You Will Remember Me by Hannah McKinnon (best sales books of all time txt) 📕

at another service station, and I watched him and Rita, who were no longer on speaking terms, and stayed close to the back window in case I had to jump out. They didn’t approach the trailer again, and I settled in for the ride, incapable of staying awake.

The sun had started its descent when I woke up again, and as we drove over a bridge, I noticed a green-and-white sign announcing our arrival in Maine. I expected a rush of excitement, a massive influx of memories. Instead, a sinking sensation pulled at the pit of my stomach. What would I do now? Where would I go once I got out of the trailer? Coming to Maine had been a stupid, rash decision. Somebody in Maryland had to know me. Someone had to be wondering where I was. What had I been thinking? I spent the next hour trying to come up with a plan but failed, because, as it turned out, without a memory or history, there weren’t many avenues to explore.

When the trailer slowed down again a while later, I decided it was time for me to go. I grabbed a black rain jacket and a blue baseball hat from the wardrobe, hoping Sal and Rita would blame one another for leaving them behind, and pushed the back window open. Even before we’d come to a complete stop I slid out, my legs buckling as they hit the ground.

I took in my surroundings. The trailer had pulled into a small plaza with an Irving Oil, a convenience store and a couple of fast-food places. I put on the jacket and hat, and headed away from the plaza, ducking my head. As I shoved my hands into the coat’s pockets, my fingers closed over a piece of paper, which turned out to be a twenty-dollar bill. I whispered a thank-you to the rain-cloud-filled skies, and hid behind a couple of parked cars, watching Sal fill up his car as Rita periodically shouted at him to hurry the hell up. When they finally drove away I waited another few minutes in case they returned, and when I decided it was safe, went to the store.

The brass bell above my head jangled as I entered. The guy behind the counter threw an uninspired glance my way before returning to the phone in his hand. I headed for the fridge, grabbed the biggest bottle of water I could find and picked up pretzels and chocolate. I ran my tongue over the fuzziness of my gums, for the first time realizing how rancid my breath must be. How long since I’d brushed my teeth? What brand of toothpaste did I use? Mundane questions, perhaps, but, damn it, I wanted the answers.

“What am I going to do?” I muttered as I walked up the aisle, adding a small toothbrush kit to my supplies, hoping the twenty dollars would cover it all. I set the items on the counter, and after the cashier handed over five bucks in change, I asked for the key to the bathroom.

He passed me a grubby tennis ball with a single key attached to it and pointed outside. “Around the back. Close the door when you’re done.”

The stale air in the bathroom smelled of shit, the toilet seat lay broken and abandoned on the floor, and someone had drawn an impressive array of boobs and dicks of every shape and size all over the piss-colored walls. The words Peter sucks and for free along with a phone number, all in three different sets of handwriting, had been scrawled above the hazy, scratch-covered mirror. I cupped my hands under the water and splashed some on my face, gazing at myself as I observed my short brown hair and the dark circles under my eyes.

I didn’t know my name, didn’t know how old I was, either, and if asked to guess, I’d have said somewhere in my thirties. Looking at myself in the mirror was as if I were meeting an old acquaintance—someone from my past I may have known well once, but who I no longer quite recognized. I lowered my gaze, splashed more water onto my hands and ran damp paper towels under my armpits, over my chest and the back of my neck, wishing for a hot shower. Barely any cleaner, and not feeling much better, I walked back to the store. I was about to pull the door open when I noticed the pay phone, and as I stared at it, the sequence of numbers I’d remembered in the trailer flashed through my mind again.

At the counter, I handed over the bathroom key, and pulled the rest of my money from my pocket. “Can I have some change for the pay phone?”

“Cool accent,” the cashier said as he handed me the coins. “Australian? Or English?”

I stared at him and opened my mouth but didn’t know how to answer. Up to that point my nationality hadn’t crossed my mind. I was in the US. Didn’t that make me American? And if not, why the hell did I feel such a strong connection to Maine? Without offering a reply I went back outside, where I piled the money in neat stacks on top of the phone box. Taking a deep breath, I pulled the note from my pocket, picked up the receiver and dialed the combination. Fingers unsteady, I hesitated before adding a one.

“Hello?” It was a man’s voice I didn’t recognize, which meant precisely bugger all.

“Hello.” I hesitated, unsure what to say next. I hadn’t thought this through.

“Who’s this?”

“Uh...do you, ah, recognize my voice?”

“What? Who is this?”

“Are you sure you don’t know who I am?”

The line went dead, and I couldn’t blame him. I tried another few combinations, added a two, a three, a four and a five to the end of each new sequence. One woman answered in a language I didn’t understand, another told me to piss off, one call had an automated message stating the number had