June, this year #2
He yells something else and throws his arm towards the gate — a very clear, get-the-fuck-out-of-here gesture.
I raise my hands once more, and make my way to the gate.
I hit the release button on the side and it clangs open.
I escape as soon as the gap is wide enough, and run a little way down the road until the gate is closed again.
My heart is pounding so hard I can hear the blood in my ears.
What the hell just happened?
I have to get a hold of Bonnie.
Taking deep breaths, as controlled as I’m able, I pat my back pockets again for the missing phone. I’m not wearing a jacket, so the only pockets I have are in my jeans.
Hold up. I wasn’t wearing these white jeans before.
I don’t even own any white jeans.
The side pocket has the lump where I put my car keys — at least I have those, even if I can’t remember where I parked my car. I thought I’d parked it in the driveway? I remember punching in the gate code.
I pull out the car keys — and they’re wrong, too. Not my car keys — somebody else’s. There’s a VW logo on the fob, and a set of house keys I don’t recognize.
Okay, this is getting really fucking scary. My head is starting to swim, my vision increasingly blurry.
I crouch on the grass verge of the residential street, my face between my knees, like I used to as a kid when I was feeling panicky about Mom and Dad’s fights. I blow out big breaths.
In for four. Out for eight, slowly.
Just breathe. Then I’ll be able to think.
In for four. Out for eight.
When my pulse has slowed a little, I lift my head.
Okay, let’s figure this out. Bonnie’s house . . . doesn’t appear to be her house anymore. Bonnie still hasn’t shown up. I don’t have my car, or my phone, or any stuff with me. Apart from these keys.
Well, if these keys are all I have, maybe I can use them. Maybe I can find a phone to use.
I scan the street. It’s largely devoid of street parking, given that the houses are mostly gated with driveways and parking space on the property.
But there’s a cluster of parked cars a little further down.
I walk towards them, and start looking at the logos on the front. The third is a green VW Golf.
My pulse quickening again, I lift the VW fob, point it at the car, and press the unlock button.
Beep. Clunk.
The unmistakable sound of a car unlocking.
One mystery solved, a whole bunch more to go.
I’m nervous to climb inside, given that it’s not my car — but there must be a reason I have these keys. I take another deep breath, open the door, and get into the driver’s seat.
Perhaps I can stay in here, in this safe, lockable environment, until Bonnie comes home. I can still make out the home’s gated entrance from here, so I’ll see when Bonnie pulls up in her bright yellow Nissan.
Assuming she does pull up.
Given that there’s a random family living in her house, and her house doesn’t look at all like her house anymore . . . I have a pretty bad feeling that maybe she’s not coming.
What the hell is happening? Have I . . . slipped into some kind of impossible parallel universe where Bonnie lives . . . I dunno, somewhere else?
But that’s ridiculous. Impossible.
A sharp spike of fear and loneliness, painfully familiar ever since I was an only child with constantly battling parents, stabs at my chest. The truth is, if I don’t have Bonnie, I don’t really have anyone.
Nobody in my life who cares if I live or die, apart from a useless mother who drives me crazy.
Okay, sure, I have a couple of other friends from work.
And of course there’s Ben, who’s someone I can rely on to be there for me, no matter what.
It’s really only been since I had him and Bonnie in my life that the terror of being alone has been gone.
Maybe I should go back to the city and find Ben. After all, I am sitting in a car that I could drive there. But no . . . he’ll be at the theater, busy with his play. He’ll think I’ve lost my mind if I show up there and tell them this nonsensical story.
Perhaps this car holds some clues as to what the hell is going on. I turn to the passenger side. A black purse I hadn’t noticed before is on the seat. I grab it and, ignoring my qualms about invading its owner’s privacy, open it and tip the contents onto the passenger seat.
A phone — thank Christ! — and a pink leather wallet, along with the usual purse detritus of pens, lipstick, plastic-wrapped tampon, notebook, business cards, tube of hand cream, and tissues. I grab the wallet first, and open it to find out who owns this mysterious car.
Inside is a clear plastic window with a driver’s license behind it.
My driver’s license.
My own face staring out at me, and my own name. Emilia MacKenzie, in clear type.
The credit cards, too. All four in my name — two with banks I’ve never used. Various shopping loyalty cards, all in my name, none that I’m subscribed to.
I flip over the business cards that fell out. No names or companies that I recognize. But the moisturizing cream for dry hands is my favorite brand — has been since I was a teenager.
My stomach churns horribly. I might just throw up in the immaculate interior of this weird VW.
Gulping down air, I pick up the phone, which is in a chic navy-blue case. It’s already turned on, but the screen is locked, with a flower background. I look up to the camera at the top, and it recognizes me.
This is my phone. It unlocks through facial recognition.
Except I’ve never seen this phone before in my life.
I immediately open the text messages to find my last conversation with Bonnie, to check that our text thread is normal, before I call her.
But there’s no text conversation with Bonnie. Her name isn’t even in this phone. Nor is Ben’s.
There’s a bunch of text interactions with someone called Chris, who texts most days, about mundane but strangely intimate stuff, like what groceries to get and what time we should meet somewhere. And a host of other people whose names I also don’t recognize.
This is really, really fucked up.
I’m starting to panic again. I force myself to rest my head on the wheel and breathe myself out of it.
In through the nose for four, out through the mouth for eight — slowly, measured. And again. And again.
I try to gather myself. Okay, so I can’t contact Bonnie from this phone. But I know where her interiors store is, in the commercial center of nearby Lake Forest — it’s only a five-minute drive from here. She might still be waiting there for her inventory.
With at least a minor plan in place, I begin to feel a little better.
I put my phone on the mount on the dashboard, in case I need to follow a map at some point, or in case she calls me when I’m driving.
I start up the car, pull out of the parking space, and shakily drive past Bonnie’s gateway.
Fortunately, at least, there’s no sign of the family calling the police on me.
I drive to the stretch of retail outlets in Lake Forest’s center and look for Bonnie’s tiny storefront, which is always hard to spot.
It’s a couple of doors down from the European desserts place that she always makes me go into, to get her a cream puff.
This time, her little store is even harder to find, and I slow to a crawl, craning my neck to see the name above every store.
Surely it’s where that bagel shop is? Why have I never seen that bagel place before?
I brake, check there’s nothing behind me, and reverse slowly, scanning the names above every door. At the end of the block, I drive forward past every store once again.
Yep. Bonnie’s store isn’t here, and there’s a little bagel shop in its place.
Okay.
This is worst-case scenario.
But I’m not going to panic again. I’m not. I’m not. I can do this.
What can I do?
I can go home. Fuck it. I’m giving up, and I’m going back to the city. Back to my cute little rental studio, where I feel safe. I can figure all the rest of this out later. If and when I manage to track down Bonnie, I can tell her everything that happened, and she’ll just have to understand.
I take a right after the shops towards I-94, and put my foot down on the gas and speed up as I approach the highway. But I don’t normally drive from Lake Forest, so I’m not sure where the intersection is.
I press the side button of the cellphone mounted on the dash, and it jumps into life. I speak clearly. “Siri, give me directions to home.”
“Okay. Calculating directions to home,” the Siri voice replies. “In one mile, take the next left and join Interstate Highway 94.”
Okay, that makes sense. The intersection is still a bit further ahead.
I glance at the map that has come up on the phone.
There’s something wrong. Another thing that’s wrong.
Yes, Siri is taking me south down I-94. But then the blue route line runs way past Chicago, round the bottom of Lake Michigan, and all the way to New Buffalo — nearly a two-hour drive from here.
My cellphone thinks I live in New Buffalo.
But I’ve never even been there.
That’s the last thing I think before the grass side verge and a huge green hedge come to meet me.