When I get to the passage about the games Astrid invented, I smile a little. But soon, the chapter is over, and instead of turning to the next one, something compels me to read those paragraphs again. There’s a charge in the air. A prickle at the base of my spine. My eyes go back and forth, back and forth and—stop: this part right here, about the marbles. I pull the book closer. Hover over the words.
There’s a tingle beneath my skin. Not an itch anymore, but a buzz. I read the sentence over and over, but it tells me nothing about what the game actually was. Still, there’s something here. I try to hear the click-click Astrid mentioned, but I can only conjure the clack of Ted’s typing instead.
Wincing, I close my eyes and try again and—yes. There it is. It’s a sound like the Newton’s Cradle in one of the science classrooms at school. The sound of small metal balls striking against each other. And—and what?
Click-click. Click-click. We slid them across the floor, I think.
Yes. I can picture it. Fingers flicking a marble. Waiting with held breath to hear if it will meet the target of another marble in a different part of the basement.
My lungs burn. I’ve been holding my breath now, too. Because the basement—I can see it.
In remembering the marbles, in watching them slide across the floor, I see where we were. I see how the light pooled at the bottom of the stairs but left all the corners in shadow. I see the bottom of the stairs themselves. Flaky gray paint. Loose nails. A step with one crooked side, making it trapezoidal. I try to see the door—the wound-red door—but I can’t. I’m trying so hard, but I can’t. I can’t.
So how do I know this is real? How do I know I’m remembering, and not imagining? Not wishing more memories into place.
If only Astrid had said more about the game. If only she’d written what I think is true: it was like playing pool, only instead of balls, we had marbles. And instead of using cue sticks, we flicked them with our fingers. And instead of “eight ball, corner pocket,” Astrid would say “third-farthest marble, one click.”
Those details, if true, can confirm that my image of the basement is real. And if I can remember the basement, I might be on the verge of remembering something else.
My mind stumbles around until I think of Rita. Astrid might have told her about the game. I launch off my bed, burst into the hallway, pluck the landline off its base. Back in my room, I close the door and grab my cell. Pull up the number that Rita thrust upon me yesterday. Punch it into the phone.
“Rita, it’s”—I panic for a moment, struggling to remember the name she called me yesterday—“Sarah. I’m so sorry to bother you, but I need to know—the marble game. What was that exactly?”
There’s a long pause. “Who the hell is this?”
“It’s Sarah,” I say again. “I stopped by yesterday? You gave me your number, and—”
“Like hell this is Sarah.”
“What—what do you mean?” I ask.
“After you left,” she says, “I went on Facebook to try to friend you—but the Sarah Yates I found, who’s from Foster and lives in LA, looks nothing like you. I shouldn’t have assumed who you were—excuse me for being a little out of it lately—but you took advantage of me. So again: Who the hell are you?”
I look down at my hand. See it trembling. Now I look at Astrid’s book, still splayed open to the chapter in which she christened me with a name she equated with strength.
“I’m Lily,” I say.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake. Not you, too. I can’t believe I let you in my house.”
I exhale, and my breath quivers. I’m losing her. Losing this chance.
“No, really, I am,” I try. “I’ve only recently remembered, though, and I—”
“Bullshit. You said you didn’t know anything about Lily.”
“I know, but—”
“If you come near my house again, I’m calling the police.”
“Please, I—”
But I don’t get to finish. Even with the noise of the fan, I can hear she’s already gone.
* * *
By the time Eric comes back to my room, I’ve steadied my breathing. Calmed my hands and heart. I try to smile as he enters, but it feels like a grimace.
Sitting beside me on the bed, he sighs. The mattress creaks beneath our weight.