The Gift of Remembering

by C. L. Shaffer

  "Seems kind of chummy with you."

  Irene opened her door to reveal a small but tidy furnished one-bedroom apartment. "Like Chase, most of the people in the building have been . . . surprisingly nice to me," she said as she ushered him inside.

  Chris looked about the tight, dim quarters. It was nothing like the bright, spacious home in the country they'd once shared. Nor was it like his larger, top floor apartment. He exhaled, adding another item to his list of what The Firsts had stolen from his wife.

  Irene pulled up a blind. A bit of light shone into the dark space. "It's just a place to lay my head," she said, perhaps noticing his critique. "Would you like some coffee? Nick, my boss, was nice enough to give me a coffeemaker and . . . coffee."

  "Sure, I'll have some." Chris settled into a chair and watched as his wife prepared the hot beverage in her tiny kitchen. He thought back to their discussion in the car and considered the reasons she'd given as to why he and her co-worker were able to recall their pasts. He realized she'd overlooked a possibility. "Maybe it's a miracle."

  She poked her head through the kitchen's entryway. "What is?"

  "The Gift of Remembering—maybe it's a miracle. Maybe The Firsts can erase every memory, but somehow God intervenes." Chris got up and moved to her. "It's difficult for me to believe The Firsts would use a technology on The Opposition and then release those same people back into society, knowing there was such a widespread glitch."

  "That's a valid point." Irene clicked on the coffeemaker. "From the reaction my co-worker received, it's obvious that at least some of The Firsts are aware there's a problem with processing." She wiped her hand with a dishcloth. "Donatello suggested it wasn't a hundred percent effective. But then again, maybe that was a way to convince me to side with them. Maybe he thought if I believed that processing wasn't permanent for everyone, I'd be more willing to participate in doing it. I simply don't know who to believe. Donatello said it was possible to remember. Wallace told me it was impossible." His wife gestured at him. "Clearly, Wallace was wrong, so did Wallace lie, or did he simply not know about the glitch or whatever?"

  Chris noticed his wife had once again neglected to mention his suggestion of a miracle. He watched the coffee streaming into the pot and wondered if this dreary apartment had gotten to her. He was about to say something about it but then noticed a handwritten note on the fridge. "What's this?"

  Irene turned quickly about. "Oh, Chase gave me his number in case I needed anything. I think he's kind of protective of me, seeing who I once was."

  "Ah-ha." Chris slipped the note from underneath its magnet. He pointed to it, particularly the phone number. It seemed to have been written with more care than the rest of the message. "There's more to it than that. He doesn't know you're married, so he thinks you're fair game."

  "Oh, please. He's half my age," she said, dumping the dishcloth onto the counter.

  Chris put his hand to his head. He wasn't in pain, but a memory had blown in on him suddenly, catching him off guard.

  "What's wrong?"

  "I remember something." Chris handed the note back to his wife. "That guy Chris—you worked with him for a while before you knew he was me, right?"

  "Well, yeah."

  He thought about her answer as he massaged his head. "Did this Chris guy ever make a move on you?"

  "Huh?"

  "Did he ever—oh, my gosh! He did make a move on you. I remember now."

  "Give me a break," she said, leaving the kitchen. "Are you just bringing this up because of what I said about your mustache?"

  Chris ignored the comment and followed her into the living room. He snapped his fingers. "It was right after some kind of dance." He looked over at her. "You let me get close—too close."

  His wife sank into a nearby chair. "It was nothing. You had too much to drink, and I reminded you that I still had a husband. That was it."

  "You were tempted, though. I remember thinking you were tempted."

  "Well, you were . . . my husband."

  Chris shook a finger at her. "But at the time, you didn't know I was your husband."

  "Are you really going to hold it against me that I almost kissed—you?"

  Chris lowered his finger. "I suppose not."

  "Then it's all . . . forgotten."

  Chris grinned at the comment, and a silence fell between them as he began to pace the floor. Within that quiet, he tried to force the rest of his memories into the present. There were still gaps he needed to fill in, roads yet unlinked by unfinished bridges. But it was no use. He couldn't yet make a complete picture of it all. He was unable to force it. Remembering had to happen naturally. It needed to be triggered by something that was already established. He decided, though, that at least one thing could serve as a catalyst. "Is Chris my real name?"

  Irene looked up at him. "I'm afraid not. The Firsts changed your name so that they could use you as a mole. It used to be Kent."

  "Kent?"

  "Yes."

  "Hmm, not sure I like Kent. Sort of the opposite of Superman, wouldn't you say? Clark Kent."

  Chris could sense Irene rolling her eyes at him as he continued to pace the floor. "You can still call me Chris if you like."

  "I have a few other names I'd like to call you right now, but I've become accustomed to calling you Chris."

  "Then Chris it is."

  His wife pulled in a nearby pillow as if to comfort her in what was unfamiliar territory for both of them. "So, since your memories are returning . . . are you beginning to see who The Firsts really are?"

  Chris hesitated to answer, not yet ready to own up to the fact that The Firsts' propaganda had deceived him. But it was time, wasn't it? He could no longer deny that something reprehensible had happened to their daughter. "Obviously," he began slowly, "they took your memory and Tia's."

  "That was difficult to admit, wasn't it?"

  Chris sat down on the adjacent couch. "It was."

  "Now that you're beginning to believe me, I can tell you that Tia was caught up in the general forced processing."

  Chris scratched at his head. "To be honest, I don't remember that. I know I went to the location to get myself processed. I was having a hard time of it."

  "You were, but why did you take our kids?" Irene asked, her tone sharpening.

  "I took the kids?"

  "That's how they got processed. They said you brought the kids along."

  Chris rummaged through his memories. He could still feel the emotional distress he was under during that period in his life, but it was at a distance now, as if it were someone else's sufferings, not his. He remembered going to the location, walking up to the receptionist's desk, and giving his name. "Irene, I was alone. I didn't take the kids. I would never do that. How could you think I'd do that?"

  "Because that was what they—" She struck the pillow she was holding with her fist. "They lied to me. Of course, they lied. Why didn't I see that?"

  "You were angry at me, so you were willing to believe the worst."

  "Maybe. But we both agreed it was the right thing for you to be processed."

  "But you were and probably still are angry that I wasn't able to work through those problems on my own. That's what you need to admit."

  She tossed the pillow aside. "Well, in the end, it didn’t matter. Everyone but The Firsts and their workers were going to be processed and used somehow, as we were. What I can't understand is how, after being processed by force, Tia managed to rise so high through their ranks."

  "You can't? I remember Tia being rather smart, maybe too smart at times—clever even. She was also so willing to take up this or that cause. That's probably why she volunteered at the hospital during the war. She saw it as a worthy cause. But someone like that can be easily manipulated into doing things for a cause that may not be commendable. My guess is all of that made her the perfect candidate for The Firsts. And they may have only processed some of her memories to keep those attributes. I know The Firsts offered her a few advan
ced computer classes. When she took them, they probably discovered she possessed a talent for technology. And her reward was a fancy mansion and a higher position." He leaned forward. "But I'm afraid The Firsts changed our daughter in more disturbing ways."

  Irene's brow creased. "You mean beyond her wanting to marry your lieutenant?"

  Chris nodded. “Right before you showed up, she said something, or more accurately, it was what she didn't say that made me start to doubt The Firsts' motivations."

  "Tell me."

  He scooted forward on the couch. "She refused to tell me where The Firsts are sending the people who are being processed."

  Irene reclined back into her chair, but she didn't say anything.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  "It may be nothing. The logistics that we do are pretty straight forward. Headquarters, the water treatment plant, even the mansion that our daughter lives in all need supplies. And, of course, the manufacturing facilities here in Mayfield City provide those provisions. Those are all discernable places.

  "But?"

  "But . . . there are other places. Instead of names, The Firsts have codes associated with them. I asked what the codes referred to, but my boss told me not to be concerned about them. I started thinking those places may be where some of The Firsts' workforce also live and work, and under them, are those who have been processed."

  "What are you getting at?"

  "I'm thinking The Firsts are using the processed as slave labor."

  Chris’s shoulders slumped in disbelief. "That's quite the allegation."

  "Think about it. Where do you think The Firsts are getting the electricity to power Mayfield City and the other locations? Where are they getting the food? It has to be from those who were processed. They're made to work and have no idea how poorly The Firsts are treating them because they don't know any better. In fact, from what I witnessed at the education center, those who've been processed probably believe they're being good citizens."

  Chris ran his hand down his face to his chin. His faith in The Firsts was breaking apart like a ship being cast against the rocks. He got up and began to pace again. "I suppose . . . that would explain why Tia didn't want to tell me where they are."

  "Exactly. And my guess is she and the rest of The Firsts keep that operation under wraps because, like you, others would disapprove. That may be where Vanessa and Emma were taken. We need to find that out once we get Tia in order."

  "No, no, I know exactly where Vanessa and Emma are. They're safe. I found out yesterday that they are at another location similar to Mayfield City. I wanted to tell you, but this Tia thing—" He paused and rubbed his brow roughly. "I would have told you sooner if I'd known you thought they were in a bad situation."

  His wife slid forward. "How did you find them?" she asked, her eyes widening with apparent hope.

  "That's not important. What's important is they're safe. Thank God. Right?"

  The coffeemaker beeped, and Irene jumped up and headed toward it.

  He observed her for a moment as she poured the hot beverage. "No, sugar, right?" she asked when she’d finished.

  He made his way to her. "Yeah."

  "That's good because I don't have any," she said, handing him a cup.

  He took a quick sip. "It's great without it." He leaned against the counter and indulged in another sample. It had been a while since he'd tasted coffee. The establishment he frequented never offered it. He thought about asking where her boss had gotten it but instead decided to raise a more critical question, "You seem to be avoiding a particular subject—about your faith. I remember you always being a rather devout woman. Am I wrong about that?"

  She pointed to the living room, and he followed her to the couch.

  "You’re not wrong—not exactly, anyway."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I'll be that woman again. God and I have been through far too much for me to doubt that."

  He paused and thought about all she'd been through recently. "I suppose we should be thankful you can still remember that."

  "True." She smiled and rested her cup on the coffee table. She slapped her hands together and stood. "Now, would you like a proper tour of the place?"

  Chris glanced around. "That shouldn't take too long."

  She swirled her finger in the air. "This is the living room." She pointed to the kitchen. "And that is the—"

  "Kitchen. Got it."

  She strolled over to a space near the front door and then disappeared into it. Chris followed but remained at the doorway. He found her in the room, standing near the bed. "And this is the bedroom. Now I know what you're thinking. It's somewhat dark with no windows. But there is an advantage to that. Less light lets me sleep in longer."

  "Well, I suppose that's a benefit." He took a few steps into the room.

  She sat on the bed, and her playful smile unexpectedly turned serious as she looked at him. His breath caught as their first night together, their wedding night, came to mind.

  She pointed to the only other piece of furniture in the room. "And that's my cabinet. It provides quite a bit of storage, as you can probably tell. And this bed—it's not bad."

  "Ah, I don't believe you. The Firsts wouldn't give you, Irene Duncan, a decent bed."

  "If you don't believe me—"

  A smirk formed on his face as he closed the door behind him. "Well, I could use a nap."

  Chapter 25

  The restaurant's interior was much more ornate than its cold, cement exterior. Busy, floral carpet covered the floor while deep red curtains ran the length of the tall windows. Rich mahogany chairs and tables stood about the narrow but long room. Flames crackled in the fireplace, and along with the candles on the tables, helped to illuminate the space. To Chris, it looked as if it were a throwback to some romanticized version of a Victorian parlor.

  His daughter appeared at the front of the restaurant wearing an airy dress and a heavy gold bracelet pushed halfway up her arm. She resembled a goddess, and it was clear she was enjoying looking like one. She stood with perfect posture with her chin slightly lifted, accompanied by a look of pride on her face.

  Coming to the table, she leaned down and kissed him on the cheek. After adjusting the tie he'd borrowed from a neighbor, he pulled his chair in closer.

  "You look wonderful, father," she said half-heartedly as she scanned the room scattered with a few other patrons.

  "Ah, this old thing," he quipped as he smoothed the tie against his shirt. He reached for a drink of water as if needing to lubricate the mouth from which more lies would follow.

  He mimicked his daughter's assessment of the room and noticed Ollie Crowder sitting behind him to his right with a woman, presumably his wife. Chris nodded at him, and in return, Ollie slapped his menu down on the table as he peeled off his reading glasses. He'd apparently made it into this new location because his machine had processed Irene, but it was clear that he was still upset about being blackmailed.

  Ending her inspection of the room, Tia sighed and sat down as if disappointed by what she'd seen or, possibly more accurately, by what she hadn't seen. Her fellow patrons were perhaps too old, or there were far too few of them to show off her evidently new dress. But to Chris, her assessment seemed too meticulous for those explanations. He'd noticed she'd looked at people's faces, particularly the faces of men as if she were searching for someone.

  "Are you expecting someone?" he asked. "Maybe . . . Wallace?"

  His daughter's smile faded to something like dread, but she recovered to some extent, returning to a polite grin. "Wallace will not be here tonight."

  "Then who are you looking for? Did you think you needed backup to meet me?"

  She laughed at the comment. "Of course not, father." She took a sip of her water. "I was expecting to see a friend. That's all."

  "Oh, a friend."

  She took another drink of water, this one longer than the last. "So why did you want to meet tonight?"

  Chris placed his
menu to the side. "I've actually been thinking about you and Wallace. And . . . I wanted to apologize for my initial reaction. I acted badly." Chris tapped the menu with his thumb. "Anyway, I wanted you to know I'm willing to accept your decision. It's your life."

  Tia slowly set her glass on the table. "I'm surprised—pleasantly surprised."

  "I guess the real reason for my outburst was that I wasn't a part of your decision. You never mentioned Wallace before or asked my advice about him. I felt blindsided and a little left out. We've always been so close."

  Tia reached across the table and took hold of his hand. "I never meant to leave you in the dark."

  Chris allowed a smile to develop on his face. "In that case, then, you won't mind telling me why you chose Wallace," he said as casually as he could. "I know you said it was because you both share a passion for the mission, but there needs to be more to a marriage than a single cause."

  Tia pulled her hand away. "I know that."

  "Do you love him?"

  His daughter shifted her focus to the fireplace. "I respect him. And I'm grateful for what he did for me."

  Chris jerked his head back. "What he did for you?" he said, genuinely surprised that Wallace would do anything for anyone.

  Tia sighed, sounding annoyed as if she'd been asked the question a hundred times before. "While you were away, he rescued me."

  "He rescued you?"

  She began fidgeting with the corner of her cloth napkin. "Yes, I was working in a building that was next to one that The Discord targeted."

  "What? I didn't know that." Chris slumped back in his seat.

  "Anyway," Tia continued, perhaps noticing she'd put him in a state of shock, "Wallace just so happened to be visiting someone in that office that day. When the blast occurred, the wall in the area where I was working collapsed." His daughter grimaced. "It was complete chaos. I remember calling for help but no one answering. Wallace was the one who eventually found me. It took him nearly an hour to dig me out of the rubble."

  Chris remained slumped in his chair. It was as if someone had taken the air out of him. His daughter's life had been in jeopardy, and Wallace, the man he despised, had saved it. "I had no idea. Were you hurt? Why didn't you tell me?"