“Is it true that she doesn’t like your friends? Raj said that.”
Zach looks surprised.
“I don’t think she…I mean, she…she doesn’t hate them. But yeah, she thinks they can be a little immature. She thinks I can, too, but fortunately—or unfortunately—she was in love with me.”
She was in love with me. There’s no doubt in his mind, no questions; he knows she loved him.
“So why did she break up with you, then?” And why is she still sad about it?
He runs a hand over his face. “In eighth grade, people hooked up or went out for a couple of days and then broke up and made out with other people. Lindsay wasn’t interested in that kind of relationship, and I wasn’t, either, really. I liked her. I wanted to be with her. I knew that.” Now it feels like something sharp is grating the inside of my chest. I hate the certainty with which he talks about her. “So we were instantly serious. We made plans. We talked about our lives and our families and, well, it was serious….” His voice fades. “But when everyone was starting to really think about college for the first time and Lindsay started looking into college drama programs, it was like she freaked out. She suddenly realized she—we—are sixteen. It hit her how much life would change in a couple of years and how much time she had spent trying to be an adult, trying to be older. How serious her whole life and high school experience had been, how serious we were. And I guess…well, I guess it stifled her.”
After a few seconds, Zach shakes the glazed expression and says, “She was probably right. I mean, what do you know about love or relationships in high school, right?
“But enough about Lindsay,” Zach says. He goes back to lying down, head in my lap.
“Did I mention,” he says, purring a little bit as I start running my hand through his hair again, “that you’re my favorite person? Especially with whatever it is you’re doing right now.”
I tell myself his saying this has nothing to do with the conversation we just finished having about his ex-girlfriend.
“Finger combing is your turn-on? Who would have thought?” I say, and we both laugh.
“How am I doing in the rankings, by the way? Am I anywhere near the top of your list?” he asks. “Or am I still top three?”
“Top two,” I say.
Zach feigns despair. “Who is this mystery person I’m competing with, anyway?”
“William Primrose. Famous violist.”
“Old?” he asks.
“Dead,” I say. It’s not true that Primrose is in my top two favorite people; I’m just being difficult. The truth is, I don’t know how I’d rank the people in my life. Apart from Zach, I mean, and he’s doing much better in the rankings than I let on.
I hit play and we start to watch what I refer to as my New York Experience. Really, it’s New York Stories, an anthology of films made and set in New York by famous directors; the 1954 version of Sabrina; and everything Nora Ephron ever made. “My mom loves them, too,” I explain about my love of Nora Ephron films, “but I think she likes to come off as having superior taste, because she always opts for some schmaltzy foreign stuff even though her eyes are so bad she can’t even read the subtitles.”
I look around to make sure she’s not lurking close by, eavesdropping, and when Zach laughs, my whole lap shakes.
The other thing about the foreign movies is that my mother always remarks that she wants to go to that place, or that she’s heard the food there is excellent, or that Greece has the most perfect weather in the world, but when I ask why she doesn’t just go, then, she’ll say something about how dangerous it is or ask what will happen to my brother and me while she is gone, like we’re four and six instead of sixteen and almost nineteen.
We’re finished with Sabrina and on to New York Stories (payback for all the Cianos, I tell Zach) when Mom does come back downstairs, causing Zach to bolt upright. She acts like she’s looking for something, but it’s obvious she’s spying. She must be satisfied with what she sees because she goes back upstairs and shuts her door.
I go to the kitchen and come back with snacks and cold drinks.
While we’re eating, Zach says, “I read this editorial Ciano wrote last year about hating all those throwback trends that are coming back. Handhelds and Super 8s. Directors are doing that just to get the vintage label.”
“It’s nostalgia,” I say, though I know nothing about handhelds or Super 8.
“That’s exactly Ciano’s point. Nostalgia is a form of pretentiousness.”
“Maybe they just like that style,” I say, offering a counterpoint because I like to hear Zach’s voice. I love how passionate he gets about movies. And horrodies, for that matter. It never occurs to Zach to not be ecstatic about the things he likes.
“But that’s the thing—it’s before their time. You can’t be nostalgic for something you didn’t experience. How do you miss something you don’t remember?”
“You don’t have to have been there to appreciate something, though,” I say, taking a sip of soda.
“Exactly!” Zach says, beaming as if I’ve just made his point. “That’s precisely Ciano’s argument. If you like something, pay homage. Don’t try to cheapen it by, like, re-creating it.”
And even though that wasn’t my point at all, I let the conversation end there because we’re up to some of my favorite parts of the movie. I’d warned Zach earlier that it wasn’t the stories I loved this movie for, but the fact that it was a total New Yorkasm, as Katy puts it.
“So you’re in love with New York and your viola,” Zach says, chewing on a handful of trail mix. “What gives?”
I shrug. “I like the way they make me feel,” I say.
I’ve never really told anyone about this, but when I see Zach looking at me, his eyes attentive and patient, I take a deep breath and decide to tell him about how I’ve sometimes felt like something was missing. Like maybe I wasn’t living the life I was supposed to.
“So when I started finding things that didn’t make me feel that way,” I explain, “I clung to them.”
I hear Zach’s even breath as I continue. “After all the years I’ve played, I know I’m supposed to be a serious musicienne,” I say with awful French affectation. “I’m supposed to be into all these little-known underground classical composers.”
“Underground classical composers?” Zach laughs. “Is that a euphemism? Because they’re all old and dead?”
“No,” I say, laughing too. “I’m supposed to be above liking something as overexposed as Vivaldi’s The Four Seasons, but I love that piece. I love how the seasons change and different instruments, different voices, come in and out. Every season is different, but so vivid and vibrant and full. If my life was a song, I’d want it to sound like that.”
“If your life was a song in New York, you mean,” Zach says, tickling the underside of my foot until I retract it, giggling. “Anyway, I stand by my assessment: in love with New York, in love with your viola.”
And maybe someday with you, I think but don’t say. I know I might be falling for Zach—he makes me feel more alive, and I like everything about being with him—but I haven’t given myself permission to actually be in love with him. I still worry that it will get taken away.
I’ve only known him a few weeks.
Something is happening inside me, but maybe there isn’t a word for it.
And maybe I don’t need one. Not yet.
Still, assured that Mom isn’t coming down the stairs again for a little while, I lean across the couch and kiss him softly once. Then I rest my head on his shoulder, turn up the volume of the TV, and spend the rest of the day educating him on more of the things I love.
AFTER
January
The scanner is essentially a large donut that I slide through on a bed, while staring aimlessly at the plastic white ceiling. It only takes about fifteen minutes. Afterward, Dr. Overton smiles and tells me that I can change back into regular clothes and he’ll meet me and my parents in his office i
n a minute. There are not as many staff members or patients around today because it’s Saturday and the clinic is only open for half the day. I fill out a long questionnaire about my sleeping pattern, or lack thereof, since the doctor is sure it’s related.
My mother fiddles with the hem of her skirt while we wait. “I just hope he’s sure that the machine doesn’t use much radiation.”
Dad sighs, rubbing his eyes. “I’m pretty sure he went to school for that.”
“A lot of good all his credentials are when they let an underage child come into this place and get a procedure. She doesn’t even look nineteen. And why didn’t he do the scan as soon as she came in on Thursday so we could be sure there’s no damage?”
“He said they needed consent, seeing as the machine uses radiation,” Dad says.
“If it’s so much, then we should be concerned.”
With my parents’ back-and-forth, I almost can’t hear the waiting-room music today.
The doctor arrives then, holding not an X-ray but several pieces of paper. “Thanks for your patience.” He smiles before sitting across the desk from us. “Your scan looks perfect. Even with the two procedures, there doesn’t seem to be anything of concern. There are no lesions; there’s no irregular activity. I think at this point we just want to monitor your symptoms—the sleeping, the appearance of the boy, any headaches, that kind of thing. But as far as we can see, your brain looks healthy.”
“Thank God.” Dad sighs again.
“So what’s the problem, then?” Mom asks, not ready to be relieved yet.
“Well,” the doctor says, a thoughtful expression on his face, “it’s hard to say. It’s hard to say if it even is a problem.”
“You said you’ve never had this happen to a patient,” Mom says.
“That’s true.” The doctor nods. “I don’t know if you know much of our history, but Overton started primarily to treat post-traumatic stress disorder. One of the key symptoms of PTSD is re-experiencing the traumatic event, whether through flashbacks or spontaneous memories. When you think about it, reliving things that have happened is not just associated with severe trauma; it’s something we all do, and depending on how we are built, we can do that to different, sometimes clinical extents. So when it becomes a source of distress or impairment, that’s when we treat it. We target the memory itself.”
I can’t help myself—I have to interrupt. “Okay, but Rory wasn’t just one memory. He was alive for eight months. How did you erase all that time if I still remember things from that year, from around the time he’d have been alive?”
“Good question. The answer is a little technical, so bear with me,” he says. “You see, every memory has a focal point. The procedure completely removes all memories where the person you want to erase is the focal point—where your primary attention was directed toward that person when the memory was formed. In memories where the person we’re erasing is part of the background, a secondary figure, the memory simply gets a little hazy. For example, you might remember what was said, but not who said it. Or you’ll remember the gist of an event but not specific details about it.”
This explains why my memories around eleven are so hazy and vague. Why I don’t remember my mother being pregnant. Why I don’t remember arguments between my parents after my younger brother died or them taking down his pictures. I only remember that suddenly things were changing and I couldn’t wrap my head around why. Not all the memories of my life in the time frame surrounding Rory’s life are absent; some are just cloudy.
Dr. Overton continues to speak now. “My father believes—always has—that memory is like a string of DNA. Linear building blocks, linked to one another to form an entire molecule. He’s going to be very interested in your case.”
We gape at him as he keeps talking. “My belief—no empirical evidence, mind you—has always been different from my father’s. I’m not sure memories are particularly distinct. One common theory is that memory is not localized in the brain but distributed among various neural circuits. Which means that even when we are able to isolate specific events, specific memories, the other components accompanying them, such as spatial recognition, emotional memory, or even implicit memory, as the case may be…”
It’s only now that he has the sense to look up and realize he’s lost us. “Let’s try that again,” he says with a light chuckle. “I like chocolate granola bars way more than is good for me,” he says, pointing to a crumpled wrapper beside his computer. “Obviously, I remember them. I have a stored and existing recollection, a database of chocolate granola bars.”
I shoot my parents a skeptical look. Are they following this?
“And,” Dr. Overton continues, “if I wanted to forget granola bars, I could splice out every instance of ever having had one. Every time I tasted one, every time I saw one. Every memory where a granola bar is the focal point, and every memory where it is part of the background—everything. And theoretically, I should not know what a granola bar is.”
None of us speak, but he goes on.
“The possibility stands, though, that if I were ever to taste a chocolate granola bar again, even after the splicing, it might feel familiar. And it’s not a failure of the technique or equipment or my mind or any nameable source; it’s just one conceivable way the brain works. So I might forget the instances—all instances—of eating a granola bar, but perhaps not the experience.” He looks right at me. “I think this might be what has happened in your case, Addie. You’ve forgotten every specific instance you shared with this boy, but not the experience. The million-dollar question is, Why now? My first guess would have been that the accident played a role—”
“I told you it started before,” I say, and Dr. Overton nods.
“Right. Well, that leaves us with a question: What could have happened to trigger your Memory?”
The room is silent, and I can hear Dr. Overton’s and my parents’ minds whirring at the possibilities.
For once, I think I might know the answer.
On the night I first saw the boy—before the bus crash—some of the music at the concert made me feel something I couldn’t place, something that felt like waking up.
But there’s no way I’m going to tell them that.
I don’t know why, but I think all this is because of a piece of music.
BEFORE
Mid-September
“Why does violin music always sound so sad?” Zach asks, glancing around the gym of Lyndale Community College, which tonight is a makeshift auditorium. Mrs. Dubois sent out an email to all her students, like she always does when there is a music event happening close by. She saw me from across the gym when Zach and I entered and was beaming and waving so wildly I could almost hear her bracelets clinking from all the way over here. As usual, I am the only one of her students who actually came.
I shift in one of the plastic chairs that line the whole back of the gym. “Classical music isn’t always sad. It’s expressive.”
“…-ly sad?” Zach says, but he’s grinning at me, his eyes playful. I smile back. My hand is wrapped in his, our fingers tangled around each other’s in a way that feels natural but still sends an inexplicable tremor along my arm, then throughout my body.
Ever since I asked him two nights ago whether he wanted to come with me, I’ve wavered between regret and doubt.
Zach isn’t the biggest fan of classical music, and though I wish it would, a community college orchestra certainly isn’t going to change his mind.
But I know what is most important to him—movies, horrodies—and I want him to know what’s most important to me.
The concert is two hours long, and even though the orchestra is relatively unpolished, they are good. I can tell they’ve been playing together a long time.
The good news is that Zach doesn’t fall asleep. The bad news is that he shifts uncomfortably every now and then, trying hard to be attentive but failing. I feel the slightest twinge of disappointment. I know he doesn’t have to like the
same things I do, or even understand them—and he is trying—but it still makes me sad. Especially when the performers start on the second-to-last piece on the program. It’s Bach’s Orchestral Suite in D Major. I’ve heard the most famous movement on its own before—the one later arranged as “Air on the G String”—but hearing it in the context of the whole suite, the way the story was meant to be told, takes my breath away.
So I do something I never thought I’d do.
I break one of Mrs. Dubois’s cardinal rules of concert etiquette. I lean up and whisper into Zach’s ear, tugging slightly on his hair to bring his face closer to mine. “What do you think of this song?”
“It’s, uh…” Zach seems to search for words. “Very good. Very violin-y.”
I giggle, steal a quick glance around to make sure we’re not annoying people with our whispers, and then say, “It reminds me of a boy who likes Ciano movies, and a girl who likes his puff.”
I swear his smile starts at his eyes, and if we weren’t in public, I’d have no choice but to kiss the crap out of him.
But even Zach, his closeness, his smile, can’t eclipse the music. The melody is so hopeful and warm, deliberate but unsure. It’s true that it makes me think of me and Zach. Not because anything about it sounds like us, but because I decide it does. I picked it right now, this moment. I close my eyes and picture us ducking under the arch of the cello’s trembling string. Crouching, lingering. Who will think to look for us here?
The long-drawn-out violin notes are how long it takes for breath to rise from the base of my lungs and out of my body when Zach is around. And the bop of his hair, his cheerful twinkling eyes, they’re hidden inside this piece, too.
When my parents separated, music became my safe place. Where I stowed pieces of myself I couldn’t express or bear for anyone to see. Everybody’s parents broke up. It was as run-of-the-mill as losing your baby teeth, being picked last in gym class, or getting a growth spurt at eleven. You were supposed to shake it off and keep going if it happened to you. When it happened to you. But the pain at the thought of two separate rooms and two toothbrushes and two birthday cards didn’t feel so collective. It felt so distinctly mine that it made the hairs on my body stand up when I thought about it too hard, stung the back of my eyes and made my throat close up.
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