“Of course I know,” I said. But I didn’t. I didn’t at all.
“Don’t understand,” you repeated again. “The only way is if it broke, but the chain is still here.” Your next dream started to pull you deeper again. “The chain is still here.” The words became less and less clear. “Do you . . . Do you think . . .” You trailed off as your leg twitched. Then you were gone, whisked away from your worry somewhere deeper, somewhere more peaceful. “Maybe . . .”
Once you began to snore, I lifted your left hand carefully off the covers in the darkness and gently felt my way down your palm toward your third finger. Please be there, I prayed. Please be there.
But it wasn’t. There was no weathered silver band. Because of course you had—it made perfect sense now. Of course you had moved it from your hand to a neck chain so it wouldn’t get in the way during your scavenging or attract attention if you happened to run into anyone looking for something to steal. So you didn’t lose it.
Only now you had, because without it there on your finger to see every day, I had forgotten you still had your wedding band, that you hadn’t misplaced it somewhere in the early days or while searching the downtown. I had forgotten you had moved it to the chain on your neck who knows how long ago, and so I had forgotten you had it at all.
I put your hand back down on the covers as softly as I could. Your bare, ringless hand. “Fifty-two,” I whispered to your sleeping form.
That’s when I knew I had to leave. Before it was too late.
I understood then how the Forgetting works. Why sometimes we shadowless simply don’t remember anymore and why other times something changes: there’s a difference between when the mind forgets and the heart does. The memory means more, the more it’s worth to you—and to who you are. The heart has a harder time letting go. But what happens when you refuse to let go of a delicate thing as it’s being pulled away from you? It stretches. Then it tears.
Do you know what means the most to me of all, Ory? Out of everything that’s left in this world? Don’t you see now why I had to leave you? That I had to do it? That I had no choice?
Do you know what could happen when I forget you?
Orlando Zhang
ORY SAT THERE FOR A WHILE ON THE LAST REMAINING section of curb on the street.
Of course it was more possible that Max wouldn’t be there than that she would. He’d just refused to think about it, because he knew if he did, the logic to give up would have been overwhelming. He could only believe that she’d headed for their home, and then follow her. What else was he supposed to do? Just let her go? Just leave her to forget, even though it was his fault, even though she’d still be in the shelter with him if he hadn’t gone to Broad Street? He was just supposed to go on living and let her die? Ory tossed the pebble in his hand and watched it skitter over the asphalt.
Their apartment was gone. The entire block had collapsed in on itself, into a pile of steel bars and sand. Ory watched the air a few feet up from the ground, where the front door should have been. Where he was supposed to have walked through and found Max.
“She’s not here,” he said softly to himself. Either she’d come and then gone when she saw that their home was destroyed, or she never came. Ory picked up a handful of the gray powder and let it slide through his fingers. “Where are you, Max?” He sighed. The sand hissed. “Where?”
His shoulder ached where the sharpened pebble had cut him. The streets had begun to look more menacing in the late-afternoon light—he needed somewhere safe to camp within sight of the property. He pressed down harder to stanch the cut and grimaced.
“I see you’ve met the four sisters,” a voice said.
The shotgun was already aimed. “The what?” Ory asked.
A tall, thin man emerged from the half doorway of an abandoned business farther down the street. A shadow followed him. “The four sisters,” he repeated, and gestured to the gash on Ory’s shoulder. “New around here, aren’t you?”
Ory slowly nodded. There was no point to try to hide it. It was obvious the man knew the answer anyway.
“Famous for their hospitality.” He smiled. His eyes lingered on Ory’s pockets. “You’re lucky you still have your stuff.”
“It wasn’t like that,” Ory said. “I approached them. I just wanted to ask if they’d seen my wife. She might’ve passed through here.”
The man’s eyes narrowed. “Lost shadowless?” he asked.
“About a week now. She would’ve—this is the building where we used to live.”
“What’s she look like?”
“You think you saw her?”
“What’s she look like?” he repeated.