Blank Slate Kate

Chapter 3

I look directly into his eyes and say, "I think I'm seventeen. I think it's 1996. Obviously neither of those things is true. But that's what I remember. Something bad has happened to me. I don't know who I am and I don't know how I got to Jake's bar last night. That's the truth, sir."

He stares back at me for a long moment then says, "All right." To the woman, he says, "Print her, take a picture and DNA, and get her into the database."

What database?

The two men leave without speaking to me, and I say quietly, "What's happening?"

She reaches for my hand and begins rolling each of my fingers on an ink pad then stamping them onto a card. "Missing person database. He believes you."

Relief floods me, warm and soothing as the hot chocolate Jake gave me that morning, but something compels me to ask, "Do you?"

She looks at me. "I don't not believe you."

Huh.

She switches to my other hand. "It's a weird story, you have to admit."

"No doubt. Try living it."

She gives a surprised chuckle. "I bet. How does the future feel to you?"

I shake my head. "All I know so far is, I don't understand Twitter and I want an iPhone."

She laughs again. "That's a start."

When she's finished with my hands she gives me a wet cloth to clean my fingers while she swabs the inside of my cheek, then has me stand against a height chart on the wall while she takes my picture from the front and the side. "Shoulder-length brown hair, blue eyes, five feet seven, average build," she mumbles as she writes on a sheet of paper, then says louder, "Any distinguishing marks?"

I shake my head.

She writes down what I'm wearing, reading each piece back to me as she does, and is about to leave when I remember. "I have a tattoo."

"That's a distinguishing mark, don't you think?"

"I forgot. I don't remember getting it."

"Yeah, I suppose not. What and where?"

I describe the little ducks around my right thigh and she says, "Cute. Why ducks?"

I look at her and she says, "Right. You don't know. Anyhow, that should help. Whoever's looking for you will definitely have that in their description. Wait here for a minute, okay?"

I do, and she comes back in ten minutes or so.

With Jake.

I'm out of my chair and in his arms before I realize I'm going to move. "Are you okay?"

He holds me back so he can see my face, and I see how worried he's been. "Forget me, are you okay?"

I nod. "What happens now?"

He turns to the cop, who says, "You guys can head out. Kate, if you get a phone, give me your number right away." She hands me a business card. "And feel free to call if you need help. Any time." She holds my gaze for a moment, her eyes intense, then turns away. "Jake, I'll call you when we learn anything, okay?"

He nods, but it takes him a second.

Terror sweeps me. Is he going to ditch me? He's gotten far more than he bargained for when he helped me last night. He'd be smart to stop now. But what will I do if he does?

"Take care," the cop says, and I follow Jake out without speaking. I have no idea what to say. I'm fighting to hold back my tears, but by the time we walk out of the station and onto the street I can't do it any more.

Jake turns back toward me, saying, "So, what do--" then sees my tear-streaked face. "Aw, Kate, don't. Come here."

He holds out his arms and I collapse into them and sob. I'm terrified and exhausted, and sad to a deep and painful degree I'm sure I've never felt before, and I can't do anything but cry.

Jake smooths my hair for a minute or two then says, "Calm down," his voice gentle but firm. "It's going to be okay."

I laugh through my tears. "Which part is going to be okay, exactly? Everything's so screwed up. I can't help being sad."

He holds me at arm's length and says, "Look. You can help it. Sadness, and depression and all that, they're all in your outlook. Change that and things will be better."

I raise my eyebrows. "I have lost fifteen years of my life and don't know who I am. What kind of outlook would make that better?"

He thinks about this, and I'm about to say, "See? It's not possible," when he says, "You can create yourself exactly how you want. Those last fifteen years and whatever happened to you during them, they don't matter any more. You're a blank slate now. You can become anyone you want to be."

I think about this. It has some appeal. But... "I can't get a job. Or rent an apartment or even buy a phone. Not without ID. So how can I be anyone but a homeless person?"

His eyes soften. "Kate, do you honestly think I'm going to let you live on the street?" His cheeks redden. "I was planning to ask if you wanted to stay with me. I just hadn't figured out how to say it."

"You said it pretty good right there," I say, my eyes filling with different, gentler, tears. "Are you sure?"

He gives me an awkward hug. "Yup. Besides, I have to know how this turns out."