Forgotten: A Novel by Catherine McKenzie Page A

work with me here?”
    “Okay, okay. I get it. I don’t have to be me anymore, if I don’t want to be.”
    “Exactly.”
    “I guess that could be a good thing.”
    “Trust me, it will be. Now . . .” He rubs his hands together. “You need some of that over-the-hip grandma underwear, right?”
    A laugh bubbles out of me. “How’d you guess?”
    D ominic sees me through the Catch-22 ordeal I have to go through at the bank to get access to my life savings, despite the papers Detective Nield gave me. (Sample exchange: “We need proof that you’re alive in order to reactivate your account.” “What are you talking about? I’m standing right in front of you.” “Our files indicate that you’re likely deceased.” “You’ve got to be kidding me.”) I consider going postal, but instead I go to my Zen place and explain my situation to the floor manager, branch manager, and finally regional manager, who, thankfully, read that morning’s paper. After several apologies, I’m issued brand-spanking-new credit and bank cards, and I feel oddly rich. Maybe it’s because I haven’t spent any money in over six months, but the comfortable number of zeros in my bank account puts me in the mood to shop.
    I get rid of Dominic 1.5 stores later, partly because it feels weird to be picking outfits with a man I hardly know, but mostly because he has some pretty definitive opinions on fashion.
    “Leggings are for schoolgirls,” he says as I eye a pair from Lindsay Lohan’s collection.
    “Who made you the boss of my wardrobe?”
    “Just looking out for you, honey.”
    “I thought guys didn’t care what girls wore, unless it involved schoolgirl uniforms.”
    “Mmm.”
    “What?”
    “Now I’m imagining you in a schoolgirl uniform.”
    I take a whack at his arm. “Quit it.”
    Dominic laughs and directs me toward Banana Republic, telling me that it seems more like my kind of store. He’s right, of course (my pre-Africa wardrobe was 85 percent Banana), but I act affronted. Didn’t he just tell me I could change anything about myself I didn’t like?
    “But you like this store.”
    “Did it say that about me in the paper too?”
    “Nah, I can just tell.”
    “You know what? I think I can take it from here.”
    “You want me to go?”
    “I think it would be best.”
    “All right, but don’t come crying to me if you buy a bunch of things you’re never going to wear. And stay away from scoop necks. They make you look like a soccer mom.”
    “Out,” I order.
    I get home after dinnertime, full of food-court burrito and poorer, but with a good start on rebuilding my wardrobe. And not a scoop neck in sight.
    Dominic’s slouched on the couch in the living room with his feet propped up on the coffee table. He has a pair of oversized headphones covering his ears, and his iPod rests on the couch next to him. I dump my packages in the hall and join him, taking a seat in the armchair that sits kitty-corner to the couch.
    He slings his headphones around his neck. “Successful trip?”
    “I bought five pairs of leggings.”
    “A bold choice.”
    “Whatcha listening to?”
    “Mermaid Avenue.”
    “What’s that?”
    “Billy Bragg and Wilco singing Woody Guthrie songs. They took these old, unrecorded lyrics and added music.”
    “Huh.”
    “It’s really good. You should listen to it.”
    I shrug. “I’m not a big fan of country music.”
    He brings his feet to the floor and leans forward in a pose I recognize. He’s about to try to convince me of the error of my ways.
    “It’s not country, it’s folk.”
    “Mmm. Tell me. If I said that it’s all the same to me, would you freak out?”
    “You’re not into music?”
    “No, I like music. But not in that obsessive way most guys do. Like, I bet you know all the track names of the songs on this Mermaid Sessions thing.”
    He grits his teeth. “It’s Mermaid Avenue. ”
    “You see what I mean? A woman would never get upset if you got something like that