We left as the sun was setting. It was a clean, beautiful sunset.Orange burnt over the silk horizon, the sky a simple canvas of fantasticappeal. Some birds became shadows against the dome of gold across thesky and purples and blues began to creep as twilight. Serge handed me aenvelope on the way out and I hugged him tight. He gave one to March too,but he turned it down.

Thanks anyway. He said.We walked to our cars in silence.Im going to ride with Chloe. I said as the gates closed.Okay. March smiled.Oh. I fumbled my envelope open. There was cash inside, three wads

of countless hundred dollar bills. My jaw nearly fell off my face. I flippedthrough them in amazement for a few moment and Chloe leaned over to see,laughing as she compared the contents to my expression. Id never seenthis much money in my life. I didnt what to do with it. Well, almost. I pulledout one of the wads and offered it to March. He smiled at me and put up apalm.

Cant do it. He said.Why?Youre underage. He shrugged, Cant do business with you.What?! Both me and Chloe spat in unison. He laughed loudly.Sorry, laws the law. Eighteen or older.

But you helped me so much! All for free? What about that money yougave Victor or whatever his name was?

March waved it off, Dont worry about it. Ive got a killer story here, Ican make that back in a week.

Me and Chloe looked at each other. I looked to March.I handed my envelope and cash wad to Chloe and walked to him. I

hugged him tightly and he returned the favor. I was really crying now. Whata kitten I am, honestly. I pushed up on my toes and kissed him on thecheek. He blushed again and I did too. I turned quickly to hide it. Id neverkissed anybody before, it was kinda nice. I held up a peace sign.

Thats two grand. I said.

A pause. Then we all laughed loudly.Take care, kiddos. March said to us as he found his way to his car.

Me and Chloe watched as he drove off into the orange bright of the city andtogether me and her turned towards her car, walking hand in hand.

Dont forget we need to have a talk. I said to her, pointing.She laughed and even though I was still technically crying, so did I.

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Harriet Bellows 1