The Secret History of Us

by Jessi Kirby

  I nod. “Okay.”

  “Good. For now, let’s just get you home.”

  At the nurse’s station, she fills out the last of the paperwork for me to be officially discharged, and when I see my dad pull up outside, I’m relieved that it’s in our old Suburban that I remember. He gets out and helps me into the front seat, clicks the seat belt over me, and then pauses before he closes the door.

  “My girl,” he says, and his eyes start to well up. He smiles and shakes it off. “I’m so glad you’re okay.”

  “Me too,” I answer, though I don’t feel like I am.

  He closes the door gently, and my mom puts a hand on my shoulder from where she shares the backseat with all the flowers and cards from my room. I breathe in as deep as my chest will allow, and we pull out of the hospital parking lot and head home on a road I remember, through the town I’ve lived in my entire life.

  “You okay?” my mom asks.

  I am standing in the doorway of my bedroom. “Yeah.” I nod. “I’m okay.” I’m trying to be, at least. I can feel her watching me take it in.

  “Anything coming back? Now that we’re home?”

  I shake my head.

  Her eyes run over me, and then the room. “It looks different than you remember, doesn’t it?”

  I nod. It does and doesn’t look like the room I remember.

  “That’s because we redid it two years ago. Before you started your junior year. You’d been asking for a while, but you convinced me how important it was to you with a very persuasive essay, complete with a design plan and everything.”

  “An essay?” I say with a smile. “That worked again?” I’d done the same thing when I was ten years old and wanted a hamster.

  My mom smiles and shakes her head. “When your mom’s an English teacher . . .” She looks around the room once more, then her eyes land on me. “I was actually really happy to have a project to work on together. It took us practically the whole summer, but it was fun to see you put your own style and personality into it.” She pauses. Smiles, like she’s remembering it. “You picked everything out, from the paint, to the bedding, to those cute little lights.”

  I follow her eyes up to the string of lights that look like little glass floats bordering the ceiling, then around the room full of shades of blues and turquoise, with little pops of red here and there. “I like it,” I say, trying to imagine choosing each of these things. “It’s pretty.” And it really is, but there’s a little pang in my chest. I want to see something that’s familiar. Some remnant of my old room, with its bright yellow walls and butterfly decals over the bed. I can remember deciding in seventh or eighth grade that they were childish and I hated them, and begging my mom to let me redo my room. But I can’t remember taking them down, or choosing new paint colors, or picking out a new comforter or bedside lamp. I must have, though. It’s all here, and my mom says I did, and she remembers it.

  I can feel her watching me, and I wonder if it makes her sad to have these memories of us together that I don’t. It makes me sad that it feels like it never happened. That when I try to remember it, I come up empty. Numb, almost.

  “Thank you,” I say, “for working on it with me.”

  She looks surprised. “You’re welcome.” She laughs and kisses me on the forehead. Pulls me in for the fifth hug since we’ve walked through the front door. “I’m so happy you’re home.”

  I let my head rest on her shoulder a moment. “Me too,” I say. Though it’s not exactly right. It’s good to be home, but the word happy feels like a stretch. I wanted to leave the hospital, and I wanted to come home, but I didn’t realize what it would actually feel like when I got here. I didn’t realize how strange it would be to see the sameness and the difference of everything, all mixed up together. It’s unsettling.

  My mom pulls me back by my shoulders and smiles. “Do you need anything? How’s the pain?”

  “I’m okay,” I say.

  “All right, then. I’m gonna let you get settled while I go start dinner, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “I was planning on tacos, but—is that gonna be too hard to swallow?”

  I smile. “I’ll make it work for tacos,” I say. “Or guacamole, at the very least.”

  This makes her smile. “That’s my girl,” she says, closing the door softly.

  I hear her walk down the hall and then the stairs. And then I’m alone. I take a deep breath, try to ignore the tightness in my ribs, then let it out in a long, slow exhale.

  This is my bedroom.

  The closet door is half open, so I walk over to the rack of clothes and run my fingers over the shirts and sweaters I don’t recognize. Dresses I haven’t picked out. A boys’ water polo team sweatshirt. At first I think it’s probably Sam’s. I always used to steal his sweatshirts because they were bigger and cozier than mine. But looking at it, it occurs to me that maybe it’s Matt’s. Maybe he’s a water polo player too. Maybe I stole it from him, or maybe he gave it to me. I move on without the answer.

  Next to the closet is a low, wide dresser covered with brightly colored boxes and jars, some spilling out bracelets and necklaces and earrings, others that hold candles or various trinkets. I pick up a necklace and dangle it in front of me for a moment, watching the sea glass pendant spin and twist in the sunset light. It’s pretty, and I wonder where I got it—if it was a gift, or if I picked it out myself. If it’s something special that should mean something to me.

  I make sure to put it back in the exact place it came from, like I would if I was in someone else’s room, looking through someone else’s things. I don’t want to disturb anything, because each of these objects feels like a tiny breadcrumb, hopefully making a trail that can lead me back to myself. I want to preserve everything the way it is because Dr. Tate said that being around my things could help me remember. There’s no telling which of these could be the one that does that.

  I continue the tour of my room, trying to take in every little detail, hoping for something familiar—or for something to come back to me. On the opposite wall I recognize the shape of my desk, which I remember as white. Now it’s painted a deep red, but the fact that it’s still here, and that I know this desk, feels like a victory. Still, I approach it carefully because this new version of it doesn’t quite feel like mine.

  I’m curious though. I keep—used to keep—the normal desk things like pens and pencils and funny little trinkets in the top two drawers. But I saved the bottom one for special things I wanted to keep safe, and some that I wanted to keep secret: cards or notes, journals, pictures I’d taken. I had a whole photo box where I kept the shots that didn’t make it onto my bulletin board—which is no longer there.

  Instead, the wall above my desk is a huge chalkboard, bordered in a bright turquoise frame, every inch of it covered in different handwriting and doodles. I take a step closer and trail my fingers over it, softly, so I don’t smudge any of the writing, and I realize it’s not a chalkboard; it’s the actual wall, painted that way. I wonder if this was my idea too.

  I start to read what’s written there. At first I think it must be quotes, but it’s more like random thoughts, or notes, or maybe inside jokes. The usual suspects, like scattered stars, I don’t know if you got a fella but . . . , popcorn clouds, Laguna Matt!!!, customer #87, Queen Cassiopeia, your FACE!

  I read them all, over and over again, hoping that something will spark a memory, but nothing comes. Paige and Jules would know what they mean—these are probably all about them. Us. I think about calling and asking them to come over and explain them all to me, but even as I have the thought I remember that this new version of me somehow isn’t friends with Jules anymore. It hits me in the chest, harder than the pain of breathing, and I wonder what happened to us. How can someone be so important in your life, and then be gone from it?

  It’s the same as—or maybe it’s the opposite of—what happened with Matt when he came to the hospital. If what Paige told me is true about me and him—that w
e’ve been together for two years, that we’re a perfect match, and that we’re crazy in love, how is it possible that there wasn’t a spark of anything when I looked at him?

  I walk over to my bed, where there’s a framed picture on the nightstand. It’s of the two of us together, but it’s hard to see the girl in the picture as me. She’s so much more grown-up looking than I remember being. Matt’s got this girl in his arms, nearly dipping her. Her eyes are closed, but she’s smiling and so is he, even as he kisses her cheek. They look so happy together, I want to believe Paige. They look like they’re in love. But I have no idea what that feels like. What I feel when I look at them—at us—is nothing.

  I sit down on the edge of the bed and put the picture back in its place on the nightstand. The drawer is open just a crack, so I pull the handle and open it the rest of the way slowly, still feeling like I’m snooping in someone else’s things. There are a few books and magazines stacked neatly in the corner, three tubes of lip balm, and a sleep mask that looks like a pair of sunglasses. I pick up one of the lip balms, take the lid off and sniff the fruity scent, then put it back with the others. Next, I pick up the eye mask, which is so cheesy it had to have come from one of the marina shops.

  I’m about to try it on when I catch a glimpse of what was tucked beneath it. It’s a small, round, nondescript case, but I recognize what it is immediately, and my heart starts to race. This can’t actually be mine. I pick it up and open it slowly, hoping I’m wrong. But inside there is a circle of tiny pills around a dial at the center. I stare at the empty plastic bubbles, realizing what this means, and I almost can’t breathe.

  “Yep,” a voice says from across the room. “You two are just a couple of little lovebirds.”

  I jump. Fumble with the pill pack in my hands, shove it down in the drawer and shut it before I look up.

  Sam is leaning in the doorway, smirking. “I had the unfortunate experience of walking in on that once,” he says with an exaggerated shudder. “Almost makes me wish I had amnesia myself.”

  I open my mouth to say something, but I don’t know where to start. I’m immediately distracted from my brother’s words by the way he looks. Logically, I’d known he was going to look different when I saw him. More grown-up, just like Paige. I thought I’d be prepared for it with him. But he looks like a different person altogether. The Sam in my mind is sixteen and gangly, and not much taller than me. This Sam, back from his first year of college, has to be over six feet tall, with broad shoulders, a scruffy face, and wild hair to match. I’m staring, I know I’m staring, but I can’t get over it.

  He grins and puts a hand on his chest. “My name is Sam, I live here too. I’m a genius and also your hero, so you basically worship me. And you do all my chores. And you bake me chocolate chip cookies anytime I ask. Also, Mom wanted me to bring this up to you.”

  He sets my camera bag on my desk and smiles, and I recognize the particular way his eyes crinkle at the corners. All at once, he’s my brother again.

  I get up and cross the room, and wrap my arms around the big goof in a hug that seems to surprise him.

  “Wow,” he says. “You’re nice now, too? This just keeps getting better.”

  I lean back and smack him on his chest. “Stop it.”

  “Well, you should be. Extra nice. Because you scared the crap out of everyone. You know that, right?” His expression is serious.

  “Yeah. I got that much.”

  “Okay.” He puts his big arms around my shoulders and gives me a gentle hug, then lets me go. “I’m glad you’re okay.”

  “Except for that whole thing where I don’t remember the last few years,” I say.

  He waves a dismissive hand. “It’ll come back. You’re probably just in shock.”

  “What if it doesn’t?”

  “Hmm,” he says, stroking his chin. “There could be benefits to that. I mean, you’d get a clean slate for the most embarrassing, awkward years of your life.”

  “I don’t know if that’s a good thing.”

  He lights up. “No, it’s actually awesome. Like some weird, do-over superpower. Do you know how many people would kill for that superpower? Think of how many things you could do over—watch Star Wars for the first time, read Harry Potter, have your first burrito from Del Sol.” He raises one eyebrow. “They just opened a few months ago, and you were the one who told me how awesome they are, and now it’ll be like you’ve never been!”

  I laugh. “That’s great, but I read Harry Potter in fourth grade. And we watched all the Star Wars movies on Christmas break when I was in sixth grade, remember?”

  “Crap, that’s right. Well, I’ll keep thinking, and I’ll come up with a list of awesome do-overs. We’ll start with Del Sol. But maybe tomorrow, because Mom has a whole thing going on down there.”

  “Tacos,” I say with a smile. “She told me.”

  “Yeah, it’s a little more than tacos. She’s in her usual cooking mode, so it’s more like a welcome-back banquet for us and a houseful of guests.”

  “There’s no one else coming over, is there?” The possibility makes me instantly nervous.

  Sam shakes his head. “No. Paige and Matt have both been calling, but she told them it’d be best to give you a day to settle in.”

  “Good,” I say, relieved.

  We’re quiet a moment, and Sam catches my eye. “It must be weird with Matt, huh?”

  I nod.

  “Well. For what it’s worth, he’s a good guy, and he really cares about you. And you care about him. And you guys are good together. So I hope it comes back, or works out, or whatever.” He pauses. “I bet it will.”

  “I hope so,” I say. But I’m not entirely sure I mean it. “And thank you.”

  “For what?” Sam asks.

  “For being the only one to act normal around me. Can you just keep doing that?”

  Sam gives a quick nod. “Absolutely. No special treatment just because you almost died and came back with do-over superpowers.”

  “Perfect.”

  He turns to go, then pokes his head back in the door. “And after dinner, if you’re feeling up to it, I could use a dozen of those chocolate chip cookies you like to bake me.”

  “Get out,” I say, and I close the door behind him.

  He yells from the hallway, “There’s the Liv I know!”

  SEVEN

  “SURPRISE!” MY MOM yells as I walk in.

  A glittery Welcome Home banner hangs on the wall above the buffet in the dining room, huge bunches of Mylar balloons floating at each end. Below that, on the buffet, are all the flowers and cards from the hospital, and on the table in front of it all is a Mexican feast that looks like it could feed an army. Sam wasn’t kidding. At least that’s still the same. Mom’s always cooked like we might have unexpected guests for dinner. I guess because most of the time, we do—Sam’s friends, or Paige and Jules. Or we did. I don’t know what we do now.

  My dad comes in and puts a hand on my shoulder, then pulls out my chair. “Hope you’re hungry. Your mom’s just a little excited to have you home.”

  I survey the table. “I can tell.” All my favorites are there—the makings for tacos, beans and rice, homemade salsa and guacamole, grilled corn on the cob, sliced watermelon. For the first time in I don’t know how long, I actually am hungry.

  We sit and start passing dishes, filling our plates. I reach for the bowl of shredded pork, and my mom puts her hand on mine. “Oh no, hon. This one’s yours.” She hands me another bowl with some sort of crumbled-up stuff in it.

  “What’s this?” I wrinkle my nose, wondering if it’s a hospital-mandated thing. They did say I should stick with softer foods if my throat was still sore.

  My mom looks caught off guard. “It’s veggie crumbles. I made sure to get the ones you like.”

  Sam scoops the carnitas onto the four tortillas on his plate. “Sorry to break it to ya, sister, but you don’t eat meat anymore—not even bacon.”

  I just look at him. “St
op it.”

  “I’m serious. I wouldn’t joke about bacon. Ever.”

  I roll my eyes. “Right. I know I said be normal, but you can stop messing with me now.” I almost want him to be messing with me, because I hope I would know something like that about myself.

  “No, he’s right, honey,” my mom interjects.

  Or maybe I wouldn’t. “What? Since when?”

  “This whole last year. Started last summer, after you watched that documentary . . . what was it called?” She looks to my dad, who just shrugs as he spoons beans and rice onto his plate. “Anyway,” she says, “it’s actually been good for your dad and me too. I’ve been branching out with my cooking, we’ve been eating healthier . . .”

  “Thank you for waiting until I left to pull that, by the way,” Sam says.

  I sit there, still holding the bowl of veggie crumbles that my mom has made just for me. I don’t even know what I eat anymore.

  “Eat whatever you want,” my dad says.

  We all go quiet. I look down at the bowl of tofu, or whatever it is I’m holding. This is what the me they’re talking about would eat.

  “I . . .” I can feel them watching me, waiting to see what I’ll do, and I decide to be that Liv.

  I scoop up a heaping spoonful of the veggie crumbles and put it on my tortilla, and it’s like a reassurance that all is right in their world, and dinner can go on.

  We pass around the plates, spoons clinking against them as we serve ourselves, and it all seems very normal, but none of this feels normal to me. I watch everyone carefully, trying to make sure I don’t do anything I usually wouldn’t do, or eat anything I no longer eat. I’m relieved when no one corrects the generous scoop of guacamole I put over the veggie crumbles to make them edible.

  “So,” my mom says with a bright smile. “I’ve been doing a lot of research online about posttraumatic retrograde amnesia, and the general consensus is like what Dr. Tate said. The more you’re surrounded by the familiar—people, places, and your regular routines—the better chance you have of your memories starting to come back to you.”