Remember Me Always

by Renee Collins

  “Well, if you had stayed relaxed, you wouldn’t have needed to come back.”

  There are so many things wrong with what she’s saying I don’t even know where to begin. And I don’t know if I feel more angry or hurt.

  “Don’t you think I’d stay relaxed if I could?”

  Mama flips through her magazine, unfazed. “Look, I don’t see what you’re making such a fuss about. The treatments work. They worked for Blake. They work for you. We just can’t take any chances on you remembering.”

  “Don’t you mean we can’t take any chances of the panic attacks coming back?”

  Her hand stops for a beat in the middle of turning a page, and her gaze snaps up. Before she can respond, the exam room door swings open. Dr. Stevens breezes in with an economical smile.

  “Good morning, ladies.”

  Mama sits up, setting her magazine on the side table. “Hello, Dr. Stevens.”

  I think my mother feels a little insecure around him. Dr. Stevens has gravitas and poise, with silvering temples and a calm voice. He looks, talks, and moves like money and education. Everything Mama isn’t.

  “Shelby,” he says. “Nice to see you again. Though I understand you aren’t feeling well?”

  “I’m okay.” The response is knee jerk. Dr. Stevens raises an eyebrow. Mama’s eyes burn into me. I look down into my lap. “I mean…I feel fine now, but the panic attacks…they’ve started up again.”

  Dr. Stevens scribbles a few notes on the chart. “I see.”

  “It was a low-grade anxiety at first. But I can’t shake it.”

  “And the memories of the accident?” Dr. Stevens asks. “Are they coming back as well?”

  “No. That’s all blank.”

  “Good,” he says, nodding. “That’s good.”

  He writes for what seems like forever and then finally looks up. He studies me, eyes narrowed slightly with contemplation. “Perhaps the anxiety has been caused by something else? You’re still in a vulnerable place. Is there something going on in your life that might trigger stress and panic?”

  “First day of school’s on Monday,” Mama chimes in. “I tried to tell her that’s probably what it is.”

  “It’s not,” I say, firmly. I look to Dr. Stevens for a voice of reason. “I know what normal anxiety feels like, and this isn’t it.”

  “What does it feel like to you, Shelby?”

  I shrug, searching for the right words. “It’s this sense that…something’s not right. It’s like something’s…missing.”

  Dr. Stevens nods thoughtfully. “I think I understand what’s happening here. Shelby, have you ever heard of phantom limb sensation?”

  “Like what happens to soldiers who’ve lost a leg or an arm?”

  “Precisely. Sometimes, when the body loses part of itself, the brain can trick it into feeling like that part is still there. Pain in a leg that’s been amputated, for example. In your case, it’s a piece of memory. We removed the negative memory, and your brain is trying to fill in what happened. It’s rare, but we’ve had a few other patients complain of similar issues.”

  “So…this is normal?” I ask. “The PTSD isn’t coming back? I won’t start to remember the accident again?”

  Dr. Stevens gives a half smile, the warmest his stiff, professional personality will allow. “The treatment works, Shelby. Those memories are gone forever. As is your PTSD. Consider this a quiet echo. An echo that will eventually go away.”

  Mama leans to be in Dr. Stevens’s line of vision. “Should we not put her through one more time? Just to make sure?”

  He glances down at his notes. “Yes, I suppose we can do that. If it will comfort both of you.”

  Mama sets a hand to her chest. “Thank you, Dr. Stevens.”

  Winonna motions me to the receiving table of the neural restructuring capsule. I draw a quick breath and stand. Maybe Mama’s right. If this is what it takes for me to feel normal again, it’s a small price to pay.

  I know the drill. First, my arms are strapped to the table. This freaked me out the first time, but Winonna assured me it was only to keep me from flailing in my sleep and disrupting the therapy. I believe her, though I can’t help but think this process would be a little less creepy without it.

  Next, the electrode patches are applied to my temples and forehead. Earphones cover my ears. A cool sterilizer preps the inside of my elbow. And then the IV pricks my vein. A “little bee sting,” as Winonna calls it. I’m supposed to count down from ten while the anesthesia kicks in, but instead I chant a desperate plea to the machine in my head. Please work. Please work. Please work. The last thing I see is the inside of the white helmet closing around my face.

  • • •

  The therapy is always the same.

  Images.

  Scenes from my life, minus the accident.

  The treatment is hypnosis combined with carefully coordinated brain stimulation. In the warm, watery place of semiconsciousness, I swim through one scene after the next. The images are always the same, in the same sequence. I’m in mostly familiar places. School, my old job at the movie theater, the lake. Sometimes there are people in my dream, and sometimes I’m alone.

  My mind is reprocessing my daily life in a completely controlled, relaxed way without the “undesirable moments.” That’s what Dr. Stevens tells me. It makes sense. The images show my brain that everything is okay. And that’s really all I want. I just want everything to feel okay again.

  • • •

  I’m walking through the halls of Orchardview High. Blurry faces on indistinct bodies pass by me, like a circular backdrop from silent movies that rotates to convey movement. I’m on my way to class. Not sure which one. It’s a long walk. Soundless and boring.

  Next will come the lake. It’s one of my favorite images. I’ll be sitting on the hood of my car on a blanket. Alone. Watching the stars pierce the darkening sky.

  I’m loading textbooks into my locker. Shutting it slowly. And then, like the flip of a switch, I’m at the lake. Twilight. The buzz of insects fills the air. The swampy smell of the lake fills my nostrils. A warm evening wind ruffles my hair. I stare at the purple sky. It’s a perfect summer night.

  An impulse makes me turn to my left. The air beside me looks different. It’s moving. Twisting. Like oil droplets on the surface of water. The swirling air suddenly comes together in a flash. A boy sits beside me on the hood of the car. He’s reaching for my face, to brush a strand of hair from my lip. His dark, deep eyes are filled with intensity. His brow is thick. Long, disheveled black hair falls just past his ears.

  The image of this boy lasts less than the time it takes me to gasp. As fast as he appeared, he’s gone.

  • • •

  “Shelby?”

  White, circular lights swim in my vision. I hear the muffled hum of voices, the sharper beep of my heart monitor. The deep haze of sleep still lies over me. I feel like I’m standing at the bottom of a swimming pool, looking up. But ice rushes through my veins.

  Winonna’s blurred, concerned face comes into view. “Shelby, honey, can you hear me?”

  I blink once.

  “I think she’s coming to.”

  There’s a chaos of movement around me. The coolness in my veins pulls me upward through the water. I kick and kick again, reaching for the surface.

  Finally, the familiar therapy room comes into view around me. I can see Winonna and Mama, who both look worried. Dr. Stevens checks my vitals, his brow furrowed with wordless concern. I reach for my voice but only manage a rasp.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “There was an abnormality during your treatment. We had to give you a dose of adrenaline to pull you out of anesthesia.”

  Abnormality. The boy. A flash of lightning in my brain reveals his face in the shadows. Dark, intense eyes. Tousled black hair. His hand reac
hing for my lips.

  It’s like a sparkler has been lit inside my chest. The sensation crackles over my skin, and I draw in a shaky breath. Winonna seems to notice.

  “Did you sense anything different, honey? Anything out of the ordinary?”

  “No.” The lie falls from my tongue immediately, smooth as taffy. “The treatment seemed normal to me.”

  Winonna frowns but continues with her work.

  Why did I lie? Why wouldn’t I tell her about the boy? He hasn’t been part of my treatment before. That’s obviously what they’re talking about. The machine must have malfunctioned and produced that new image in my mind as a result.

  Dr. Stevens holds a pen-sized flashlight up to each of my eyes. I blink at the brightness. Can he tell that my pulse is racing? I hope he doesn’t check it.

  “It’s probably nothing,” he says, making a note on his chart. “This is still very new technology, and unfortunately, glitches happen. There’s no need to worry, of course. You’re perfectly safe.”

  “Should we run the treatment again, Doctor?” Mama asks.

  “No,” I blurt. I close my eyes. “I mean, I’m fine. I’m sure the machine was just acting weird.”

  Dr. Stevens considers this for a moment, makes a note on his clipboard, and then nods. “We should be fine to monitor her and see how things go. After all, you’ll be coming back in six weeks for a checkup. In the meantime, let me know if you have any unusual symptoms. Headaches, trouble concentrating, vivid dreams, or hallucinations—anything that doesn’t feel right.”

  The boy’s face burns into my mind again, filling me with a strange, warm light. Almost like happiness. I should tell Dr. Stevens the truth. If I want to get better, I need to be completely honest.

  But I can’t make the words leave my throat. Something inside of me holds them back. It holds on to the image of that boy. It guards him. It keeps him close.

  Everyone steps away and talks in hushed tones. I’m glad for the distance because I genuinely can’t keep the smile from pulling at my lips, and I don’t want them to see. The warmth sparkles in me like sunlight on water. I replay the image of him again, my skin tingling.

  I don’t know what my vision means, but I know that I have to find out.

  Chapter 3

  The first week of school at Orchardview High is always eventful. Assemblies. Pranks. Dances. It’s tradition. Mama has told me stories from when she was in school. Nothing much has changed, and that’s the way our town likes it.

  Today is a doubleheader—pep rally during school and bonfire in the field outside the parking lot tonight.

  After messing with my rusty old locker for about ten minutes, I finally get it open. At least I’ve been upgraded to a new awesome location. Seniors always get the best locker spots. I’ve been looking forward to this for three years. I remove a few carefully chosen items from my backpack. A little round mirror. A magnet with The Godfather logo. An original promo poster for The Shawshank Redemption. And finally, a Darth Vader bobblehead.

  There. Home, sweet home.

  I still can’t believe I’m a senior. Feeling light with excitement, I remove my camcorder case from my backpack to do one quick inspection before the pep rally. Brushing a fleck of lint off the top off the camera, I pull it closer, with a frown. Is that a scratch?

  “Hey, Shelbs. How’s your baby?”

  Grace leans her head against my locker with a smirk. I place the camera back in its case.

  “This thing cost the school a fortune, you know. The least I can do is be careful with it.”

  “A fortune, huh? Nothing but the best for the class historian.”

  Grace likes to tease me about being involved in student government. It’s not the coolest extracurricular in the world, but in my defense, I didn’t really seek out the job. Brooklyn Belnap, student body president extraordinaire, heard from Mrs. Pavloski that I’m a big movie buff, and she practically forced me to run. I guess “movie fan” translates into “good with camera.”

  Grace checks her appearance in my locker mirror and smiles.

  “Senior year, Shelbs. Senior freaking year.”

  “I almost can’t believe it.”

  “Well, buckle up. This is going to be the best year ever. It’s official.” She taps Darth Vader, making his head wobble wildly. “Come on. I want to get a good seat.”

  We head through the crowded halls toward the gym. Brad Corbin and two other basketball players, clad in their uniforms for the assembly, stand in conversation in the middle of the hallway. Grace waves and murmurs a greeting as we maneuver around them. Brad gives her the cool-guy chin nod, and her cheeks flush.

  “What was that all about?” I ask her when we’ve passed.

  “What?” she asks innocently.

  “Um, Grace, I’m still blinded from the sparks that were flying.”

  Grace laughs. “Hardly. We’re friends. Our moms work together.”

  I point at her. “There’s a story there, and I need to hear it.”

  “I’ll tell you all the nonexistent details during the assembly,” Grace says, rolling her eyes.

  “I’ll be filming, remember?”

  “Right.” She twists her lips to the side but then perks up. “Hey, I know! I’ll be your assistant! I can help you…carry your bags and stuff.”

  The realization floods over me slowly. “And this wouldn’t have anything to do with you being down on the gym floor with all the basketball players, would it?”

  She gasps in mock offense. “Shelby Katherine Decatur. I have been your best friend since the third grade. I think I know where my priorities are.”

  “Yeah, I think I do too.”

  She tries to shove me, but I dodge, and she chases me to the gym.

  I let her stand with me during the assembly. I’m a good friend like that. Besides, she could do worse than Brad Corbin. She has done worse. Though, I suppose it’s not hard to beat Mike Jasper.

  I focus on filming. I’d never admit how much I enjoy it, but maybe it was a good idea to pick a film buff for historian. Wes Anderson taught me how to fill a frame. Scorsese taught me how to change focus at the right moment. And Tarantino, well, he demonstrated how to give an audience what they want in a way they might not expect.

  I’m taking just such a shot, zooming in on Principal Border at a brilliantly avant-garde angle, when the hairs on the back of my neck prickle. Like a whisper of eyes on me. I lower my camera and scan the audience.

  The crowd is filled with hundreds of faces. Kids are watching the assembly with a broad palate of expressions. Some cheer wildly. Some talk with their friends, ignoring the proceedings completely. A few even look like they’re asleep.

  The same old crowd. The same people I’ve gone to school with for years. I don’t see anyone watching me. So why are there goose bumps on my skin?

  Mrs. Pavlovski sets her hand on my shoulder, and I startle. “Are you getting this?”

  Vice Principal McMillan leads a piglet into the gym on a pink ribbon leash, much to the audience’s delight. With a quick shake of my head, I lift my camera. Moving forward for a better angle, I try to ignore my feelings of uneasiness.

  The rest of the day passes without event. In fact, I’m starting to feel like myself again. It’s good to be back at school. This place is my home, quirks and all. It’s made me who I am. So many firsts happened here. I remember being a wide-eyed freshman, huddled next to Grace, thinking the halls were so huge and the classes were so hard. I dated my first boyfriend here. Got my first kiss between the modulars during a football game. Went to my first prom. Had my first dramatic breakup at said prom.

  So when Grace tells me we’re going to the pep rally tonight, I don’t fight it. Traditions make Orchardview what it is, and traditions demand to be upheld.

  The bonfire is set up in the west parking lot. By the time Grace and I arrive
, a huge crowd has already gathered. My stomach turns a nervous little flip. Somehow, after being gone all summer, I feel like an outsider. But Grace pulls me along without hesitation. We didn’t spend the better part of an hour primping for nothing. We painted sparkly green OHs on our cheeks and curled our hair in high ponytails. While I painted my nails, she snipped and sewed our Orchardview High T-shirts until they were actually wearable and cute.

  “I feel ridiculous,” I say as we approach the jubilant crowd around the bonfire.

  “You look fabulous,” she scoffs. “Everyone’s wearing stuff like this.”

  “I know, but…”

  Grace gives me a swift glance. “Are you feeling…anxious again?”

  “No, nothing like that. I’m fine.” I wish we could drop the subject.

  “Everyone missed you this summer,” she says. “They’ll be happy to see you.”

  “Yeah…”

  A strong arm slaps around my shoulders. “Well, well, well. What have we here?”

  Cam Haler. Possibly the last person I want to see right now.

  “What’s up, Seashell?”

  Grace bites her lip, holding back a laugh.

  “Speaking of happy to see you,” she says, under her breath. Then she beams at Cam. “I’ll let you two get caught up.”

  I give her a death glare. “That won’t be necess—”

  She waves coyly and slides away. “Have fun!”

  Mental note: Grace is now and forever shunned.

  “Heard you were in Denver all summer,” Cam says. His curly blond hair has been carefully gelled, and he wears a cocky smile.

  I lift his arm off me and drop it. “Yep.”

  “Cool. I’m probably going there next summer. Auditioning for Hamlet.”

  He says this every year. He’s off to Denver. Word of his talent has spread. Some swank theater company has reached out to him. I don’t know why he lies about it. In reality, he’s perfectly content to be the star of the Orchardview High theater program, perfectly thrilled to be the big fish in this tiny little pond.