Hunter scratched his head. “Which theory do you believe?”
She felt a surge of adrenaline as she moved toward him. “Well, there’s another interesting idea. Memories might be stored outside the brain in another dimension like a halo around us and are linked to every other memory, forming a collective unconscious or a source of dreams where memories interact. I love this idea!” Her scalp tingled.
“So the brain transmits and receives memories. Once you form a memory, it remains linked to the brain that experienced it. Your memory or fantasy is entangled with your specific brain, so when you recall it, the memory plays again in your head. It’s like backing up your movies to the cloud and then restoring them on your phone. You get your movies back, not someone else’s, because each digital sequence begins with your specific combination of 1s and 0s. Does this make sense?”
“Yeah. It’s amazing.”
She clapped her hands. “Cool. Your brain, for whatever reason, can’t recall its memories. The codes no longer match between your memory and your brain. Or, actually, your brain no longer seeks a specific code. It now accepts almost any code. But—and here’s the really interesting part—the only memories you receive have some connection with the content or theme of the memories you lost.”
She felt a flush of excitement as an idea hit her. “Which is why so many of your stories deal with sex, but not just any sex. Your mother may or may not have abused you, but something happened which is abnormal between a mother and son, so the memories you capture deal with sex between a teacher and student, or creepy Eric getting off on twelve-year-old girls. There’s a reason why none of your memories, so far, have depicted a happy reunion or a big sports victory. They don’t connect to your lost memories.”
She looked at him thoughtfully. “It’s like your brain is searching for your memories but can only find related ones.”
“Then why did I see my mother dancing with me?”
“Because that song was a trigger. It was so strong it overrode whatever your brain does to block your memories.”
Hunter threw up his hands. “Which is why Dad got rid of all the photos, or hid them. And my old clothes. And the CDs. He wanted nothing to trigger my memories.”
She nodded. “All of your stories came from someone you were next to at one time or another. And they were probably thinking about that memory which then appeared in your mind. You’re not grabbing memories from someone in California, for instance. You saw Drew’s memory because we were near her, and she was obviously thinking about what had happened.”
“So why did I see your memory of shooting at Leon?”
She took a breath and pondered his question before replying. “Some possibilities might be because I was defending my mother. Because she was drinking. Because the sex between her and Leon would be abusive, and I prevented that from happening. Maybe you prevented your mother from being taken advantage of—”
“Or maybe someone prevented me from having sex with her. Maybe Leon is me. That’d be ironic as hell wouldn’t it?” He shook his head.
“We won’t know until you regain your memories, or I read through all your stories and try to decipher the connections.”
“When I receive a person’s memory, they forget it. Why?”
“Just an idea, but I think once the memory plays in your head, it becomes entangled, meaning the memory becomes yours. It’s now linked and coded to your brain only. When you received Drew’s memory and Eric’s fantasy, they wouldn’t recall it anymore. Like they sent a video to your phone and can’t grab it back.”
“But phones send a copy, not the original. So they keep the video.
“True. But if the brain doesn’t store memories, then it has no copy. So they lose the memory until they read your story. Once their brain sees the event, it’s now coded to that brain. You each have a copy in your separate minds.”
He nodded and smiled. “You’re a genius. But if this happened to me, surely it’s happened before. How can I be the first?”
“We don’t know that you are.”
“OK. Then why me?”
“Ask your dad what treatment you received. You said you don’t remember anything from more than a year ago, so why did that happen? How? I looked that up, too. There are different methods to treat PTSD, but the most extreme is electroconvulsive therapy—shock treatment. You don’t remember an operation or being in the hospital?”
“No. Shock treatment? How bad was I that Dad thought I needed that?”
“You should ask him.”
“We should ask him.”
“You want me with you?”
“Yeah. First, I don’t trust driving by myself right now. I could hallucinate again or decide to run off the road. Second, I need you with me. I don’t want to do this by myself.”
Jazz felt happy he wanted to be with her. She had no desire to be alone either. She smiled and grabbed her pack then stopped. “What happens when you bring me back here? You’d still have to drive back to your house after dropping me off.”
“We’ll see. Just ride with me. Please.”
“Does your dad even know who I am?” She hoped he did, that Hunter had talked about her.
“I don’t think so. We barely talk.”
“Is he going to be upset that I know about your stories?”
“I can’t remember the last time I saw him happy, so more unhappiness shouldn’t bother him. Wait a minute.” He ran back to her mom’s bedroom and returned with the Mothership album.
“I don’t think you should play that while you’re driving.”
“I don’t intend to. I want to show it to him.”
“Why?”
“To prove that I know something about Mom. Maybe he’ll tell me more.”
They climbed into the truck, and soon Hunter drove out of town. Jazz had never been driven by a guy and never gone on a date before. Of course, she’d also never had a boy in her house either.
Watching him dance was amazing. The only thing that kept her from joining him was embarrassment. It was one thing to dance alone with Alessandro. It was quite another to shake her body in front of a real boy, especially one she liked. She always hid her figure behind clothes and forced others to focus on her big personality full of wit and sarcasm and intelligence. But dancing put her body front and center. She had tried practicing moves in the mirror, but soon grew tired with self-disgust. Being large and luscious was one thing. Being scarred and scabbed was another.
How wonderful it must feel to move your body to music without inhibitions, without any worry of criticism! That feeling shouldn’t be restricted to the beautiful and talented.
Her phone buzzed. She pulled it out of her pack and looked at the screen. She’d received a news alert about a school shooting.
Jazz scanned the headlines. “There’s been a shooting at a school dance in Washington, outside Bremerton.”
“I used to live near there.” He passed a slow-moving sedan.
“The shooter was a sophomore. He brought a pistol to a dance in the gym. Shot students and adults. Doesn’t say how many.”
“Did they catch him?”
“He’s dead. Though it doesn’t say whether he killed himself or the police shot him.”
“That’s crazy. Did he have mental issues?”
She looked over her phone at him. “We all have mental issues, Hunter.”
“Yeah, but not enough to shoot students at a dance.”
“Hopefully, that’s true.”
Hunter frowned. “You think something like that could happen here?”
“Easily.”
“But you can’t get into the school building without Patty checking you out on the video screens.”
“How does that keep a student from bringing a gun to school in his pack? I’ve done it a few times by accident.”
He jerked the wheel as he snapped his head toward her. “You brought a gun to school?” The wheels bounced over the
rumble grooves.
“Stay on the road, Hunter.” He moved the truck back to the left. “I always carry my pistol.” She lifted her pack. “I usually leave it in the car during school, but sometimes I forget.”
“Whoa. You’re full of surprises, Jazz.”
“And you aren’t?”
“OK, but I don’t carry a gun.”
“Then I’ll protect you. I will never be helpless against an attack.” Not again, she thought.
Jazz saw Hunter glancing at her from her periphery. She propped one foot against the glove compartment, chewed on her thumbnail, and stared out the windshield. “A lot of people carry guns in Alaska, Hunter. In the grocery store, Subway, the bookstore, strapped to their leg or stuck in their belt.”
“When did you get a gun?”
“I took it from my grandparents when I was twelve.”
“You took it?”
“Yeah. I needed it.” She looked at him. “That’s one of the memories I want to forget.” She broke eye contact and looked down the road. “The mountain’s out.”
Denali, the highest mountain in North America, shone pink against the sky thirty-five miles away. Covered with snow year around, it rose 18,000 feet from base to peak, a higher rise than Mt. Everest. A single dark cloud hid its peak.
Hunter slowed the truck and pulled onto the shoulder. “That’s pretty. I’ve seen it just a few times.”
Jazz sat up. “You never know when the mountain will reveal itself. It can stay hidden for weeks, then boom, it’s in your face, filling up the sky.” She turned toward him. “Kind of like the truth. It may hide for a while, but it’ll jump out and bite you when you least expect it to.”
Hunter looked through the windshield. “Like finding out how my Mom and I danced together.”
“You’re not sure that’s the whole truth. I think it’s a lot more complicated than what you think.”
“Whatever it is, I want to know.” He checked for traffic, and pulled back onto the highway.
Jazz removed her glasses to wipe the lenses. “Have you ever been to the park?”
“No. Just my house, the school, and Fairbanks.”
“Mom took me a couple of times. We should go to Wonder Lake together in June. The mountain sits right across from the campground. At dawn, it’s pink like that and so much bigger.” She put her glasses back on and gazed at him. “I would love to see it with you.”
“Did you just ask me for a date?”
“The second time today.”
Hunter scrunched his brows.
Jazz smiled. “Lunch?”
“Oh yeah. And now I’m taking you to my house to meet my dad. We’re getting to be a regular couple.”
They smiled at each other as Hunter turned off the highway toward his house. After a few minutes, he pulled into his driveway.
“He’s not here.”
Hunter parked his truck and got out.
Jazz opened her door and saw a small, one-story manufactured house, faded blue with an old composition roof held together by clumps of moss. Snow lay in patches around the sides, punctuated by birch and spruce.
“Come in,” called Hunter, holding the door open for her.
Once inside, she saw bare walls separating a few windows covered with mini-blinds and short, ragged curtains. The ceiling was suspended with several panels stained yellow and brown from leaks in the roof. The place looked neat due to the absence of things, not their arrangement.
“Certainly much neater than my house,” Jazz said. “You must’ve been horrified walking into mine.”
“I liked it. Your personality is everywhere.”
Jazz walked around, looking. “You’ve lived here for how long?”
“About nine months.”
Jazz realized how blank a slate Hunter’s life was. Nothing she saw gave clues about the people who lived there.
“Show me your room.”
Hunter opened his bedroom door and switched on the light. His bed was unmade, but otherwise his room could have been inhabited by hundreds of different people. Nothing indicated Hunter, other than the void in that room.
“Where’s all your stuff? Do you have things in storage, or is this everything?”
“What we had in storage burned before we moved up here. At least, that’s what Dad claims.” He sat on his bed. “I don’t believe him.” He pointed to the opposite wall. “I had dozens of stories pinned to that wall this morning. I wonder if he read them all.”
Jazz walked to his dresser and opened the top drawer.
“Looking for something?”
She turned to him revealing an evil smile. “Your secrets.”
She removed a pile of underwear and unfolded a few pair. They were stretch boxer briefs in gray and steel blue. “Hmmm.” She held one up. “Size medium. Gray, gray, gray, blue, gray, gray. Where’s the striped red ones? Or the skimpy tight briefs?”
“Sorry.”
“Well, that’s not very exciting.” She opened another drawer. “Oh, t-shirts. And look at the colors. Gray, gray, gray, brown, tan, gray. Mostly long-sleeved.”
Hunter suddenly grabbed his head.
“What’s happening?” She went to him.
He looked at her with pained eyes. “Another story. I need to sit down.”
He pulled his computer out of his pack and put it on his desk. Jazz stood behind him, lightly massaging his shoulders.
She tried to see what he typed as beads of sweat gathered on her forehead. It had to be one of her memories. But which one?
And what would he think of her afterward?
Chapter Fifteen
Hunter didn’t just hear pounding this time. He heard the opening riff of “Whole Lotta Love” accented by a ball slammed against a wall, repeatedly. He saw himself walking down the hall and stopping at the door. From inside, he heard his voice yelling, “No!” And scuffling. Then her voice: “Dammit, Hunter!” Then silence. Hunter turned away from the door and walked to the end of the hall, which turned into another long hallway. He saw a frightened girl standing at the edge of a kitchen, listening.
She wore a robe, which she clutched tight against her pre-teen body. She heard a slap and her mother screaming at the other end of the mobile home.
“Mom,” she said through gritted teeth. Her mother yelled again. The girl bit her fist.
Hunter stopped. That was Jazz, much younger. “You need to sit on the bed.”
He turned his head to look at her.
“Why?”
“Please.”
Jazz sat down and watched him. Hunter angled the computer screen away from her.
Jazz heard her mother again. “Micah! I don’t feel good. Please wait ‘till after the baby is born. Please.”
“You look like shit anyway. Why would anyone want to screw you?”
The girl heard the door slam and the woman crying. At the sound of footsteps, she backed down the hallway.
She heard the sounds of Micah stumbling in the kitchen and kicking a chair. “Dammit!” he yelled.
She heard ice fill a glass, maybe two. Then a soda can popped open. She knew those sounds. He would drink then come to her room.
Her heart raced as she walked silently and quickly down the long hall and into her bedroom at the opposite end of the mobile home. After closing the door behind her, she reached under the pillow and pulled out a pistol. Shaking violently in one hand, the gun pointed toward her door as she gritted her teeth.
“Jasmine,” Micah sang the word. “Jasmine. Such a beautiful name for such a beautiful girl.”
Jasmine couldn’t stop shaking. What would they do to her if she shot him? Maybe she could talk him out of wanting sex with her. She’d done it before. She pushed the gun under her pillow.
“Jas . . . mine.” He knocked. “Hey, you up, sweetie? I brought you a drink. Thought we could share a little drink together.”
Her voice quavered. “I’m really tired, Micah. Think
I have a fever.”
“That makes two of us, sweetie. Thinking about your beautiful ass makes me burn all over.” He opened the door and staggered into her room. “Brought you something.” He put the vodka bottle and two glasses of ice and Coke on her dresser.
Jazz thought he looked disgusting with greasy long hair, scraggly beard framing his jawline and wide lips, which never seemed to close entirely.
“Momma’s due any day, Micah,” Jazz whimpered.
“Yeah, but she said that two weeks ago.” He poured vodka into each glass.
“She’s overdue. The doctor said if she doesn’t start labor by tomorrow, he’ll induce her.”
“Good to know,” grumbled Micah, “but that doesn’t help me tonight.”
Jasmine shook she was so nervous. A tear ran down her cheek as she gripped her robe tighter together.
He held out a glass to her. “Go on. Take it.” He smiled. “And why are you looking so scared? You act like this is the first time, Jasmine.”
She squeezed tears out of her eyes as her heart tried to jump through her chest. She’d told herself she would never let him screw her again. Her mouth was bone dry. She reached for the glass and took a sip.
“There you go. Drink whatever you want. Loosen up, girl.” He downed his drink and began to unbutton his shirt.
The glass clattered against her teeth as she took another sip. “You told me you wouldn’t do this again. You promised me you’d leave Momma alone if I did it.”
“Yes, I did, but you felt so good.” He moved his eyes from her waist to her face, his head bobbling on his neck. “And you seemed to like it.” He struggled with the buttons. “I can still hear you groaning.” He chuckled then yanked his shirt open, sending buttons bouncing on the floor.
She backed away. “It hurt like hell, and I’m still bleeding!”
“It always hurts the first time.” He unbuckled his pants.
“It hurt more the second time!”
“Get drunk enough and you won’t feel anything.” He pulled down his pants.
“You promised me!” she screamed.
“She promised she wouldn’t be pregnant by now. Take off your robe. You know you want to. You just want to scream a little so you can tell yourself you tried to stop me. ‘Cause you don’t want to admit the truth. You liked it, Jasmine. I could tell.”
Someone To Kiss My Scars: A Teen Thriller Page 12