I return to my bedroom, to my closet. Empty. Totally empty. Even the bureau against the far wall of the walk-in closet is empty. I have not a single stitch of clothing left to me.
Back out to the living room. The couch is gone, the coffee table, the Louis XIV armchair. The dining room table is gone.
My front door stands open.
The elevator door is open, the key in the slot inside the car.
I am utterly confused.
Back inside, to the library. There is my chair and the table in the triangle between shelves. On the table is an envelope containing a stack of hundred-dollar bills, and a note handwritten in bold, slanting letters:
Madame X,
This dress is the one I found you in. It’s yours, from before.
I leave you the books, because I know you treasure them.
The cameras and microphones are off.
There will be no more clients.
Leave, if you wish; there is money enough in the envelope to allow you to go wherever you wish. But if you do choose to leave, you will be on your own. I will not chase you this time.
Or, you may take the elevator up to the penthouse. But if you choose this, you leave everything in this apartment where it is, and come to me as you are now, naked, with only the name you chose for yourself that day in the Museum of Modern Art.
~Caleb
Folded on the cushion of the chair is a dress. Deep, dark blue. Of course. A shade of blue that seems to be a defining feature in my life...
Caleb Indigo.
Logan’s indigo eyes.
And now this dress . . .
Indigo.
Except this dress is not new. Not beautiful. It was, once, perhaps. I lift it, and I am strangled by ravaging emotion. I do not recognize this dress; it is ripped, torn. From neckline to hem, it is torn open. Ripped in half and stained with blood. There is another rip, this one on the side, low, on the right.
I touch my right hip, where there is a scar.
There is blood staining the dark blue fabric at the neckline, all over the shoulders, down the back.
Why, I don’t know, but I lift it, step through the gaping hole. Fit my arms through the sleeves. Tug the ends together.
It is too small. Even undamaged, it wouldn’t fit me. I am too large in the bust and backside for this dress. Too tall, as well, perhaps.
Six years.
I would have been around eighteen or nineteen when I last wore this dress.
I remove the dress; I feel as if phantoms of the past cling to my skin, seeping into me from the fabric.
The tag saysSfera. Even the style is strange, to me. So short, coming not even to midthigh. Sleeveless, intact the neckline would have been high around my throat, but the back gapes open to midspine. I stare at the material clutched in my hand, a useless clue to who I used to be. An empty fragment of my past.
The girl who wore this dress from Sfera... who was she? What was her name? Did she have parents? A sister? What did she like to do? Did she have friends? Did she sketch hearts on notebooks? Did she have a crush on a boy? Did she speak Spanish? If she did, I have forgotten it.
This dress can tell me nothing. I cannot even wear it, and if I could, if I could sew the ends together... would I?
