Forget to Remember

light and sat down on the sheltered bench provided for bus passengers, feeling she was starting to live her life again.
    ***
    Rigo had a job interview at ten, so he’d set his alarm for seven forty-five. On the way to the shower, he noticed Carol’s door was closed. This was unusual; she usually left it open except when she was asleep. She hadn’t slept this late since she’d arrived.
    He showered, shaved, and got dressed, then went downstairs to eat breakfast. His parents had gone to work. Rigo counted cereal bowls and determined Carol hadn’t eaten breakfast. May she was out walking, but she was usually back by now. He called his mother’s cell phone, ostensibly to tell her good morning and let her wish him a successful interview, but he also asked, casually, whether she’d seen Carol. She hadn’t.
    Back upstairs, Rigo hesitated, not wanting to make a tsunami out of a ripple, but then the thought came to him she might have suffered a relapse because of her head injuries. He knocked on her door. No answer. He called her name. He opened the door slowly. The drapes were still closed, but he could see the bed was empty.
    He switched on the light and saw a piece of paper lying on the bed. He picked it up and read, “Rigo, Tina and Ernie, Thanks so much for everything you’ve done for me. It’s time I struck out on my own. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine. Carol”
    Rigo’s heart sank. His worst fears were being realized. Where was she going? She was acting crazy. Why didn’t she talk to them? Was she taking the train to North Carolina? Where would she get the money? When he’d calmed down a little, he remembered he’d written down the telephone number of the attorney, Paul Vigiano. If Carol was headed east, he might know.
    He called Vigiano’s number. A woman’s voice answered, “Law offices.”
    “May I speak to Paul Vigiano, please?”
    “Mr. Vigiano is in court today. Who’s calling?”
    “Rigo Ramirez. I’m a…friend of Carol Golden.”
    “Let me have your number, and I’ll have Mr. Vigiano call you.”
    “Maybe you can help me.” How could he phrase this without sounding stupid? “Do you know whether Carol—Ms. Golden—is…going to North Carolina to speak to Mr. Vigiano?”
    “I’m sorry. Information about Mr. Vigiano’s clients is confidential, Mr. Ramirez. I’ll give Mr. Vigiano your message, however.”
    Rigo wanted to shout at her, but that wouldn’t do any good. He hung up the phone. What was the name of the woman who might be Carol’s grandmother? He couldn’t remember. He had time for one more phone call. He called Frances Moran and got her answering machine. He left a brief message and then headed off for his interview, trying to compose himself. Carol would be all right. She was smart and could take care of herself. He hoped that was true.
    ***
    Carol had no memories of ever flying First Class, although she was positive she had flown before. Perhaps a lot. Paul was spending a ton of money to get her to North Carolina. The seats were roomy, and the flight attendants fed them, something they no longer did in Economy. On the first leg, to Washington Dulles Airport, they even gave her champagne. It felt funny to be drinking so early in the morning.
    Her seatmate on the United Airlines wide-body was a prosperous looking businessman. They exchanged hellos when she squeezed past him to get to the window seat. She wouldn’t have minded chatting with him, but he read a newspaper before the plane took off. As soon as permission to use electronic devices was given after they cleared the coastline, he buried himself in his laptop computer and never came up for air.
    Carol amused herself by reading the in-flight magazine, doing the crossword and a couple of Sudoku puzzles, all of which she found quite easy. She had a storehouse of knowledge. It just didn’t happen to be knowledge about herself. When she became bored with the puzzles, she watched the landscape below whenever it wasn’t covered with clouds, wondering whether she had a connection to any of the deserts, mountains, plains, and forested areas they flew over.
    As the small plane she had transferred to at Dulles landed at the Raleigh-Durham Airport, flying in over trees and water, she began to feel nervous. She could see a highway that was probably Interstate 40. She had studied maps of the area online. When the plane taxied up to the gate and the door opened, she followed the other passengers into the