Keep Me in Mind

by Jaime Reed

  “It did at first. It’s scary not knowing things or who to trust. It’s hard to figure out who’s telling you the truth or who’s jerking your chain.”

  Oh yeah, I knew that feeling. My first few weeks after waking up in the hospital were like that—the fear, the helplessness, the paranoia of being lied to, and having adults talk down to you. The frustration alone felt worse than the migraines. Too bad there wasn’t a pill for that.

  By the time we made it back to the waiting room, I was halfway through my bag of pretzels and was tempted to go back for more goodies—maybe some Cheetos this time. Then I saw him staring at me, amused.

  “Hey, can I ask you something? It’s kinda personal, but I’m really curious.” When my warning didn’t faze him, I asked, “How did you get like this? Did you have an accident?”

  He stopped to look at me fully. “Oh. Is that it? I thought you were going to ask me if I had a girlfriend.”

  I stopped chewing. “Why would I ask you that?”

  “Don’t know. Why would you fondle a defenseless snack machine? But hey, I’m not here to judge. This is a safe environment where people can express themselves freely,” he explained, sounding like the doctors around here. “To answer your question—I drowned. I was surfing with my brother and got sucked down in the riptide. I would’ve died if he didn’t pull me out of the water. I stopped breathing for too long and they had a hard time reviving me. Who would’ve thought the lack of oxygen causes brain damage? It’s weird, you know? Brains need to breathe?”

  So he was a beach boy. That explained the “chill bruh” drone in his voice, but I didn’t find it as annoying as I usually would. His golden skin spoke more of genetics than sunburn and there were tiny freckles running up the length of his arms. He had nice arms—thin, but cut. Maybe he worked out.

  “Were you surfing here in Quintero?” I asked.

  “Nope. Rincon Point. My brother’s got a place in Ventura and I went to visit him this past summer.” His dark eyes fell on me. “Anyway, what about you? What’s your story?”

  I searched around the sitting area for a good answer. The truth was I really didn’t know the specifics of my accident. Mom and Dad were pretty tight-lipped about it, some ish about my delicate state, but I knew there was more to it than a simple tumble and fall. Dodging scandals and unpleasant subject matter came from my Mom’s bougie Southern side of the family.

  “I fell and bumped my head,” I answered finally. “I got a cracked skull and brain swelling.”

  “Cool,” he said then corrected himself. “I mean not cool, but it’s an interesting story to tell people, especially if you have a wicked scar. Scars are souvenirs of battles won. Plus, it makes you look more dangerous.” His eyes darted to the scarf on my head and then back to my face. “You know what? I’m gonna call you Jason Bourne, like from the action movies. He couldn’t remember his past either, yet that didn’t stop him from being a total badass.”

  I sucked my teeth at his corniness, but on the low, I found it endearing. He didn’t need to know all that, though. “Okay. In that case, I’m going to call you Dory, that fish from Finding Nemo. Her memory lasts five minutes at best. How long does yours last?”

  His head teetered as if balancing the weight of his answer. “An hour, give or take.”

  “And you won’t remember this conversation after we leave?” I had no idea why that disappointed me, but it did.

  “Oh I’ll definitely make a point to remember you.” He smiled innocently enough, but his intent stare left no doubt that some serious flirting was happening here. Then the moment passed and he pulled out his phone again.

  I covered my face. “Don’t. I look hideous.”

  “Hey, quit with the crazy talk. You’re gorgeous.” He logged the photo to his database—his handheld brain, as it were. “Met a cute girl at therapy today. She’s funny, eats like a guy, and is blessed with not remembering high school. You think she’s cool,” he recited while he typed his notes into his phone. “Head trauma, amnesia equals Jason Bourne, also known as … ” His eyes lifted to mine and waited.

  “Ellia. Ellia Dawson.”

  “Nice to meet you. I’m Cody, by the way. Cody Spencer.” He entered the information. “So does Ellia Dawson have a phone number?”

  “Why? Are you trying to get with her?” I sucked the chocolate off my thumb slowly.

  His dark eyes followed the movement. “Maybe.”

  Yep, there was definite flirting going on. Why did dudes try to come at me when I wasn’t on my A-game? And make no mistake, I looked a hot mess. I already had a boy on deck waiting for my call and I couldn’t even begin to deal with him. Until I figured things out, I was off the market.

  “Well, Cody—I mean Dory—I should probably get to work. I’m not trying to be here all day.” I gave him a quick scan from head to toe, then turned away. My head tilted back so the crumbs at the bottom of the bag fell into my mouth.

  “Well, it was worth a shot. Have fun, Jason Bourne,” he called after me.

  “Uh-huh.” I could feel his eyes on me as I walked away. I didn’t need to look back to check—a girl just knew these things.

  I returned to my beanbag and cracked open my folder, but with less enthusiasm than before, if that were possible. Word association and matching games ran ten pages deep into the test. I had to point out which shape, number, or vocabulary word didn’t belong in a sequence, but the only odd item that stood out to me was the boy wandering around the waiting room.

  Cody had stopped in front of one of the wall fountains, taking pictures of the swimming fish in its base. Then he ambled to the window and snapped more pictures and jotted down notes. For nearly thirty minutes, he roamed around the sitting area like a fascinated tourist, and the movement was becoming distracting.

  Every now and again, I’d look over and catch him staring. Then I’d smile and look away all tee-hee and giggly only to peek up again to see if he was still checking me out, which of course he was. On and on it went, shy smiles, stolen glances, liking what I saw and not knowing what to do about it. I’ll admit, the pursuit made me feel pretty, something I hadn’t felt in a while. This matching game was more challenging than the ones on my worksheet, but it fit the theme of this entire therapy session. Endless repetition. Cody said that it helped with memorization, and that may be true, because he seemed like a hard person to forget.

  I locked myself in my room, armed with earbuds, my trusty notebook, and a red pen to begin a hardcore editing massacre. I’d gotten stuck debating over a title for chapter two. I’d considered titles like Fate or Destiny, but that sounded lame. And my first encounter with Ellia freshman year didn’t involve any of that sappy melodrama where two people locked eyes from across the room as cheesy music played in the background. Most phenomena arose from a simple, uneventful beginning, such as running into a pretty girl in the hallway. Literally, running smack-dab into her …

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  On my way to the library, I’d gotten a text from Dad saying he would pick me up after school. He was usually on chauffeur duty in the mornings—I had a personal aversion to yellow buses and bully-initiated brawls inside moving vehicles. Dad wanted me to man up and tough it out, but scrawny freshmen such as myself were easy prey. Considering that I had been rezoned to another high school where none of my friends attended, I was dead on arrival. I’d explained this already, but Dad needed a reminder and yet another excuse to address my lack of testosterone. If I wasn’t involved in an aggressive “look at me, I’m an alpha male” activity, then I was considered a wimp. The dispute over my manhood continued via text as I hurried blindly toward the lower commons.

  My head was buried in my phone until my face made contact with soft skin. I jumped back and was at eye level with a smooth brown midriff. Her waist was a narrow hourglass that fanned out to wide hips encased in blue denim. She had a combination of an innie and an outie belly button, which flashed like peekaboo as the hem of her wool sweater rose and fell with her movemen
ts.

  This was the closest I’d ever been to a girl and the sight left me dumbstruck. Even as I pulled back, I could still feel her warm skin pressed against my face and smell the peach scent of her perfume.

  “Hey! Watch where you’re going!” The shriek that came from above shattered my trance.

  The voice confirmed that this adorable midriff did indeed belong to a girl, a very cute and irate girl who was now glowering down at me from a step stool. Her arms lifted over her head to attach a chain of pumpkin streamers to the wall and also, I suspected, to keep herself from falling. I was tempted to reach out to hold her steady, but I resisted the urge.

  Her head poked out between her arms and served me a look of malice. “What are you, blind?”

  No, I definitely wasn’t blind and I’d never been more thankful for the gift of sight. In order to adequately describe her, one would have to apply all five senses at once, and activate those that science had yet to identify.

  “Sorry. I-I didn’t see you there,” I stammered.

  “Obviously. That’s why I asked if you were visually impaired. You would have to be to not see all this junk laying around on the floor. Normal people would just step aside.”

  “I’m not normal. But then again neither are you.”

  She blinked at that. “What?”

  “You have an innie-outie belly button. The area itself is concave, but there’s a slight nub of scar tissue that pokes out on the side. About ten percent of people in the world have outie belly buttons and you kinda have both, which makes you even rarer.”

  She just stared at me. “That was the weirdest thing I’ve heard all week.”

  I shrugged. “Well, it’s only Thursday. Give it time.”

  She let out a little snort then stepped down from the stool. “Are you one of those guys who knows random information for no reason?”

  “There’s always a reason for knowledge.”

  “Only when it’s useful,” she countered.

  “And you’re saying my knowledge of umbilical scar tissue isn’t useful?”

  “Not unless you deliver babies for a living. Is that why you were in such a hurry? Did a girl suddenly go into labor in the locker room, and you were called in to assist in the birth?”

  I smiled. “They’d be better off calling my mom for that. She’s the obstetrician, not me. I just recite random medical facts to impress pretty girls.”

  “Smooth.” Pursing her glossy lips, she crossed her arms over her chest and waited. “Well, let’s see it.”

  My smile fell. “See what?”

  “Your umbilical scar. You saw mine and offered unsolicited commentary, so I should at least do the same for you.” She motioned for me to lift my shirt.

  I did as commanded and revealed my stomach to her open appraisal, trying not to blush. She took her time, tilting her head from side to side, examining the art on exhibit.

  “Hmm … A classic innie—oval shaped, lint-free, nicely tanned and just a tiny bit fuzzy. Not bad.” She nodded in approval. “Well, now that we’re both familiar with each other’s torsos, it’s only proper that we formally introduce ourselves. Ellia Dawson.” She reached out her hand.

  Her small, delicate fingers felt warm to the touch as I gathered them in mine. Her hand felt good in my palm, like it belonged there, so I held it a few seconds longer than what would be deemed appropriate. She didn’t seem to have a problem with the extra contact. I could tell she was struck in that moment, too, that rare cosmic event when premonition takes root. Somehow, whether good or bad, sometimes you knew when a person was going to change your life.

  “Nice to meet you, Ellia. I’m—”

  * * *

  “Liam! Get your butt down here now!” Dad bellowed from downstairs.

  Whatever path my imagination had taken now struck a brick wall and shattered at the sound of his voice. There was nothing worse than being interrupted while in the creative process. Few people understood how hard it was to get to that mindset and stay there long enough to complete a whole thought.

  “Hurry up, boy! I need you to see this!” Dad called again.

  I saved my document, closed my laptop, packed up my notebooks, and set the load on my desk. I stepped into the hall and remembered to lock my door at the sound of music flooding from Wade’s room. He usually slept in all weekend, but the Valentine’s Day dance was tonight and he spent the day getting dolled up for the ball. He didn’t have a date, but he’d probably be dancing with some girl by the end of the night.

  I trotted downstairs and found Dad sitting in his favorite armchair in the living room. Lines bunched around his forehead and eyes, as usual—I had never seen him wear any other expression. Dad was a six-foot-three semitruck of a man. With light-brown curls, ice-blue eyes, and a strong superhero jaw, he encapsulated the thick-necked jock who played rugby and crushed beer cans with his forehead. Grizzly chest hair sprouted from the red Hawaiian shirt he always liked to wear. All the male McPhersons looked like mink coats, but I seemed to favor Mom in every way except for height.

  Some home improvement show played on the flat screen. Since Dad retired from the Navy, he’d been on a mission to renovate the kitchen and den. Instead of just hiring a contractor, he took on the task himself. I figured he needed something to keep busy while he figured out what to do with himself now that Mom was gone. Whatever the reason, the ten-day project turned into a two-year crusade and the house was left cluttered with lumber and paint buckets.

  “Come take a look at this.” He waved me over and spread out a stack of pamphlets and brochures across the coffee table. “Pick a card, any card.”

  I sat on the couch beside him and eyed the papers with caution. “What’s this for?”

  “Summer volunteer work,” he said. “You’re going to need more than grades to get into UCLA, something to beef up your resume. Colleges like their students to be well rounded and active in their communities, so it’s time to roll up your sleeves and get involved. We have the Big Brothers Big Sisters program at the rec center. There are other mentorships, too. Little League, volunteer work at the homeless shelter … ”

  I was overwhelmed, as was usually the case around Dad. Not because he resembled a two-hundred-pound lumberjack, but because his hands-on approach always left me in a mental choke hold.

  “Dad, it’s too soon to talk about this now,” I said. “I have another year of school before I have to think about college.”

  “Applications open up in the fall. That means you have the entire summer to fatten up your resume and prove you’re more than a pair of legs. Given your track-and-field stats, it’s gonna be tough to get you in on athletics alone.”

  “It’s a good thing they also have academic scholarships. You know, for good grades,” I deadpanned, a mannerism I’d inherited from Mom, which I knew he hated.

  “It’s good to have something to fall back on, but you need to up your sprint time. Wade said you’ve been a bit sluggish lately.”

  I groaned inwardly. Wade gossiped more than old ladies at bridge, and Dad often pumped him for info on my progress, or the lack thereof. It was February. Track season started five minutes ago, and he was already getting on my case.

  Don’t get me wrong, Dad was my biggest supporter. He went to all of my competitions, but he took his involvement to angry-soccer-fan extremes. You know those kids at Little League games who watched in confused horror as their parents brawled in the bleachers? That pretty much summed up my athletic career from the first time I picked up a ball. After the second police raid at a peewee football game, I had taken up a less aggressive sport to keep the peace.

  “Been getting enough sleep, son?” Dad asked after many attempts to recapture my attention.

  I shook away my wandering thoughts. “Sure.”

  “Really? Because the bags under your eyes say something else. I see the light on in your room at two in the morning. What’s going on in that head of yours, Liam?”

  “I got tons of homework this semester. I
have to keep up my GPA if I’m going to get into college.”

  “You sure it’s not something else keeping you up? A certain girl, perhaps?”

  I glared at him and his tacky flowered shirt. “No.”

  “Have you been sneaking off to see her again?”

  “No,” I lied.

  I must not have done a convincing job because Dad went on to say, “It’s bad enough I lose sleep worrying if Wade will burn the house down—I don’t want to have to worry about you, too. I will not have you going to jail for a childhood crush. You remember the agreement, don’t you?”

  I knew better than anyone what the stakes were. Every day crossed out on the calendar made my options painfully clear. “I do.”

  “Then what’s the problem? Why can’t you just move on?” Dad asked.

  Off the top of my head, I could think of a hundred activities I’d rather be doing than having a heart-to-heart with my old man. Talking about our feelings was like a breach in the buddy code. It was just Dad, Wade, and me now, and we’d agreed to certain ground rules while living together. Replace whatever you drank. Change the empty toilet paper roll. Call if you’re staying out. And never discuss ex-girlfriends or, in Dad’s case, ex-wives.

  And yet the words flew out of my mouth anyway. “Because she’s The One.”

  Dad blinked in confusion. “The one what?”

  I shrugged and dropped my gaze to the floor. “Just … you know, The One.”

  Dad searched the walls of the living room as if lost. “Where are we? In the Matrix? Was there an ancient prophecy about her?”

  “It’s like you and Mom. You married her four months after you met because you knew, deep down in your bones, that she was the only girl you’d ever love. Your own words, Dad.”

  “Whoa, whoa, now, cowboy.” A beefy hand rose in the air to stop me. “I was in the Navy when I met your mother. I’d seen the world, met a ton of people, and had real experiences before coming to that conclusion, and look how well that turned out. You’re only seventeen and haven’t traveled any farther than Disneyland. So do you really want to follow our example?”