by Jaime Reed
The memory of a front door slamming in my face popped into my head. I recalled the brass knocker clattering against the wood, leaving a delayed echo in my ears. I shook the painful memory away. “I can’t.”
Stacey’s gray eyes narrowed at me. “Can’t or won’t?”
“Either one of those options will work. I don’t want to upset her. It’s just best that I stay away from her. She’s in a fragile state right now, and the last time I went to visit her, things got soap opera-ish and weepy, and I hate expressing myself in liquid form,” I explained in a rush.
The last person I wanted to have this discussion with was Stacey Levine. If I needed to bare my soul, I’d do so on paper. Writing was the safest way to bleed without breaking the skin. With Stacey involved, she would make sure to hit a major artery.
Elbows propped on the table, she cradled her chin in her laced hands and leaned in as if to disclose some juicy gossip. “So what did you say when you saw her?”
I shrugged. “Not much. I was kinda shocked she showed up. She needed help unlocking her phone, that’s all.”
“So you’re the one who figured out that stupid code? Thank God. She was going nuts trying to open that thing. She called the store and they told her to buy a new one—can you believe that? Total rip-off. And she was willing to do it, but I was like, ‘You better get your man to go MacGyver on that thing, rub some wires together and hotwire that bad boy. What’s the point of dating an AP-class brainiac if you can’t get him to hack into the motherboard or something?’ ”
Assuming that any of that made sense, I asked, “Why would you think academic merit was comparable to cybercrime?”
“It’s your glasses.” She reached across the table and used a long, rainbow-colored talon to push the frames back to the top of my nose. “You’ve got that sexy nerd, tech-support thing going on.” She wagged her eyebrows at me.
I rolled my eyes. “Can we please get started?”
“Sure.” She dug into her enormous bag, dropping random items on the table. Among them were combs, hair clips, compacts, several tubes of lip gloss, a curling iron, and a worn copy of Wuthering Heights.
After reaching the bottom of her cargo hold, and with an entire cosmetic line cluttering the table, she presented a wrinkled and coffee-stained printout of her essay. I dove right in, red pen at the ready, and immediately felt the beginnings of a headache as I read the second paragraph aloud.
“Heathcliff and Kathy grew up together and had this love-hate thing going on. He was broke and dirty and didn’t think he was good enough for her and she married a rich guy just to make him jealous. Heathcliff was all butt-hurt about it and left town to make some bank. Then he rolled up years later and used his mad cash to get back at everybody who called him a bum.”
Wow. I had my work cut out for me and the weight of the task grew heavier with each new paragraph.
“Okay, I don’t think your teacher will accept ‘psycho jerk-face’ as a proper reason for Heathcliff’s cruelty.” I showed her the passage circled in red ink.
Stacey’s head was buried in her jewel-encrusted phone, her thumbs flying over the keys in a blur.
“That’s what you’re here for—to pretty it up for me. Do your thing, Hemingway.” She batted her eyes, her false lashes fluttering like butterfly wings. “Anyway, I was reading that book and I think you’re a lot like the Heathcliff guy. When Kathy died, Heathcliff cursed her to walk the earth as a ghost just so he wouldn’t be alone. He didn’t care what form she took, he was willing to take her any way he could get her. So this dude’s running around moors and stuff talking to some wind and spirits. Cray-cray.”
“And how does that remind you of me?” I asked, but really didn’t want to know the answer.
“If you’re not careful, you’ll get all bitter and creepy because you don’t know how to accept things as they are now. Ellia doesn’t remember you and she may never get that part of her memory back and might never feel the way you do again. So you got two options: make a fresh start and build something new, or go around chasing ghosts.”
It was easy for her to say—Ellia still had memories of their friendship. Stacey didn’t have to suffer whispers about her or looks of sympathy, or accept blame for what happened to Ellia. She didn’t have dreams about sharp rocks, bloody sand, and a body that shouldn’t be lying so still. She hadn’t had the pleasure of a door slamming in her face or having the voice of Ellia’s father stuck in her head on repeat. “Do not come here again. You’ve done quite enough, young man.”
No, Stacey didn’t know the whole story. No one did, and that was what had to be set straight. I was tempted to tell Stacey about the book I planned to write, but I didn’t want to jinx things.
“You’re saying I should give up on her?” I asked.
Stacey tapped away at her phone. “I’m saying you can’t build this immortal shrine to the old Ellia and shut out the new one. Her not wanting to be with you in that way doesn’t mean she doesn’t care at all. I just don’t want you to—”
“Hang on to false hope,” I finished. Which was a stupid expression, by the way. Hope can be foolish or misguided, but there was no such thing as false hope. Hope was always true, even when there was no evidence to support its claim.
Finally, Stacey’s bedazzled phone was set to rest and she gave me her full attention. “Look, if you love her like you say you do, then be there for her. None of that stalker business where you’re staring at her house every morning. Knock on her door and pay her a visit like a sane person. If you can’t help get her old memories back, make new ones. Give her a reason to know who you are or leave her alone.”
The table went silent for a long beat as we stared at each other. I was stunned on two counts: that she knew what I did every morning and the possibility that she might actually have a point. Maybe I was chasing a ghost through the moors. Either you’re running from something or running to something. Right now I was just running in circles.
I stood up, collected my notebook and her paper, and crammed them into my backpack. “I gotta go. I’ll rewrite your essay and give it to you before first period tomorrow.”
“Okay, cool. But don’t use too many big words—Mr. Hudson won’t believe I wrote it. Just add enough to make him think I’m trying,” she instructed, then resumed texting.
“Yeah, sure. I’ll even write in pink crayon to keep it authentic.” I made a beeline for the exit before she could give a snide comeback.
I flung open the library door with my mission clear and my resolve absolute. I’d have to prove to everyone, including Ellia, that I was more than some guy she used to know, that what we shared had and still mattered. She may have forgotten the promise we made on the beach, but I hadn’t, and it was up to me to back up those words with action. Memories and ghosts were for the dead. Living things moved, and I was never one to stand still.
All right, Ellia, I have a few worksheets I need you to complete,” Dr. Kavanagh said in a low, soothing tone that made me drowsy. All of the specialists here spoke with their indoor voices, and it was giving me story-time flashbacks to kindergarten.
“This part of the assessment isn’t time-restricted, so there’s no pressure to work quickly. Just answer as many questions as you can. You can work in the waiting room if you feel more comfortable and return it to the desk when you’re done, okay?” She handed me a manila folder and a number two pencil.
The thickness of the folder made it clear that I was going to be here for a while. As it was, this appointment was running close to the three-hour mark, and I knew those worksheets would follow the same pattern as the rest of my evaluation. Endless repetition.
For over an hour, Dr. Kavanagh had used old home videos and photos as flash cards and I had to identify each image with wires taped to my head. Then she read off a long list of words and made me recite the ones I could remember. Then came another list and then another and then back to the first one, on and on until my brain felt like ground hamburger meat. Now I was in t
he puzzle and matching phase of the testing, and if I wasn’t mental before, I would be by the end of the day. I was once again being poked and prodded just to reach the obvious conclusion that something was wrong with me. All of this could’ve been explained over the phone, but no, my disorder had to be exposed to the open air and dissected by anyone in a lab coat.
With a polite nod, I took the folder then shuffled my way to the sitting area. There were several round tables and plastic chairs, but I chose one of the beanbags by the window. The glass reached from floor to ceiling, welcoming ample sunlight and providing a panoramic view of the courtyard below. A weird crop circle design that I couldn’t make heads or tails of was raked in the sand. Old people did chi kung on the grass, their motions graceful and controlled as they stretched in a synchronized dance.
Serenity Behavior Health Center lived up to its name by trying not to look like a hospital. It had trickling fountains and a koi pond to soothe the mind. Plants and rock formations lay everywhere, and I’d bet a year’s allowance that the furniture was set in feng shui. The only thing that kept me from mistaking the place for a day spa or a botanical garden was the PSY.D. on the staff’s name tags.
The center treated a number of health issues: drug rehab, Alzheimer’s, autism, ADD, OCD, PTSD, and other behavior problems that went by acronyms. I was on the fifth floor with the learning disabled and mentally challenged. Along with the counseling sessions, I’d be assigned to a tutor here twice a week to help me catch up on my missing classes so I could attempt to graduate on time.
As I flipped through the pages of my worksheet, I considered various ways to better waste my afternoon. I could be watching Vines and YouTube videos. I could be catching up on the last two seasons of my favorite hip-hop housewives reality show. I could finally learn how to thread my sewing machine, or create a collage out of all the get-well cards people sent me. The possibilities were endless, and the question that had plagued me all morning came to mind: How in the world did I get roped into this?
The answer was simple: coercion. I’d put up a good fight, but Mom and Dad had laid down the law and dragged me, kicking and screaming, to my first appointment. On the plus side, my folks agreed that I could go outside and even go to Stacey’s house in exchange for my participation. It was a hard sell, but cabin fever was one heck of a motivator.
Since I wasn’t on the clock, I decided to walk around a bit to stretch my legs and scope out the rest of the place. Outside of the open sitting area were halls lined with closed offices and conference rooms. My nosy side wanted to catch a drooling patient in a straitjacket roaming the halls, and yet a part of me was relieved I hadn’t seen any.
I turned down one hallway then another, and stopped dead in my tracks at the glorious sight before me. There, stationed between the drinking fountain and a wooden bench, was a fully stocked vending machine. Cookies, chips, sticky buns, and sodas stood within reach. I floated toward it, praying that this mirage wouldn’t disappear. My hand stroked the glass and I marveled at the buffet of carbs and sugar at my disposal.
So many choices and not enough change: a fact I quickly discovered when I dug into my pocket. Forty cents, a raggedy hair tie, and some dryer lint was all I had to my name. I pulled my wallet out of my other pocket only to find six pennies.
I spread my arms wide, collapsed onto the machine, pressed my face against the cold surface, and wailed to the ceiling in utter despair. Insufficient funds and a sheet of plexiglass kept me from sugary paradise. My gaze shifted to a small box under the pane of buttons, and my hope was renewed. This bad boy took debit cards!
I fingered through the compartments of my wallet and fished out a prepaid card that my parents gave me for emergencies. And by God, this was an emergency!
After a swipe and the push of a couple buttons, chocolate-covered pretzels dropped with a chorus of an angelic choir.
From the outside, my behavior could be viewed as a bit excessive, but starvation and low blood sugar were serious business. It brought on uncharacteristic behavior, like dancing in the middle of the hallway or hugging a vending machine.
“Do you two need a room?” a voice called out behind me.
I glanced over my shoulder and saw a boy staring openmouthed at me from the end of the hall. He looked about my age and stood at average height and build. His faded black T-shirt appeared to function as both business casual and sleepwear. He also had a folder of paperwork tucked under his arm and a phone in his hand.
I must’ve looked all kinds of cray with both arms and one leg wrapped around something the size of a refrigerator. Then again, we were in a mental health facility, so what did he expect?
I dropped my leg, stood up straight, and smoothed down my sweater as best as I could. “Sorry. I was having a moment.”
He stepped closer. The frayed hem of his jeans covered his sandaled feet, and dirty strings dragged across the floor as he walked. “I see. So, when’s the wedding?”
“Haven’t set a date yet.” I gestured to the machine. “I was thinking springtime. An outdoor ceremony with a bunch of flowers made of candy wrappers. Or maybe a carriage ride to the service with some doves flying as I walk down the aisle.”
He grinned. “A fairy-tale wedding, huh?”
“What can I say? Bridezilla always gets what she wants.” I smiled back.
“I’m sorry, I gotta capture this.” He aimed his phone at me.
“No! Please don’t!” I covered my head with my arms. I was not prepared for pictures, especially with a scarf on my head and no makeup. Most importantly, I didn’t know this kid or what he would do with those photos.
“This is too good to let pass,” he said and kept snapping. “Not all crazy is the same, and you’re a rare breed.”
“I’m not crazy! I’m just malnourished—and would you stop clicking? That’s an invasion of privacy.”
“So is making out with the snack machine. Imagine how it feels. Poor thing might need some counseling after this.” He stretched the phone away from him to get a better angle. “Don’t worry. I’m not a creep or anything. I use pictures as memory cards. It helps me remember if I’m on the right floor, in the right building, and so on. I got lost on my way to the bathroom and ended up back in the lobby.”
“Sounds like something old people would do,” I said, then stooped down to collect my snack from the machine.
“Short-term memory loss often follows gray hair. But I’m ahead of the curve—not a single silver strand.” He ran a hand over his wavy brown hair, which immediately fell back over his forehead.
I tore open the pretzel bag with my teeth then spat out the ripped piece of plastic. Ill-mannered? Yes, but so was taking pictures of strangers. “Do you have dementia or something?”
“Nope. Amnesia,” he replied and fiddled with his phone. He shared this news so casually that I couldn’t help but be amazed. I’d never met an amnesia patient, and I was curious. Maybe he could give me some pointers.
“Really? So do I,” I admitted. “You can’t remember your past either?”
“More like the past hour. It’s the new memories that are hard to keep, not old ones. I’ve got anterograde amnesia. I can remember my tenth birthday and all that, but ask me what I ate this morning and I have to look it up.” He consulted a list on his phone. “If I see it enough times, it’ll sink in. I need repetition and routine.”
You’ll get plenty of that here, I thought. “Wow. That sucks.” The reply slipped before I considered how insensitive that sounded, though he didn’t seem offended.
“Tell me about it.” He shrugged and walked with me back to the waiting room. “So what are you in for?”
“Retrograde amnesia. I’m missing twenty-six months of my life, including my time in the hospital, but I do know that I had oatmeal and yogurt for breakfast.”
He stopped and consulted his list again. “Hmm, Pop-Tarts and turkey bacon for me.”
The thought of bacon made my stomach growl. “You know Pop-Tarts are bad for you, r
ight? The preservatives alone will stay stuck in your system for years.”
“At least something will stick,” he muttered and began walking again.
I noticed the folder clamped under his arm. “You have one of those stupid worksheets, too, huh?”
His eyes stayed glued to his screen. “Yeah. I got reassigned to a new doctor and they want to see how I’m doing. You’d think he would know how I’m doing with all the notes my other doctor took. All hour long, he’s taking notes, talking, and watching me solve puzzles, and then more notes. I forgot his name, but the boredom is ingrained in my memory.”
I could relate, but I was stuck on one little part. “An hour? That’s all you stay for?”
His brown eyes, warm and bright with humor, met mine. “From what I understand, all of the therapy sessions last one hour. It’s just the evaluation that takes years from your life you can never get back.”
My shoulders relaxed as if a boulder had been lifted from my neck. “Oh good! I couldn’t go through this every week.” I shoved more salty chocolate in my mouth. “So how often do you have to come here?”
“Twice a week after school.”
“Do you go to León?” I asked with my mouth full and not caring. No point in being ladylike now.
“Nope. Saint Pedro. It’s an all-boys academy, so any chance to hang with a pretty girl is fine by me. Good to brush up on my people skills.” He smiled.
A part of me was relieved that he didn’t go to my school, so word of my therapy sessions wouldn’t travel back to my peers. I may not remember high school, but I knew how the social hierarchy worked and being labeled a head case was a hard stamp to peel off.
I wondered if the boy next to me had a horror story to tell. “Do kids mess with you at school?”
“Can’t say. Saint Pedro has a hardcore zero tolerance rule for bullying. If so, they do it behind my back. But then again, I wouldn’t really know, now would I?”
Seeing his point, I asked, “Does it bother you at all, not being able to remember stuff?”