The Gift of Remembering

by C. L. Shaffer

  "Oh, let me help you with those," Chris said, kneeling to pick up the packs.

  “You don’t need to do that,” Irene said, her tone sounding a bit on edge.

  Chris cocked his head slightly but seemed to overlook Irene’s ridged manner as he handed back the packets. “No, it would have been jerky of me if I hadn’t helped.” He offered Irene a Kent-like smirk.

  The desire to hit him over the head and drag him away with her was almost overwhelming, but she knew she couldn't do that. The torment must have shown on her face, for Chris apologized.

  “Puns can be tricky,” he said. “You really need to know your audience.”

  Regaining some composure, Irene jammed the jerky back into her pockets. “No, no, it was . . . funny.” Irene moved backward. “I’m just going to go and get some of that air I came out here for.”

  “Of course,” Chris said as he sheepishly slapped his hands together. He looked down at his radio as it crackled once more, but this time, a voice began to emerge from the static. He adjusted the channel frequency, clearing the intake a little.

  Irene took another step back, this one bigger than the one before, widening the gap between them.

  The static burst through the radio.

  “This stupid thing,” Chris mumbled and twisted the volume dial hard. It quieted. He looked up and, perhaps noticing the distance between them, yelled, "Hey."

  Irene halted her retreat. “Yes,” she said, her nervous voice betraying her once again.

  “Next time you come out for some air, make sure you bring your ID.”

  Irene glanced down at her scrubs. “Of course . . . yes, I’ll remember,” she said with an awkward laugh. She waved goodbye before righting herself to head down the street faster and steadier as her fake smile faded.

  When she was safely out of his sight, she began to jog. Running came easily now since there wasn’t any residual pain from processing. She also didn’t seem to have experienced memory loss. But then again, how would she know?

  The question was frustrating. It was like encountering someone you recognized but couldn’t quite place. She’d remembered Chris and knew him to be her husband—so Dr. Landers hadn’t taken those memories. Perhaps the power outage had saved her from any memory loss.

  Of course, Chris hadn’t been so fortunate.

  She remembered the day she'd told him she was pregnant with Tia, their firstborn. He pulled her close and kissed her slow and passionately with lips wetted from tears.

  That sweet memory, and many others, similar to it, had been taken from him. And now it seemed the only explanation for why he didn’t recognize her again was that The Firsts had processed him once more, erasing even the memory of her as someone helping to lead The Opposition. Why they did that, she didn’t know.

  Whatever The Firsts’ objective, from her experience, she was beginning to see that being told you'd been processed could be painful, not only emotionally but also mentally. She decided that if the opportunity presented itself to tell her husband who he was and all that had been taken from him, she wouldn't. The telling could drive him mad. The vein in her neck pulsated at the thought. She picked up her pace as if to outrun it.

  Chapter 11

  At a small park near the top of a hill, Irene leaned against a large tree. Trying to steady her breathing, she looked out over the city she’d just escaped. If the events of the day hadn’t convinced her that God was helping her, then little else would. From finding the shop with the change of clothes, to Chris not recognizing her—not to mention his unreliable radio, God had been with her.

  She was reminded of the times when she would kneel beside her children’s bed and pray for their safety. She recalled the moments at the White House when she begged God for wisdom and guidance when there was no one else to ask. Those were the times when she loved God with all her heart. She wanted nothing more than to return to that feeling when her doubts didn’t hold sway over her and when she wouldn’t feel like a fool for fully giving into those beliefs. She looked beyond the city. It seemed there would be miles to go before that happened.

  As she journeyed on, the night turned to early dawn, and the seemingly deserted suburban areas she traversed gave way to wild woods and unkempt fields of tall grass. She was sometimes surprised by the odd little things that she missed about her life before the war, such as the tidy rows of corn or wheat that often grew in fields around her home. The only evidence that the disorderly field she now moved through was ever groomed for planting was in the remaining rows of plowed soil that occasionally caused her to stumble.

  Pausing for a moment, she covered her eyes and squinted as the sun began its ascent. As she did, a two-story farmhouse near the edge of the woods came into view. Having journeyed all night and having not found a suitable place to rest, the house served as a motivation to keep traveling onward through the difficult terrain. At the very least, the structure would provide a roof over her head to catch a few hours of sleep.

  Drawing nearer to the house, she noticed a dozen or so brown-feathered chickens scurrying about in the front yard. Appearing to be well cared for, she decided to circle the place to look for evidence of a caretaker. When she did, she found a rickety structure made of wood and wire seemingly used to house small farm animals.

  Inside the fenced area, a short, grey-haired man stood tossing food onto the ground. "Here chickies, here chickies,” he called out to the chickens inside. He quieted. Irene watched as he took a single step toward a shotgun leaning against the stall.

  “Now don’t go shoot’n the only visitor we’ve had in months,” a woman said from behind, startling Irene. The woman rested her hand on Irene’s shoulder and smiled.

  Irene failed to greet her similarly. She was too busy keeping her eye on the man who’d turned and pointed his shotgun at her.

  “Jackson, put that thing down,” the woman said, whipping her dishtowel in his direction. “You know your eyesight ain’t that good anymore. You’d probably be more likely shoot’n me than her.”

  The man grumbled but lowered his gun.

  Irene relaxed somewhat, offering the woman a semblance of a smile.

  “Now finish up feeding those chickens, Jackson. You’ll be fed next. Breakfast is soon on the table.” She turned to Irene, combing some loose, long hairs back into her tight bun. “Don’t mind Jackson. He gets grumpy when he’s hungry. Oh my, you must be hungry too. Where in the world did you come from? The nearest city is miles away.”

  “I am hungry,” Irene told her, deciding not to answer the other question. “I ate the last of my beef jerky along the way.”

  “Beef jerky? Oh, dear, well, I think we can do better than that. You come inside, and I’ll fix you up a nice plate of eggs.”

  Irene usually wouldn't go into a stranger's home, especially these days, but she needed something in her stomach to continue with the next leg of her journey, which she hoped would be to Kingston’s mansion. She followed the woman to the porch, looking back twice to make sure Jackson continued to feed his chickens.

  Stepping inside, the kitchen was warm from cooking. Irene remained at the door, hesitant to move any further into the house. She peered farther into the interior to the living room and down the adjacent hall. Everything appeared normal.

  “You got lucky,” the woman said as she bent down to peek into her stove. “Today is fresh bread day. I make it once a week, and it lasts the rest of the week. It should be done soon.” She frowned at Irene. “Now you go and have a seat at the table.”

  Irene did as she was told, and the woman lifted a jug of milk and poured it into a glass. “Compliments of our cow, Trudy. She’s given us some nice milk after calving. And we’re so excited to have the new addition to the farm.”

  Irene drank the milk she was offered. It tasted rich and creamy, reminding her of the milk from town.

  "Oh my, I just realized I didn't introduce myself. My manners are a bit rusty being out here in the middle of nowhere. I'm Clara Steele." She nudged her h
ead toward the window. “And that’s Jackson, my husband.” Holding the milk jug close to her stomach, Clara paused for a moment as if waiting for a similar introduction from Irene.

  Irene took another gulp of milk, trying to buy some time to think of a phony name. She didn’t want to give her real one, not knowing where the Steele’s loyalties rested. She slowly placed her glass on the table. “Vanessa . . . Houser,” she said, combining her second oldest daughter's name with her deceased mother’s maiden name.

  “Ah, very good, it’s nice to meet you, Vanessa.”

  "It's nice to meet you as well, and thank you for this." Irene raised her glass to enjoy another sip.

  “You’re welcome, dear.” Clara turned to the stove and busied herself with cracking some eggs. “I was brought up to help strangers in need or those in trouble.” Clara stopped just as she was about to break another egg on the edge of her bowl. “You’re not in trouble, are you?”

  “No,” Irene answered quickly but then felt immediately guilty for lying to someone who was showing her a great deal of kindness.

  “I’m glad to hear it. Are you . . . some kind of doctor from the city?”

  Irene looked down at the scrubs. In all the chaos, she’d forgotten again. She tried to think of a more manageable explanation than that of being a doctor. "I work at one of the city’s medical centers . . . as an administrative assistant.”

  "Oh, well, that explains it." Clara smiled at her before returning to scramble the eggs she'd placed into a skillet. “You’re so far from the city. You’ve walked all this way with no supplies?”

  Irene’s neck stiffened. Clearly, Clara wasn’t as comfortable with her presence as she’d first claimed, for the questions she asked, cloaked in polite conversation, were turning into an interrogation. “I . . . I had an argument with my husband after work, so I ran out of the house and went for a jog. Running helps clear my mind. I got off the main road and realized I’d gotten lost.” Irene looked down at the tabletop, feeling guilty once more for lying, but the statement was true—in a way.

  She had once had an argument with Kent where she’d taken off in a huff. She’d gotten herself lost and ended up knocking on someone’s door to borrow a cell phone. Calling Kent and seeing his smug face through the car window was a humiliation not easily forgotten. In telling the story to Clara, she hoped it would ring true—because it was.

  Clara scooped the eggs onto three plates, dividing them equally. "Well, I can certainly relate to that." She motioned toward the window. "Jackson can be quite the handful. Many a times, I've wanted to run out of here screaming myself.” She returned the pan to the stove and went to the screen door. “Jackson,” she hollered through the screen. “Your breakfast is ready.”

  Irene heard the man gripe, and Clara stepped back into the kitchen. “I swear that man is going deaf.”

  Irene’s neck relaxed a bit. Her cover story seemed to be working, but she was still bothered by having to lie. Even as a child, she hated doing it. Once, she'd told a fib to her mother that she hadn't eaten candy before supper. To her astonishment, her mother had believed her, but after an hour of her conscience working on her, Irene ran to her, confessing all.

  “Can I help with anything?” Irene asked, hoping that some domestic chore would ease her conscience.

  “I could use some help slicing the bread.”

  Irene’s mouth watered at the prospect. She hadn’t eaten fresh bread since they’d put the tube in lockdown.

  After popping the bread out of its baking tin, Clara placed it onto a cutting board and handed it to Irene along with a knife.

  “So we're giving knives to strangers now,” Jackson said as he worked his way through the door. The screen door slammed behind him, making Irene jump a little.

  “Oh, Jackson, come and eat.”

  Jackson grumbled again but took a seat.

  As Irene placed the cutting board beside him, she could see a significant age difference between him and Clara. Where his skin was brown and aged, carved by deep wrinkles, Clara’s was still smooth and white, as if she hardly ever stepped foot outside the kitchen. But she seemed happy enough in her plain dress and apron that was accessorized with a large diamond ring on her plump ring finger. Irene wondered about their story. As she cut the bread into thin slices, Jackson asked the same of her.

  “We’ve already been through all that, Jackson,” Clara said, shaking her head. “Her name is Vanessa, and she’s been having some . . . love trouble. We can certainly relate to that, can’t we now?”

  Jackson mumbled something as he scooped his eggs into his mouth. Irene handed him a slice of bread, and he snatched it, only glancing at her for a moment before returning to eat his meal.

  “Jackson works up quite the appetite tending to the farm. You’ll have to excuse him.”

  Irene nodded politely, but she didn’t blame Jackson for being suspicious. Quite the opposite; she understood it. Irene was skeptical herself. She was unsure how this couple had made it this long without being mistreated by The Firsts. They were in the middle of nowhere, like Clara had said, but so was the mill, and it had been raided. The Firsts were expanding their cleansing every day. It wouldn’t be long until this remote location would be overrun.

  For this reason, Irene thought about warning Clara and Jackson, but she knew it was difficult to convince people, even back in the city of The Firsts’ crimes. Perhaps, after a bit of sleep, when she was ready to move on, she would explain what she’d experienced. Oddly enough, in thinking about departing, her heart ached a little. Leaving such an oasis—a reminder of things past—would be difficult.

  …

  “Of course, you can rest here,” Clara said after Irene explained she was tired from the previous night’s excursion. “I’ll put some fresh linen on the bed in one of our bedrooms.”

  “Oh, don't go to any trouble,” Irene replied. “I just need an hour or so. I can sleep on the couch in the living room.”

  “I won’t hear of it. I also insist you take a shower. I’m afraid you look dreadful, dear.”

  Irene looked down at her scrubs. They were dusty and a bit muddy from traveling across the fields. She didn't want to take the time to shower or to rest fully in a bed. She needed to get to Kingston's mansion. But she did have some time due to Charlie's condition. The Firsts wouldn't be able to process him for some time. Until then, the secret about the mansion was safe. "I suppose I could use a shower," Irene said.

  Clara nodded with an approving smile.

  …

  After bathing, Irene scampered down the hall in a borrowed robe to the room that was hers for the time being. A pair of pajamas as well as a change of clothes were laid out on a cedar chest at the foot of the bed. Irene couldn’t help but smile at Clara’s thoughtfulness. She obviously enjoyed caring for people. As a mother, Irene understood the impulse.

  Dressing for bed, Irene searched for a place to hang her wet towel. Seeing a metal hook on the back of the door, she hung it there to dry. Turning about, she noticed the door to the cabinet in the room was left ajar. Being the only sign of untidiness in the entire well-organized room, she went over and snapped it closed. Stubbornly, it popped open. Irritated, Irene swung open the door to search inside for the source of the problem. As she did, she jolted back. There, among a couple of ordinary winter coats, hung a man’s black uniform.

  “It was my son’s uniform,” Clara explained, peeking through the bedroom door from the hallway.

  Irene darted her a look. “Oh?” was all Irene could manage to get out.

  “Yes, The Firsts gave him a new uniform after a neighborhood dog shredded this one." Clara walked over to Irene and lifted the uniform from out of the cabinet. She pulled up the right leg, revealing the ripped material. “My son works so hard to relocate people, and that’s the thanks he gets—being chased by the family dog.” Clara held the uniform in her hands, admiring it. “Despite the trouble, we are quite proud of him.”

  "I'm sure you are," Irene said, her vo
ice sounding uneasy even to her. "Does your son come home . . . often?"

  “Oh no, he only comes home to help with the fall harvest. We’re one of the farms that donates the majority of our food to you—to The Firsts living in the city. It’s our pleasure to do so, seeing how you all are helping people get out of that dyin’ city.”

  Irene tried to stamp down her sense to flee. She took a deep breath to gain some control. “It must be . . . difficult to have him away for so long.”

  Clara slipped the uniform back into the cabinet between the two winter coats. “Yes, but I know he’s doin’ important work.”

  Irene managed a smile.

  “Do you plan to return to the city after you rest here a bit?” Clara asked the question as if she had been holding it in reserve.

  “I should return.” Irene rubbed her forehead as she sat on the edge of the bed. “My husband will be worried.”

  “You’ve probably punished him enough.” Clara chuckled and then stopped abruptly. “Oh, I’m tiring you. I’ll let you get some rest.” She patted Irene on her hand before heading to the hallway.

  Irene collapsed back onto the bed. The oasis of Clara’s home had instantly changed into something disturbing. But Irene needed to continue with the lie she’d told, so she reassured herself that, after a bit of rest, she would get as far away from the place as possible.

  Chapter 12

  Between Jackson’s wood chopping, which seemed to take place right outside the window, as well as his repeated attempts to start a worn-out tractor, Irene was surprised she’d gotten any rest at all.

  Glancing through the sheer curtains, she could see the sun was higher in the sky than when she’d first arrived, indicating a late morning hour. She peered over at the clock on the nightstand. It was 11:30 a.m.