Cait

by R. N. Snow

  “Your first aider who happens to live two streets away was cycling on your street. He asked what happened and introduced himself, saying that he is a certified first aider, and if some of the pills are not gotten out of you, your organs will shut down.

  “So they let him, and he pumped most of the pills, which luckily were encapsulated, out of you. Then your aunt put you in her car and headed for the hospital. You have heard the rest.”

  Sad, sad story. And the pointlessness of it all. But I’ve not been told the name of the mystery person who took the first step to saving my life.

  “Yeah, I know the rest. Who is my first aider?”

  “Jeremy Reynolds.”

  “Huh?”

  “Jeremy Reynolds.”

  The adonis I’ve been crushing on is the one who saved my life before the medics! My heart is doing a skitter skitter boom in my chest. But why didn’t he tell me when we met? Suddenly, I know why. He didn’t tell you because unless he’s an obnoxious douche, you should have been the one to bring it up in appreciation. But I didn’t know. My gosh! And he even left that book for me. He must be thinking that I’m a horrible person indeed. I have to—

  “Miss Grove?” Dr. Allisus’ voice snaps me out of my disturbing thoughts.

  “Sorry, doc. Don’t mind me.”

  “Are you alright?”

  “Perfectly alright.”

  “Fine, because you need to be, to hear the rest.”

  Throw anything at me, doc. I’m a rock now.

  Setting his fingers together on top his desk, he continues, “Your aunt did not just have an accident. She was actually propelled out of the windscreen like a projectile. As a result of the urgency of the situation, she apparently forgot to strap on her seat belt. When she was ejected from the car, she went headfirst onto the coal tar. And her brain got extremely damaged as a result. Miss Grove, the odds are against her. She is not getting any better. We have not pronounced her brain dead yet, because we’re still keeping watch, but . . . there’s a less than fifty percent chance of her getting better. But then a little chance is better than no chance. However, we promise to try our best and exhaust all options to save her.”

  “Thank you, Doctor. You’re too kind.”

  “I took an oath. I have to keep it,” he says, and then continues, “How’s your therapy with Dr. Salesberg going?”

  “It’s going great actually. I find it easy talking to her, and I feel better after each session.”

  “Yeah, she told me that she sees you getting all your memory back soon.”

  “I hope so.”

  “You will. Alright, Miss Grove, my patients are waiting. Do have a nice day.”

  “Thank you for your time, doc.”

  I leave his office, take a lift all the way down, and walk out of the building. Winchers Hospital has a large parking lot, and there are dozens of cars parked in it. While some people are enjoying their lives, others are in pain or dying. The unfairness of life is so infuriating.

  I am tired of looking around, so I leave the compound and walk a few steps to the bus stop. My wristwatch says seventeen minutes past two. I wait for the bus, which comes ten minutes later. During the ride home, I am as still as a statue and very silent. In my head, the words of Dr. Allisus resound.

  I don’t want to think about any of the options apart from the one that sees Aunt Des out of the hospital bed and back home. So, I push thoughts about her out of my head.

  Then, there’s Jeremy. Sweet, sweet Jeremy. So, he saved me. I knew that there was something about him. I still think that I’ve seen him somewhere before, and not because of his sister. I’ve been trying to remember where I’ve seen him before. Oh well! Whether I remember or not, nothing changes the fact that I like him—no, scratch that—that I’m seriously crushing on him. At least, now I have an excuse to look for him to say my thanks and spend some time talking with him.

  Nobody is downstairs when I come home. I go into the kitchen to find something to eat because I’m terribly famished. There is chicken broth in the pot. I microwave some bread from the fridge, dish out some broth, and then settle down to have dinner. Dinner takes me about an hour because I’m ruminating on different things while eating.

  What if I had not taken those pills?

  What if Aunt Des hadn’t come around then?

  What if nobody had noticed until it was too late?

  What if Jeremy had not come along?

  What if I had not been abysmally stupid?

  What if Mom and Dad were still here?

  What if . . .

  Okay, the questions are not helping any. These are things that have happened, which I cannot do anything about. I can only hope that things get better.

  So, after berating myself, I finish up my food, lock up the doors, and trudge upstairs. My room offers welcoming comfort, and I’m tempted to just crawl under the duvet and sleep, but I am coming from the hospital and a shower is necessary. So, instead of lying down, I strip and enter the bathroom. In the bathroom, with cold water running down my hair, I stare at my scars, the several proofs of self-harm. Apparently, I’ve been suffering from depression for a very long time. I cannot remember all details of course. Hazel told me little about me after some persuasion. I recall what she said.

  According to her, I would skip classes, claiming to have a headache or phantom fever. Mood swings became my best friend; I was happy one minute and very sad the next. Nobody took much notice at first, until the first time I slashed my wrists at twelve. I was rushed to the hospital and later diagnosed with depression. I was put on medication, but that obviously did not help much, as I continued trying to bleed to death every few years. That was not all. I was obsessed with self-harm, and the scars on different parts of my body are a painful reminder. I once put a lighter under my arm and let it burn until I passed out. Aunt Des once considered putting me in a mental facility for a while but, for some reason, changed her mind.

  Sharp objects were kept away from me, and Hazel took it upon herself to conduct searches in my room, whenever I left it, even for a few minutes. Months to the day I popped those pills, which was my first time, by the way, I seemed to be getting better. There were little or no mood swings; I was doing fine. Everyone thought that finally depression had left my life. But then, I proved them wrong. Funny enough, two weeks to go that day, I was scheduled to stop taking anti-depressants. Life has its way of playing cruel tricks.

  On the spur of the moment, I decide to shampoo my hair. It’s been two weeks since the last time and washing it now feels good. I should perhaps color it, but I’ve not yet decided on a color. I think my hair is one of my best features. It’s so full and grows very fast.

  I come out from the bathroom and put on my nightgown. Then I pick up the diary and try guessing the code for the hundredth time. Not surprisingly, it doesn’t budge. Sighing, I drop it and climb into bed, and close my eyes.

  And just like that, I get another flashback.

  There is loud music blasting from the stereo downstairs. Six-year-old me creeps out to find out what’s going on. I open the door, and I’m about to go out, when Hazel, who I sleep in the same room with, whispers my name.

  “Shh,” I tell her, putting my index finger to my lips and motioning her to follow me. She gets out of bed too, and we tiptoe downstairs.

  Mom is dancing wildly to the music, her long brown hair swinging from side to side. She is drinking from a bottle at intervals, as she dances. We’re inches closer, but she does not notice us still. Not until Hazel cups her hands over her mouth and screams, “Mom!”

  Immediately, Mom snaps her head to look at us and hurriedly wipes her eyes. She’s been crying, but she doesn’t want us to see. “Come, my darlings, come.” She grabs us and starts swinging us around to the beat.

  I don’t know how many minutes this goes on for, but Tyler soon comes down and joins u
s. Mom is screaming out her lungs to the song. I’m getting dizzy from the merry-go-round dance, but I still hold on to Mom and Hazel’s hands.

  Later on, the song stops and Mom flops onto the couch. The three of us run to her.

  “Mom, what’s wrong?” Hazel asks, while we look up at her. I notice that her eyes are red, either from crying or drinking or both.

  “It’s nothing, my darlings. Don’t worry about me.”

  “But you look ill Mom,” Hazel continues.

  “It’s just a little headache. It’ll stop soon. Now listen up, my babies. I love the three of you very much. Don’t let anyone tell you or make you think otherwise. Life doesn’t always turn out the way we want or expect it to, and sometimes, we have to make do. Be kind to people; you do not know who you’ll be indebted to tomorrow. I’ve made a lot of mistakes, and I wish I could turn back the hands of time. But you, my babies, are not one of those mistakes. I have never regretted being blessed with any of you. Weigh your options, before making choices. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Mom,” we chorus.

  “Now, go back to bed. It’s late.”

  We make our way to our rooms. Hazel and I climb into bed and lie down.

  “Hazel? Hazel?”

  Hazel is crying. I don’t understand why there’s a lot of crying going on this night.

  “Hazel, what’s wrong?”

  “It’s Mom and Dad. They’ve been fighting too much lately. And Mom is not happy anymore. I’ve caught her crying a lot of times. And she drinks all the time.”

  “Oh! But they love each other. They always tell us that. Why would they fight if they love each other?”

  “I don’t know. I just want them to always be together.”

  “Me too.”

  “Goodnight Cait.”

  “Goodnight Hazel.”

  Like the last time, the flashback ends as suddenly as it had begun. I open my eyes as another piece of the puzzle falls into place.

  So, from the bits and pieces I’ve gotten so far, Mom and Dad started having issues after my fifth birthday. Maybe Dad cheated and Mom found out. That could be the only reason, right? Then, Mom died and Dad went away, both of them leaving their children behind.

  But really, if our parents really did not regret having us, why does Dad never check up on us? Even if Mom could leave us, why did Dad do so too? Why bring children into the world to abandon them before they find their feet? What kind of parents do that? My kind of parents, of course.

  No matter how nasty the picture that is forming looks, it’s better than being lost. Since my siblings are being secretive about everything under the guise of not wanting to upset me, at least until I’m fully better, I’ll just keep hoping for more flashbacks and clues that will help me remember. Fuck memory loss.

  I fall asleep with my troubled thoughts, and I have another dream. It’s the same one about the boy and the girl. This time around, the boy and the girl are eating in a restaurant. There are candles on the table. The boy says something funny, and the girl throws her head back to laugh. For the first time, I see her face. And realize in shock that I’m her. The boy stands up to make a toast. It’s Jeremy. This is the first time their faces are showing. He talks about his girlfriend, who is seated before him, and how she’s the best thing that ever happened to him. There are other customers in the restaurant, and they all clap as he sits down.

  I wake up drenched in cold sweat. The luminous hands of my wall clock say that the time is five thirty-four. It’s the dawn of a new day. A new day filled with more questions.

  So, I think that this is what happened. That day, as Jeremy was pumping those pills out of me, I saw his face and it was subconsciously imprinted in my brain. That is why I thought I had seen him before the bookstore. And that is why I had been having dreams with him in them.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  It’s Friday, the last day of the school week, and I’m already looking forward to the end of school for today. During free period, Georgia, who insists people call her Georgie, engages me in a conversation. I tell her as little as I can about myself. She’s nice, and that’s more reason why I shouldn’t tell her much. Knowing her, her actions towards me would start becoming empathic, sympathetic even. I ask her about herself, and she is very free with me.

  “My dad is in the oil and gas sector. He’s an engineer, and Mom is a hotel manager. I’m not boasting, but I can say that they do everything to make sure that their children live a privileged life. We pay them back by being very well behaved,” she smiles. She has a beautiful smile, just like her brother.

  “How many siblings do you have?” I ask. Somehow, I am interested in finding out as much as I can about her family, and possibly about Jeremy.

  “Three. A sister and two brothers. Ronald, the first, is at university. He is studying to become a petrochemical engineer, after my dad. Jane is a pre-medical student. She’s the genius in our family. Jeremy is the third. He’s in twelfth grade here. And yours sincerely is the baby of the house. Nobody wants to admit that I’m not a little child anymore.”

  I laugh at that. She opens the waist bag she always carries about with her and pulls out a small purse. From the purse, she fishes out a picture. “Here. Take a look.”

  It’s their family picture. Mr. and Mrs. Reynolds are sitting on a chair, while their four children flank them on both sides. It is easy to see where the ginger-colored hair comes from. Their mom’s hair is fiery red and very full. She is what I would describe as an attractive woman. Not particularly beautiful, but with striking features. Absently, I wonder how many natural redheads exist. Mr. Reynolds is the one who gave his children their good looks. His jet-black hair is cut crew style, and he’s staring ahead smugly.

  Ronald Reynolds stands taller than the rest of his siblings. He is smiling toothily at the camera. It seems that he’s no stranger to the gym. Underneath his T-shirt, his defined biceps can be seen.

  Jane is curvy and busty, without an ounce of fat showing—many a man’s dream. But unlike most voluptuous women, she seems unaware of her beauty. She has no makeup on. Her gown is the only thing that indicates that she is a little bit aware of her looks. It’s a body-hug pink number. A pair of square-shaped spectacles are perched on her nose. Behind them, her eyes look so wise, I am reminded of an owl. She really looks like the brainy person she is said to be.

  Jeremy, sweet-looking Jeremy, is as handsome in the picture as he is in real life. His freckles are popping out, and his hands are placed on his mom’s shoulders. I assume that he’s his mom’s favorite. He’s grinning like a Cheshire cat. Even from the picture, that smile makes my heart skip a beat.

  Georgia looks younger here. And slimmer, more like thin. Now, the body in the picture has morphed into that of a slender female. She is wearing a beautiful white ruffly dress with knee-high boots and is pouting at the camera.

  I make all these observations in less than three minutes. Then I turn to Georgia. “You say your brother goes to school here? How come I’ve never seen him in school?”

  “Oh!” She is laughing now. What’s so funny? Did I ask a silly question?

  “Don’t mind me. I’m laughing because I’ve gotten similar questions about him. A few of my friends when they got to know me better, doubted that I had another brother. Jeremy is kind of a recluse. Not that he doesn’t socialize with people, but he’s the last person you’ll expect to see in a party or club. He has only a handful of friends, and he’s not even close with them. Apart from school hours, he’s either cycling, watching documentaries, or reading books.”

  “I know about the book part,” I blurt out, without even thinking.

  “But . . . how?” She gazes at me with new interest.

  “Uhm . . . I . . . at the bookstore,” I say, red-faced. “I was reaching for a novel the same time he was, and it was funny. We were on opposite sides of the bookshelf. And it was only one
copy left. He let me have it.”

  “Wow! He let you have a book that he already had his hands on. He must have really liked you to do that. Jeremy never even borrows out his books to people, not to talk of letting go of the last copy of something he already has his hand on.”

  I blush more, and Georgia notices, because she says, “You’re blushing. Wait! You’re blushing! Do you have a crush on my brother, Cait?”

  Even if I wanted to deny it, I can’t raise my eyes to meet hers. “You do. I don’t mind. In fact, I’m happy about it. Gosh, you’ll make a cool girlfriend to him. The both of you will—”

  “Georgiaaaa.” I stop her mid-chatter.

  “Mmmm?”

  “I’m not Jeremy’s girlfriend. I just like him, that’s all.”

  “But you won’t say no if he asks, right?”

  Silence.

  “Right?”

  “Shit. Right! Just shut up about it. If he likes me, he’ll let me know.”

  “How will he let you know when the both of you never even talk to or see each other? I can hasten the process,” she says, rubbing both hands together.

  “Georgia!”

  “Okay, alright. End of discussion. Anyway, I’ve never invited you to my house. I want you to visit. Maybe tomorrow. What do you say?”

  We both know that this is another way of her trying to set me up with her brother, but we pretend like the invitation is totally natural.

  “I don’t know your house.”

  “I’ll give you the address.” She tears a piece of paper from her notebook and scribbles on it. “Here.”

  I take it and look at it. I know the general direction because Dr. Allisus told me, but I’m not lying when I say that I don’t know her house. I’m not telling her how her brother saved my life, especially if he didn’t tell her about it.

  “Alright. I’ll try and make it.” I put the piece of paper into the side of my shoulder bag. Of course, I’ll more than try; I’ll go over there on Saturday. After all, I don’t have anything else lined up.