Foster - You Dont Know Me

For Matt

Whose gift is to know me and to love me as I am

L izzie?

The search parties move through the forest shortly after dawn, flashes of neon jackets among the trees, the slumbering air stirring towards an early morning chill. They call her name again and again, then wait, hoping for something in return. But the only response is the agitated shrieks of parrots and the occasional rustle of panicked creatures in the undergrowth.

Again their voices echo.

Lizzie?

Lizzie?

Lizzie?

Nearby on the main road, close to the spot she was last seen almost thirty hours ago, more police and emergency workers poke about in the bushland. Rumours are already flying and its hard to pluck the facts from them, but some snippets recur. Shed argued with her boyfriend at a party. Hed gone home without her. Shed followed him and theyd had another fight on his doorstep, around midnight. Then she ran off into the wet, cold night.

There was one possible sighting of her, reported only hours ago, after the first evening appeal for witnesses. Lizzie had been walking along the road near the place they now searched, hunched over in the rain, skirting the national park as she headed in the direction of home. But shed never arrived. No one had seen her since.

Day after day they keep searching, calling out Lizzies name, never hearing an answer. Birds and possums repeatedly pull apart the roadside posters that beg for information with the lure of a ten thousand dollar reward. The bouquets of flowers left at the nearest layby become raggedy, colonised by ants, ravaged by the wind, stems and petals peeling away from the bunch one after another, each finding their own nooks in which to settle, wilt and wither.

The weeks turn to months, and by the time the year clicks over into 2007, most people have returned to their lives. Only a few stooped figures are left to cover the same ground again and again, their futile hope the one thing keeping them sane. Yet, eventually, they too relinquish the search. The future will not indulge stragglers, it gathers them in and charges on.

The forest resettles, the searchers now spectres of another time, just like the missing girl herself. And yet, on that very first day, if anyone had known, they could have walked into the undergrowth to a ragged bloodwood tree, dug a fingernail into the peeling bark, and plucked out a single red strand of Lizzie Burdetts hair.

Twelve years later

T he morning is hot and humid, but the instant he sees her, Noah goes cold. She is standing on the deck of a packed river taxi in a bright, flowing dress, facing away from him as she stares out across the murky water of the Chao Phraya River.

His breath catches and his heart stills, the next belated beat slamming hard against his ribs. Theres an orange flag on the roof of the ferry, and Noah realises its the boat hes been waiting for, but hes stuck behind the crowds on the jetty. Undeterred, he begins pushing past people, suddenly desperate to get on board. He leaps from the wooden platform only seconds before the vessel leaves the dock, earning himself a stern rebuke in rapid Thai from the wiry man gathering the mooring ropes, whose glowing cigarette is tucked temporarily behind his ear.

Noah mumbles an apology over his shoulder, looking for a spot by the railing, moving closer to the woman. The shock of her resonates, shaking him harder than the rocking boat as it begins to negotiate the heavy river traffic. Her long red hair has brought Lizzie to life again, letting him briefly imagine he has found her, thousands of kilometres from home. Then his senses kick in. This womans face has a different shape: her eyes more oval than almond, her lips fuller and her skin freckled.

Nevertheless, his heart is still pounding.

Twelve years ago, Noah had thought that Lizzie Burdett was the most glorious thing to ever happen to his family, but shed proved to be a wrecking ball. She had been in their lives for six short months, and then, without warning, she wasnt at least not in the same way. Her face still smiled out from the missing person posters, and sometimes made it onto the evening news. Her name was whispered along school corridors on a continual loop, or so it seemed to Noah, because he was the boyfriends younger brother and therefore immediately connected to Lizzies disappearance. Since then, Lizzie had become the nightmare Noah couldnt fully explain to anyone, and the pull of his memories has intensified lately, now her name is in the news again.

He turns his attention back to the woman on the boat. Her hands lightly grip the rail, as her gaze falls on the semi-clothed kids playing at the edge of the muddy riverbank. Hed guess shes a few years younger than him early to mid-twenties, maybe but theres a rare air of self-containment about her. Even when passengers jostle her, they capture her attention for only a moment before she settles back into daydreamy stillness, as though she nurtures a secret thats hers alone. The din of hectic conversations coalesce into a background hum as Noah studies her, drawn to her poise, curious as to where her mind might be travelling. But then, as though sensing his gaze, she turns.

There is no chance to pretend to look elsewhere. He stills. She stares. Then her lips curve into a small smile, and theres a flash of curiosity in her eyes. It only lasts a second before she turns away, and Noah lets out a slow breath.

She is stunning.

He forces himself to focus elsewhere anywhere. He studies a seated row of shaven-headed monks cloistered in mustard robes, and eavesdrops on the bickering Canadian couple behind him, allowing himself the occasional sidelong glance at the mysterious redhead. She is looking across the river now, and his gaze follows hers to the golden temple stupas that gleam in sharp contrast to dirty white office blocks. Then the boat knocks against the pier of Tha Tien, his stop, and he turns away, still reeling, pressing into the swaying throng to get onto the boardwalk.

Once on land, he moves to one side to study the map in his guidebook. When he looks up and begins to walk in what he hopes is the right direction, the woman is there again, striding confidently some distance ahead of him. Hes buoyed by the idea they might be heading to the same place, but only has a brief moment to admire the shape of her, the swing of her hips, before he loses sight of her at the entrance to Wat Pho as the crowds deepen.

He joins the back of one of the lines for tickets. The queue edges forward, and he waits patiently, until a polite voice interrupts.

Excuse me, mister, whats your name?

He turns to find a young Thai man with a wispy moustache beaming at him. Noah.

I am David, the man says with a small bow of the head. I am guide at this temple, I can show you best places, very private tour just for you. I will tell you about history of temple, reclining Buddha, symbols of Buddhism

Thats okay, Im not

Only two hundred baht, includes entrance, very cheap, special tour for you. You want massage too? Massage three hundred baht. Pay at the end. Come with me.

David propels him by the elbow, hustling past the queue for the entrance, answering in hurried Thai as people complain. They are waved on after a brief exchange at the ticket desk.

Reclining Buddha first, David beckons Noah forward, this way, this way.