False Memory

by Meli Raine

  Search online for Lily Thornton and you get results like:

  * * *

  Woman makes medical history

  Miracle coma awakening

  Tragedy turned to inspiration

  Family’s prayers are answered

  * * *

  You’ve seen the stories. I don’t have to recount them. And until I was a victim, I read them, too. Sometimes I cried, the emotion was so strong, so real. I felt so bad for those people.

  And so good for them that they did it.

  Do you know what it’s like to rebuild yourself in a glass fishbowl? What it feels like to recover nerve sensation while being photographed? How the wrong flash can send you down a seizure rabbithole?

  Humanity is inspiring, yes. Feeling connected to another person’s extraordinary triumph over adversity is meaningful.

  But not at the expense of my own humanity.

  When I was bedridden, I was an object. A surface. A collection of parts to manage.

  Now I’m a commodity.

  “Lily?” Rhonda’s staring at me. “Absence seizure? Again?”

  “What? No. Two months.” I’m trying to say it’s been two months since my last.

  “I know. You just looked spaced out.”

  Duff’s brow furrows as he does lunges to my right.

  “Fine,” I snap. “I’m fine.”

  “Haven’t heard ‘fine’ in a long time,” Duff mutters.

  “Did I talk to you?”

  “Whoa!”

  I go silent. Knowing Romeo is here, somewhere in the hallway, has completely changed my existence. How I breathe. How I move. The way my thoughts connect to my emotions and my body is recalibrating in real time, with no room for error. This wasn’t on my list of expected daily tasks.

  One p.m.: Face the man who tried to kill me.

  And pretend I don’t remember.

  Duff has been assigned to me most of the time since I left the hospital. He’s not here for a workout. The joining in part is extra. I assume he does it because he’s on the clock and why not?

  But I’ve paid a price having him here, helping me out.

  I’ve started to trust him.

  Worse.

  I’ve started to like him.

  That is a luxury people like me just can’t afford.

  “Lunges,” Rhonda says, giving me kettle bells, the one on my left side only a pound. I start. Duff watches me covertly. I can tell.

  Because I’m watching him back.

  Have you ever had a secret? The kind that burns bright inside you, blazing like a star, held back inside the confines of your skin? A secret that presses against all the outer edges of yourself until it changes the shape of you?

  That pressure feels so good.

  Until it doesn’t. And then you feel like you’re going to burst.

  Here’s the difference between those kinds of secrets and mine:

  They aren’t potentially fatal.

  They feel fatal, but they aren’t really.

  Mine is.

  If I tell Duff the truth, I die.

  If I don’t tell him the truth, I explode.

  That’s the other thing about secrets: they are never fair.

  Lying like this separates me from everyone else. I’m alone inside myself, as isolated as I was for those fourteen months I don’t remember. The self inside went somewhere that whole time. Right? I didn’t die.

  But I sure didn’t live.

  Where did I go?

  Wherever it was, I was completely alone. Those months–more than an entire year–don’t exist for me. I calculated it out: four percent of my life disappeared. It slipped through my fingers like something solid that melted and dripped off my skin, evaporating into nothingness.

  The nothingness that was my entire existence for fourteen months.

  Because of a man who pointed a gun at the back of my head and moved his finger.

  Volition is neutral. We can use it for good or evil.

  But who are you when you don’t even possess volition?

  Who was I for those fourteen months?

  It’s not who I am now.

  Chapter 16

  Sweat pours down my face, tickling the skin behind my ear. I avoid wiping it off because I hate touching the lumpy reminder of my gunshot.

  “More!” Rhonda says. “Tighten the core. Draw the strength from your abs into your arm.”

  The first time she told me that, two months ago, I cried. The words made no sense. My body couldn’t comprehend, much less my mind.

  Just like it cannot fathom what I see walking into the gym right now.

  Romeo.

  Not looking at the door is so hard, but I can’t. I can’t. Having him greet me is one thing. Submission is key. He has to think that’s all I’m capable of: reaction.

  Not action.

  Response.

  Not recall.

  Fooling people into thinking I’m less than I am has turned out to be easy on the outside, corrosive on the inside. My inner structures might wear away drop by drop, acid reaching the core, but all that matters is the outer shell.

  It’s all anyone really looks at.

  “Lily,” Romeo calls out. “Looking good.”

  I glance up, jut my chin like Duff does when he acknowledges someone, and look at a spot above Romeo’s head so I give the appearance of acknowledgment.

  His crooked smile greets me.

  “Your mom told me you were coming along. How’s the memory?”

  Joviality as a cover for evil has a long history among men who do the unspeakable. I shrug and move to the cables, where I load the weights with my good hand and pause, giving Rhonda a questioning look.

  “Two point five and ten,” she orders.

  I groan.

  “You can do it.”

  Duff drops the sandbags he’s dragging and jogs over to Romeo. Part of me dies. It’s the part that has spent the last six months softening my borders. Letting the boundaries around myself be about something other than tightly strung survival. With Romeo gone, I’ve been able to breathe. Not deep breaths. Nothing close to meditative inhales with jowling exhales that give our air energy.

  That’s all frou-frou bullshit anyhow, Dad says.

  No. I’ve been able to heal without the viper fangs of my killer constantly in the same room. Duff is still an unknown entity, but in my situation, unknown is better than the devil I do know.

  And speaking of that devil, here he comes.

  People like him don’t back off and they never back down. Ever. Not until they’re satisfied.

  Which means I have to figure out how to meet his needs.

  Screwed up, right? The victim spends all her time reading the perp, reassuring him, making sure he’s never off balance, never tipped off, never suspicious. I’m a battered woman in a relationship I never wanted to enter.

  And I have no way out.

  This is my reality.

  The surge of adrenaline that takes over lets me lift, the weak arm not even screaming. Dysfunction without pain is its own form of hell. I’d welcome having muscles that tear and rip and burn. That would be awesome.

  Instead, I get a body part that is one level above being an inanimate object.

  “Killer!” Rhonda shouts at me while she works on massaging something into Clem’s hairless calf.

  My eyes try to move to look at Romeo. I jerk them back, the effort Sisyphean.

  But I do it.

  “I’ve never seen you lift two and a half with that weak arm, Lily. You’re doing it, girl.” Rhonda offers me a towel and gestures towards my water. “Drink. Did that hurt?”

  “No.”

  “Nerve endings are fickle.”

  “So are women!” Clem shouts.

  We don’t even react. Give Clem the wrong kind of attention and you’ll get a raging case of misguided flirtation back.

  “You okay?” Rhonda’s back to my emotions.

  “Fine.”

  “You seem upset.”


  “I never know what I am, Rhonda.”

  “Fair enough. How’s the therapy?”

  “I’m here. In therapy.”

  “I meant with the psychologist.”

  My neck feels tight. “Oh. That. It’s fine.”

  “You’ve been going?”

  “It’s–I don’t think he was a good fit.”

  “Was? You’ve gone through three psychologists in three months, Lily.”

  “It’s not like buying a car, Rhonda. You don’t test drive a few and then settle in for the next ten years of driving.”

  “Actually, long-term trauma recovery is exactly like that.”

  Long-term. Trauma. I hate these words.

  My nose fills with a sudden blast of fresh roses that aren’t really there. This happens sometimes, where my senses get jumbled and confused. Memory comes back to me in the form of a tingling arm, a sudden flash of light, a scent that reminds me of the past.

  Emotion swells like a balloon in my chest as I miss the flower shop, miss greeting customers, miss the tacky feel of florist’s tape all over my fingerpads, miss the normalcy I never appreciated.

  My past self was so naïve.

  And that’s how my present self should be, too.

  Grief sucks all the oxygen out of my lungs at the exact moment that Romeo and Duff approach me, the onslaught of their presence and my depletion too much. Being hollow around them is no big deal.

  Being emotional? That’s not safe. Can’t pretend when I can’t control myself.

  Rhonda frowns at Romeo, giving him a once-over that makes it clear she doesn’t like strangers in her PT room. “Rhonda Wei. Who are you?”

  “Romeo Czaky. I’m part of Lily’s security team.”

  I stare at the towel in my hand and try not to scream.

  “Never seen you before. New?”

  “Old.” Romeo chuckles, the sound making all the muscles along my inner thighs curl into fists. “I’ve been on her detail for a while, but I was off for a few months.”

  A light bulb clicks on, her expression changing. “You were with Duff when the shooting happened.”

  Romeo’s head tilts in acknowledgment of Rhonda’s bluntness. “Yes.”

  “Good thing you were both there. Lily came damn close to dying. The fast 911 call made all the difference.”

  “The outcome could have been very different,” Romeo says, nodding.

  “You working on figuring out who the bastard is that shot her?”

  “It’s all I think about,” Romeo replies, looking me over, reading me like he’s a scanner and I’m a walking, talking QR code.

  Duff watches the two of them talk, his face neutral as always, ignoring the sweat pouring off him. In my complete overwhelm, I haven’t paid a bit of attention to him.

  “Medicine ball?” he asks me.

  “What?”

  “Medicine ball?” Duff grabs the lumpy blue sack of weight off a rack. “Catch.”

  This is a silly game we play. For the last few weeks, I’ve had no problem opening my arms and making a decent grab. Today, instinct makes me open my arms, but I pull back at the last second and let him throw it right at my belly.

  Oof.

  It hits me just so, the curved edge of the not-quite-sphere catching the top of my hip bone. I’ve lost weight since Before, and that makes me less steady. Add in ataxia and all the gross motor problems from being, oh, I don’t know, shot in the head by the man standing next to Duff, and I’m not exactly stable.

  In any way, shape, or form.

  The pain rolls over my core muscles with an exquisite precision that feels divine. I couldn’t have planned a better break from the high-stakes cortisol bath my body is swimming in. The soup of terror washes off me as real pain replaces the imagined horror of being found out.

  My ass cracks against the floor, softened only by the weight pads underneath me.

  My vision fizzles and bursts, fireworks and scotomas turning everything I see into a carnival of lightning bolts and strange colors.

  “Shit. Lily!” Duff grunts, bending down so fast, so gracefully, the panic in his eyes making me feel strangely comforted. “I thought you could catch.”

  “Guess not,” I say, bending back to rest my head and spine against the mat. If Romeo thinks I’m weaker than I really am, I have a better chance.

  A chance at what? I’m not sure.

  Duff’s touch is careful, his hand on my arm, eyes crawling up and down my torso. “Where did I hit you?”

  Navel. Hole in belly. Tickles. “Belly button,” I say, hating the pause between the image in my head and the word out of my mouth. I do this. A lot. The occupational therapist calls it aphasia. Where I know what I want to say but the signals get crossed.

  It’s supposed to get better.

  But just because something’s supposed to improve in the future doesn’t mean the present isn’t annoying.

  My shirt’s pulled up slightly, a few inches of skin showing between the waistband of my workout tights and the cotton hem of the tee. Scars from tubes have healed enough to be whispers on my skin.

  “I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to do that.”

  “I know, Duff. Thanks.”

  Romeo watches me the entire time. “Need help getting up?” he asks.

  “I got her,” Duff says gruffly, pulling me to a sitting position. “Let’s get you standing up.”

  “I’m a little dizzy.”

  I’m also lying.

  “Bee told me you were improving rapidly,” Romeo says, his face a beautiful imitation of sincere concern.

  “The doctors say progress isn’t linear,” Rhonda tells him. “And it’s true. No big deal, Lily. Just brush it off and do what you can.”

  How about I lie here and blink three times and make Romeo disappear?

  I actually tried that when I was in the hospital. Didn’t work. So much for modern witchcraft.

  Head down, I sit there for a while until my performance seems to have satisfied any part of Romeo that might think I’m more capable than this. Moving slowly, I stand with Duff’s help. His arm goes around my waist and he pulls me gently into him, encouraging me to use him as a crutch. We’re hot and sweaty and I’m half out of my mind with the scramble to lie, and for a split second, I feel like I’m normal again. Safe. Happy.

  Real.

  And then poof! It disappears, followed by a massive case of the shakes.

  “Lily,” he says low and deep, his concern level deeper than I’ve ever heard it, voice tinged with something more. Learning to read people and sounds from my hospital bed for so many months made me a master. I’m not mistaking it.

  “I’m f-f-fine,” I chatter, jaw moving without my permission. “J-j-just a little cold.”

  “Body temperature dysregulation isn’t good,” Rhonda says, pulling out a phone. “I’m getting a doctor down here.”

  “No! I’m fine.”

  “You’re not fine, Lily,” Duff says, eyes tormented.

  “I’m just cold.”

  He wraps a big towel around me, arms securing it in place, the press of his athletic, protective body against mine purely professional. His eyes meet Rhonda’s. “Do we need an ambulance?”

  “I’m right here! Ask me!” I demand.

  “Does this happen often?” Romeo asks with fake concern. I know what he’s really asking.

  Is Lily upset because I’m here? Does she remember the truth?

  “Yes,” Rhonda says honestly. “But it hasn’t happened for a few weeks.”

  “Because I’m fine!”

  “Repeating it won’t make it true,” Rhonda says.

  “Denying it doesn’t make it false, either!”

  This is the moment where I have to admit to myself that what started as a fake weakness has turned into a full-blown panic attack. My nervous system can’t take it. Deep breaths help. Ignoring Romeo doesn’t. By the time I’ve gone through five inhales and exhales, I’m chattering less, and now there’s a physician’s assistant sta
nding next to Rhonda, heads huddled in worry.

  About me.

  “Could hitting her with the medicine ball have done this?” Duff asks them.

  “No. Maybe.” The PA, a guy named John, frowns. “I think you just need rest.”

  Rhonda looks at Duff. “As soon as we're done, get her home. Make sure Bee or Tom is there. Maybe even Gwennie or Bowie would be enough. She needs to get her nervous system back to stasis.”

  “I’ll take her,” Romeo offers.

  Bile rises in my throat, the burn coming whether I like it or not.

  “Gentian’s got you on something else,” Duff barks back. “I made this mess. I’ll clean it up.”

  Mess.

  That’s all I am to him.

  A mess.

  “I’ll clean myself up,” I huff, putting the weights away, hands shaking so badly, it’s obvious. Acutely aware that all eyes are on me, I create an imaginary forcefield around my body. We can’t actually create barriers between ourselves and the world with our minds, but I come as close as possible as I put my equipment away, roll the therapy ball against the wall, and stalk off.

  This workout is done.

  Rhonda’s on my heels. “What is going on? John’s here to evaluate you.”

  “I need fresh air and a change of scenery.”

  “You’re that upset over Duff throwing the ball when you weren’t ready?”

  “You think that’s why I’m upset?” My voice is high, thin, and panicked, and I realize I’m seconds away from confessing the truth.

  I’ve become a danger to myself.

  But not in the way most medical professionals would think.

  “I don’t know. How about you use your big-girl words and tell me what’s really going on, Lily?”

  “I’m tired.”

  “You’re always tired, but you’re not always like this.”

  “Maybe I’ve hit my wall, okay?” Injecting a little bit of whining seems to make her let down her guard. “I really am tired. And my bad arm isn’t getting better.”

  “Functionality is up.”

  Not enough to escape Romeo.

  “Not enough,” I say, the words echoing my thoughts.

  “You’re working at capacity, Lily. Maybe even beyond. Sometimes I want to pull you back.”