Erased

by Margaret Chatwin

  I’m stunned.

  I know I should be telling her to stop because I don’t even know her, but I can’t because she smells too damn good and . . . yeah . . . she’s already making things happen to me. So I stand there, like a love struck puppy and let her continue.

  She steps in closer, pressing into me, and when I feel her breasts on my chest, it steals the air right out of my lungs.

  She’s going to knock me off balance and I’m going to fall into the open hole behind me that is my locker. That’s what I tell myself anyway; to justify the reason I place my hands low on her hips and fuse my body with hers.

  I’m kissing her in return and my seventeen-year-old hormones are in a total uproar, when a male teacher’s voice breaks in.

  “This isn’t the backseat of the car on Kelly’s Peak, people, break it up.”

  My eyes fly open and my heart starts to pound, but this girl I’m still touching isn’t so shocked. She pulls out of our kiss slowly, and as she does, while her eyes are still closed, something strange happens. A mental picture flashes in my mind. I see her face, eyes closed like they are now, except they’re squeezed tightly. Her head is thrown back and her mouth is open and she’s groaning. It’s almost like she’s in pain, but . . . no, it’s pleasure.

  Holy shit! I think I remember her.

  I stare hard at her, pushing my messed up mind as hard as I can for more details. But with the teacher standing there, and the pressure on, nothing more comes and the mental image I did have, fades quickly.

  “Back to class, Tasha. Ryan, you know the rules about making-out in the halls.”

  Tasha.

  She smiles at me and takes a step backward, before turning her attention to the teacher. “Thanks for ruining my welcome back kiss, Mr. J.”

  “Get to class,” he tells her.

  “Gotta pee first.” She almost winks at him. Almost. Then she flashes me another smile and walks away.

  I watch her until she disappears and then I glance back at Mr. J. He hasn’t stopped looking at me.

  “Sorry,” I say, “But it’s not every day you get kissed by something that good looking.”

  He tries to be stern, but gives a slight chuckle. “Aren’t you supposed to be somewhere?”

  “Sure.” But just where, I can’t remember anymore.

  The football field after school. Oh, Lord, I really don’t want to be here. I sit down on the bench and watch a team full of guys in full gear do jumping jacks. Scott is there and so is Zane, and once warm-up is over; Zane removes his helmet and crosses over to me.

  “What are you doing here?” he wants to know, and although he’s trying to hide it, I detect his disapproval.

  “Coach asked me to sit in.”

  “He did? Why?”

  I shrug, then as a way of getting even for the whole lunch room thing, which for some reason is still bothering me, I remind him of what he told me at my welcome home party. “Because I’m honorary captain. It’s like I’m still boss.”

  “Only, not really,” he finishes.

  I smile and it irritates him, which is why I did it.

  He gives me a ride home after practice.

  To avoid the stairs, I go around the house to the patio door. Something is going on inside. I can hear the shouting before I even pull open the door, and as I do the noise gets louder and clearer.

  “That’s not fair, Dad.” Lucas is really upset. “You gave Ryan a car for his sixteenth birthday.”

  “Yeah, and look what happened. Believe me; I’m not making that mistake twice.”

  “That’s bullshit! I’m not going to drive it off a cliff. I’m not as stupid as him.”

  “He’s not stupid and I’m not buying you a truck. You can buy your own after your eighteen.”

  “Eighteen?” Luc shouts. “Eighteen? If that bastard walked in here right now and said, Dad, I need a new car, you’d be on your way to the show room floor, no questions asked.”

  “No I wouldn’t,” Dad insists.

  “The hell you wouldn’t! Why does my whole life have to revolve around his? Why does everyone’s?” Lucas shoots off those two questions then leaves the kitchen in a rage.

  I’m standing inside, now, and when he rounds the corner and sees me there, his eyes narrow in on me. That’s plenty enough warning, but there’s nothing I can do to avoid him. He grabs me by the front of the shirt and slams me against the wall I’m standing closest to. It jars the breath from my lungs and hurts the back of my head.

  He’s the same height as I am, but due to my weight and muscle loss, he’s bigger. He can flatten me, and I know it. It scares me.

  “I hate you, you stupid son-of-a-bitch!” he yells in my face.

  My dad is on him in a second flat. He rounds the corner and yanks Luc violently away from me. “Touch him again, Luc, and I swear I’ll knock your head off. He’s in no condition to be scrapping with you,” he shouts.

  Luc is too fired up to back down. He’s out to prove something and to do it, he pushes Dad in the chest. I can tell by the look on my father’s face that this has never happened before, and I can also tell he isn’t about to relinquish his crown to the little punk.

  F– Almighty!

  Luc is about to get his ass beat in a big way and I don’t want to be part of this shit. I duck, dropping all the way to the floor as they start to scuffle. They’re yelling and pushing each other and I’m trying to crawl out of their way, but now my mom is in front of me. How she got there, I haven’t a clue.

  She has dropped to the floor with me and is covering my head. Tucking it against her breasts like I’m a freakin’ two year old!

  “Get off me,” I order her. I don’t mean to be rude, but damn, I’m seventeen years old for hell’s sake.

  In shock, she releases me and then her eyes get all big and wet.

  “Get the hell out of here, Mom, before you get hurt.” I tell her and then take my own advice. I move around her, get to my feet and escape the madness.

  I slam my bedroom door shut and lock it to keep out all the crazies I live with.

  Luc is drinking. After the fight died, Mom and Dad went out with some friends and he stole a bottle from Dad’s cabinet and is out on the dark patio with it. I watch him from inside for a long while then slide open the door and step out.

  He knows who it is and won’t look at me. He’s sitting on the back of a chair, his feet where his butt should be and his arms resting on his knees. The booze hanging by its neck in the space between his legs.

  “I’m sorry you don’t get a car, Luc,” I say sincerely.

  “You F– everything up for me.” His voice is even toned and although I can hear anger, I can hear his deep sorrow, as well.

  “I’m sorry. If I still had my car I’d give it to you.”

  “I don’t want a car. Especially not yours.”

  “I’d sell it, then, and you could have the money to buy the truck you want.”

  “Leave me the hell alone.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “Whatever, Ryan.”

  “And I’m sorry about the milk at lunch today. That was all Scott. Not me.”

  “Of course.”

  “You don’t believe me?”

  “Would you just leave me alone?” He still won’t glance my direction.

  I take a step back, but don’t leave. I stand there and watch his inward struggles as they play across his face. And finally I just have to ask. “You alright, Luc?”

  “He schooled me, okay, Ryan? Are you happy now? He showed me who was top dog and, surprise, surprise, it’s not me.”

  I wait until the edge he’s left in the air dissipates and then I ask, “Why would that make me happy?”

  He finally looks over at me, but, now, I kind of wish he hadn’t because his glare accuses me of being stupid. Maybe I am, but I don’t get it, so I ask again. “Why would that make me happy, Luc?”

  “Because the job needed done and you’re too weak to do it yourself.”

  I s
tare at him until he won’t look at me anymore – until he faces forward again, and pretends I don’t take up space in this world.

  “None of what happened tonight made me happy,” I inform him gently. “In fact, I hated the way it made me feel.”

  He doesn’t speak, but some of the muscles in his jaw that have been clinched tightly, relax. There’s a moment of deep silence, and then quietly I ask, “But what did you think was gonna happen when you pushed him?”

  The question causes his lower lip to quiver. He firms it, dips his head, and then shrugs. “Guess I wasn’t thinking,” he sort of mumbles.

  I smile slightly. “He’s Dad. You don’t mess with Dad.”

  “Or you,” he adds and lifts the bottle to his mouth to drink.

  He won’t talk to me after that. I say a few more things, but he completely ignores me – so I go in to bed.

  NINE

  Saturday, mid-afternoon. I push the button and listen to the noise it makes. Ding-dong. I wait, and finally hear the sound of feet just before the door I’m standing in front of is pulled open.

  “I’ve got a serious problem,” I say and watch Paige’s eyes widen from behind the screen door that I’ve managed to find my way back to.

  “Oh? What is it?”

  “I can’t take my socks off. Not at home, my dad will flip his lid. And certainly not in PE class without being laughed off the face of the planet. You gotta take the nail polish off.”

  She giggles and it makes me feel good, so I smile.

  “You left the ramp up,” I nod over my shoulder.

  “Guess I was hoping you’d come back.”

  “Well, here I am.”

  “Yep, in search of nail polish remover.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m sure my mom has some, but it’s not like I can hike the stairs to her bathroom to steal it, and I don’t dare ask her for it. She’ll wanna know why and . . . this is our little secret, right?”

  Paige’s eyes glitter. “You wouldn’t believe the number of people I’ve told.”

  “For real?”

  “Ah, actually I did tell a couple of my best friends from back home, but they thought it was cute that you let me.”

  I shake my head and mutter, “As long as I don’t know them, I guess.”

  “You don’t know anyone, though, do you? I mean, with your memory loss and all.”

  “Good point, but you know what I’m talking about.”

  “Yeah.” She pushes open the screen door and steps forward until she’s standing on the threshold between in and out. “So, where do you want to do this?”

  I don’t know why that sounds a bit dirty, but it does and it makes me grin.

  “Gaw, you guys are all the same,” she complains and cuffs me lightly on the shoulder.

  “Sorry,” I chuckle. “I think inside would be best since I’ve gone AWOL again and someone might be looking for me.”

  “Oh my gosh! You just got ungrounded.”

  “Well, I left a note and . . .” I whip my cell phone out of my pocket. “I brought backup, this time.”

  “Yay,” she cheers with a genuine smile.

  Damn she’s cute.

  “Come in, Ryan.”

  Her house is small, compared to mine anyway, but I like it. It feels . . . close. Like being surrounded by the things you love, the things that make you feel comfortable. It somehow reminds me of my blue hospital bag.

  Paige’s bedroom is upstairs, so I take a seat at the kitchen table while she runs up to her room to get her nail stuff. I have my shoes and socks off when she comes back and she takes a minute to set up her supplies on the edge of the table. Then she sits down facing me and lifts my right foot up into her lap.

  She’s scrubbing on the third nail with a cotton pad soaked with repugnant odor, when her mother enters the room. My natural instinct is to hide my foot. I don’t want her to see, but instead of pulling away I blush with embarrassment.

  “Oh, you’re taking it off?” Cynthia says, leaning over Paige’s shoulder to look. “What a shame, I like that color.”

  I look at it one more time and want to kick my own ass when I glance up at her and admit, “I like it too, but . . .”

  “It doesn’t fly with the other guys?”

  “No.” I shake my head.

  She winks understandingly before going on her way. I like her. She’s like Paige – cool.

  My left foot – it’s harder getting that one up into Paige’s lap when she’s ready for it. I wince a little and find her studying my face with something that resembles sympathy. She doesn’t speak until I’m officially in place, though, and even then she’s silent for a moment. She studies the scars around my ankle then lifts her eyes to meet mine again.

  “Can I see?” she asks.

  I’m a little nervous and insecure, but I also feel safe with her, so I nod. She gently pushes at the cuff of my pant leg until the surgical scars become visible to mid-shin, and then she looks them over intently.

  “I’ve heard people talking at school,” she says. “I guess I pay attention now, because I know who they’re talking about.”

  “Me?”

  She nods. “Your car accident – it wasn’t an accident, was it?”

  I don’t know why her knowing makes my heart pound, but it does. Maybe it’s because I want to make a good impression on her, and this is far from the most favorable aspect of me.

  Whatever the reason, I feel the prick of shame and the heat of embarrassment as I say, “Guess I was trying to kill myself.”

  “Why?”

  She’s the first person to ask this question, to my face anyway, and all I can do is give her an honest answer. “I don’t know, I can’t remember. No one has ever told me why – they only tell me that I did. I don’t even know what proof they have. I’m just expected to believe them.”

  “Do you?”

  I shrug, and think about the fight between Luc and Dad last night and how insane it made me feel at the time. “Sometimes. Mostly, though, I just try to figure out why I’d wanna do something like that. But that’s hard when I don’t even know who I was, then.”

  “I keep thinking about that,” she tells me. She’s not removing nail polish; she’s holding my foot at the ankle and looking me in the eye. “Ever since you told me you don’t remember things, I keep wondering what that would be like.”

  “It’s frightening.”

  “I can only imagine. Did you forget everything? Like, was it a total blank?”

  “No. I remembered a lot of stuff. All the basic things – like the rules of society, my ABC’s, and how to ride a bike, although I haven’t put that one to practice yet.” I say that last part as a joke and she rewards me with a smile. “It just seems like I forgot everything that had any type of emotion attached to it. I woke up in the hospital not knowing anything about my family – home – friends – school.”

  “Yourself.”

  “Myself,” I nod in agreement. “Especially myself.”

  “Do you think you’ll ever get your memory back?”

  I shrug. “My doctor says he has reason to hope I will. He thought that once I got home and back to my normal life I’d have a better chance – but – nothing yet.”

  She’s thoughtful for a moment, and then says, “I find it kind of fascinating to think about what a person could learn about themself if they didn’t remember who they were.”

  “What if they begin to discover they don’t really like who they used to be?”

  Paige takes that into consideration and smiles when she arrives at her conclusion. “That’s the beauty of this thing. You’re not that person anymore. You can start over.”

  “Who says I was talking about me?”

  She laughs and I find myself glad she knows exactly who I was talking about, and I’m also glad she’s being open minded about me.

  “I found my art-folio. I unpacked since you were here last.”

  “So I can see now?” I ask with excitement.

  “Yeah. Aft
er we de-Smurf this foot.”

  She shows me her art work. Damn she’s good. I’m not that good. She has all kinds of drawings, but she’s specializes in ink portraits, and they have amazing detail.

  I glance from them to her, “Shit, I thought maybe they’d be stick figures, like I draw, and we’d have something in common.”

  Her green/blue eyes sparkle and she leans toward me and flicks her book to a blank page. “Draw me something.”

  “No,” I say. I’m embarrassed because she’s so much better than I am. But I can’t deny that the thick white sheet of paper is calling to me.

  “Come on. You draw me, I’ll draw you.” She tugs at a sheet of paper until it comes free and then she places it in front of herself, leaving the book for me.

  “I’ll just mess your book up.” I try to trade her for the loose page but she won’t let me.

  “Shut up and draw,” she tells me and I smile. I think I kinda like a bossy girl.

  We sit there at the kitchen table, creating. We’re independent, but together. We’re quiet, but when we look at each other’s progress, we speak volumes. She’s down playing her talent and I’m pushing mine to the full extent, and when we’re finished, we’ve met somewhere in the middle and it feels damn good.

  “I don’t think my dad will give my art stuff back,” I tell her.

  “I have extra. You can have it.”

  “Sneak it in like contraband?”

  “Do what you gotta do.” She tells me this like she belongs to the Mafia.

  “If he does give it back, I can replace your stuff.”

  “You don’t need to. Just keep it. I’ll go get it for you.” She rises from the chair and as she passes behind me, she drags her finger tips across my shoulder blades. It makes my heart pound, and this time, it doesn’t hurt my head.

  It’s dark when I get home. She drops me off but doesn’t go to the door to get my dad to help me up the stairs like last time. Yeah, she’s smart like that. I thank her, tuck the art supplies under my jacket and head for the back door.

  I make it to my room without anyone seeing. I hide my stuff deeper than my weed is hidden, then I fall onto my bed and close my eyes. Paige’s face is still in my head and I like it there.