by Emma Scott
Rita studied my expression and put her hand on my arm.
“She’ll draw more,” the nurse said. “And she’ll never know these are gone because she can’t remember she did them in the first place.”
I nodded vaguely, though I didn’t like it. Not one fucking thing.
“I’d better get back to work,” Rita said. “You’ll get used to Miss Hughes. Just give it time.”
Time. I had plenty of that. Years and years. Thea had a few minutes.
It’s Miss Hughes to you. Let her go. Do your job.
As I swept the rec room floor, my eyes kept stealing glances at Thea. My stupid heart ached the way it did the day Grandpa Jack died. Grieving for something lost that could never be regained.
This was Thea’s loss, not mine.
You sure about that?
I nodded. I hadn’t lost Thea. She wasn’t mine to lose and she never would be.
Chapter 4
Jim
Joaquin was right; Alonzo gave me two night shifts in a row. I met Mary Flint, the duty nurse who worked every night—a middle-aged woman with short dark hair and a pronounced nose. The biggest part of her job was dispensing nightly doses of medications from a locked mini-pharmacy on the second floor. Once the residents were out for the night, Mary didn’t have much to do. Every time I passed her station on my rounds, she was dozing.
Fine by me. No small talk.
The first night at Blue Ridge was like the first night in my new house. Getting used to the sounds and the silence. I welcomed the solitude and the guarantee I wouldn’t have to interact with anyone. I roamed the halls like a ghost, conscious of my feet on the linoleum and the sound of my breath.
Don’t get stuck on the mountain.
Made yourself at home, did you?
I’d bounced around the foster care system my whole life. The concept of home or family didn’t have any meaning for me. Grandpa Jack once said, “Make the best out of what you got.”
So that’s what I did.
After my night shifts, I had a full day off to recover before going back on the day shift. I spent it sleeping and messing around on my guitar. Grandpa Jack had gotten me a second-hand acoustic for my eleventh birthday. Doris wouldn’t allow “noise” in the house, so I took it to the yard and plucked out songs I’d heard on the radio. I couldn’t read music but turned out I had a good ear.
In my house in Boones Mill, I set it on my lap to try a Mumford and Sons song I’d heard the other day. A couple of lines from “Sweet Child O’ Mine” came out instead. I slammed my hand on the strings.
“Fucking stop. Leave her alone.”
I read a little, trying to stay awake and get back on a normal schedule. By four in the afternoon, I was stretched out on the little couch in my living room, watching Die Hard on a local channel. The movie was interrupted by commercials every three minutes and the swearing was dubbed over.
Bruce Willis, barefoot and bloody, stormed into a room. “Yippie kai yay, mother-flipper.”
My eyes drooped. My thoughts broke apart. Sleep dragged me away from the noise of the movie…
The chain-link fence at the rear yard of Webster High School made a distinctive noise when a body was shoved against it. A scraping, metal-against-metal song. Most days I remembered to come around the front of the school, but I was running late today. The gap in the fence was close to the little house I shared with Doris. I squeezed through.
Toby Carmichael was waiting.
He gave me a rough shove and the fence gave a rattling twang as I bounced off it, the hard wire diamonds stabbing my shoulder blades.
“Why don’t you go to the special-ed school with all the other losers?” Toby said. “Everyone knows you’re r-r-retarded.”
The three friends he brought along cheered and laughed, egging him on.
Toby shoved me again. “Say something, Wee-Wee-Whelan.”
Don’t say anything, I told myself. Don’t give him ammo.
I was a freshman with a slight, undernourished body. Toby was a husky junior, fed on a steady diet of buffalo wings and bacon cheeseburgers at Mill’s Place, where all the kids hung out after school.
All the kids except me.
His shove bounced me against the fence and it sang its song, like a metallic cricket rubbing its legs together. I fucking hated that sound.
“I said, say something.”
Toby lunged at me again and I dodged, my hands balled into fists. “F-F-Fuck off.”
All four guys stopped, stared, and then erupted into laughter, mimicking me. “Fuh-Fuh-Fuck off.”
Toby gripped me by the collar of my second-hand windbreaker jacket. “If I see you looking at Tina Halloran one more time, I’m going to break your stupid fuh-fuh-fucking face.”
I struggled to remember who Tina Halloran was. She must’ve been the pretty girl who smiled at me while I was putting my stuff away in my locker yesterday. A short moment of sun in a perpetually gray sky.
“Hi, Jim,” she’d said, wagging the tips of her fingers at me in a little wave.
I’d never talked to her. Of course not. I never spoke, not in class and certainly not in a crowded hallway full of students. Never to pretty girls with friendly smiles. Someone must’ve put her up to it. Maybe Toby…
“She doesn’t want anything to do with a retard like you,” he bellowed, bringing me back to the present. “You got me?”
Rage burned hot in me. Rage at the unfairness, the taunting, the goddamn stutter that caused me so much misery. My hands balled into fists and I drove one into Toby’s stomach.
He gasped, sucking in air, but didn’t let go of my jacket. His eyes widened with murderous anger. “You are so dead.”
Hit me, I thought. Fucking hit me. Beat the stutter out of me for good.
Toby’s left fist connected with my jaw and pain exploded across my mouth. I staggered back, reeling, and crashed to the ground.
He jabbed his finger at me. “That’s your only warning. Next time, I smash your teeth out. Not that you need them.”
The guys left with a few more sneering comments. I slowly got to my feet. Rubbing my aching jaw, I gathered my backpack and the notebooks that had fallen out. I spit out a wad of blood and watched it splatter to the ground. I imagined it was my stutter, finally ejected from my mouth, bloody and dead. It was gone now. Gone for good. I inhaled like Mrs. Marren taught me. Exhale. Inhale, exhale, then let the words fall out…
“M-M-My n-n-n-name’s Jim…”
Fuck.
I would have spat a curse, but that would have tripped on the way out too. I hurled my backpack at the chain-link fence and stared at the ground, breathing heavily. Slowly, I dragged dirt over the splotch of blood with my worn-out Chucks. Tried to bury it forever…
I woke up in a dark house with a fading, phantom ache in my jaw.
“Fucking pathetic,” I said.
That stutter was buried now, even if only in a shallow grave, and no one had to know how bad it had once been. Those days were gone. Hours upon hours piled up between then and now like bricks. I’d keep piling them up until the memories were only a bad dream and nothing more. I’d wipe them clean away, the way Thea’s mind wiped away her every waking moment.
Jesus, stop making everything about her.
I threw on my leather jacket and headed into town, prepared to erase my memory the old-fashioned way—by getting wasted.
In Boones Mill’s tiny downtown, I found a bar called Haven. Small, dark, and with a tiny stage, where a guy plucked out a song on his guitar. A flyer on the table said local acts were welcome. A fleeting image of me on the stage with my guitar came and went.
I nearly laughed out loud.
I ordered a beer from the waitress and listened to the guy warble out a country song to a bored audience of ten people. The waitress came back before I was halfway done with the beer.
“Ready for another?”
“Uh, sure.”
She leaned a hand on my table and smiled. Pretty. Her dark hai
r was in a ponytail and a tight black T-shirt strained over the curves of her breasts.
“Haven’t seen you here before and I’ve seen everybody.” She cocked a hip. “I’m Laura.”
“Jim.”
“New in town, Jim?”
I nodded.
“I thought so.” Laura’s smile turned private as she leaned closer. “Need someone to show you around? I make a pretty good welcome wagon.”
What she was offering was clear. No reason I shouldn’t take her up on it, except that Boones Mill was a hell of a lot smaller than Richmond. I didn’t take women home regularly, but when I did, it was for one and only one night. With minimal verbal interaction.
I don’t care if you stutter, Thea whispered in my ear. I just want you to keep talking to me.
“No, thanks,” I said. “I’m good.”
She pouted. “You sure? This town is so small and—”
“I’ll take that beer.” I raised my bottle.
Embarrassment flitted over her face, which she quickly covered with a scowl. “Sure thing.”
She stomped off, and I watched her go, her ass looking perfect in her tight jeans, and inwardly cursed at myself. Small town or not, it was a while since I’d had company.
And what the hell was I doing thinking about Thea Hughes? Her memory was fucked. She wasn’t capable of anything, not even friendship.
Her brain is broken. Leave her alone.
But she wouldn’t leave me alone.
Laura plunked a new beer on my table and walked away. In my pathetic imagination, Thea sat next to me, listening to the music, swaying in her seat.
“Music is life,” she said, her hand slipping into mine. Her blue eyes bright with recognition and light.
My life was a set of hours to be endured, not lived. My light low and sputtering. But I could take care of Thea Hughes. That was something I could do.
I left Laura a generous tip and rode back to my house without so much as a mild buzz. I hit the sack early and made sure my alarm was set.
I had a job to do.
In the dining hall the next morning, Thea looked up from her breakfast of eggs and toast, as I helped Mr. Webb take a seat at the table beside her.
“Good morning,” she said, squinting at my nametag. “Jim.”
“Good morning.”
“How long has it been?”
Anna Sutton, the head nurse, joined us and set a cup of orange juice in front of Thea. She was in her fifties, dark hair always tied back neat and tight.
“You can answer,” she instructed me, like a grade school teacher.
“Two years,” I said. “It’s been two years, Miss Hughes.”
“Two years,” Thea said. “God, that’s so long. But I’m back now and the doctors are going to tell me what’s wrong with me.”
“They will,” Anna said with a prim, reassuring smile.
“I’m Thea,” she said, offering her hand and introducing herself to me for the fifth time.
Stop counting.
“Nice to meet you,” I said, the words sounding so fucking wrong in my ears.
Thea glanced down at her food. “I’ve never eaten scrambled eggs before. Have I?”
“Yes, Miss Hughes,” Anna said. “You love them.”
Thea made a face, contemplating the truth of this statement before shrugging. She shot me a grin. “You’re hovering, Jim. Come sit and eat scrambled eggs with us.”
Anna arched one eyebrow at me, silently conveying that only one response was correct here.
“I gotta get back to work,” I said.
“Bummer,” Thea said. “Where do you work?”
I glanced at Anna. She shook her head. The word “here” was forbidden.
“I’m an orderly.”
If God were merciful, Thea would wrinkle her nose in distaste or snobbery and I’d be able to stop liking her so damn much. But no, she flashed that smile of hers.
“Groovy. Will I see you again?”
“Y-Yeah. Sure.”
Again and for the first time.
Again turned out to be later in the afternoon, in the rec room. She was bent over a drawing, markers spread all over the table and a ballpoint in her hand. No doubt making her word chains. I swept the floor and kept my eyes on my work.
“Damn.” Thea shook her pen hard, put it back to the paper, then frowned. She gave it another shake then abruptly froze. Her reset hit. Her hand trembled and she glanced around, confused.
We were short-handed as usual. Only the duty nurse was at the station. I had to do something before her panic took hold. I put down the broom and strode over. I nearly asked if she was all right before catching myself.
“Hi,” popped out instead.
“Hi,” she said, looking relieved. “How long has it been?”
“Two years, Miss Hughes.”
She took a steadying breath and a faltering smile touched her lips. “That’s a long time to be away, but the doctors are going to tell me what’s wrong with me.” Her eyes found my nametag. “Jim? I’m Thea Hughes.”
That’s six, I thought. Cut it out.
“Is your pen out of ink?” I asked, redirecting like Alonzo instructed.
Thea frowned and put her pen to paper. It scratched alongside the pyramid constructed out of words, but nothing came out. “How did you know?”
“I’ll get you a new one.”
I went to the storage supply closet and unlocked the door. Inside, I yanked the chain and the light bulb came on, illuminating racks of jigsaw puzzles, board games, magazines, and old books. I found reams of paper, boxes of ballpoint pens and Magic Markers. All the art supplies Thea had.
“That’s it? Pens and paper?”
I jumped back as a rat scuttled across the closet’s rear wall. Crouching on my heels, I found a crack in the drywall, revealing a sliver of daylight. I made a mental note to tell Alonzo about it, then shook a ballpoint pen from a box and hurried back to Thea. She was still trying her empty pen on her paper.
“Here you go,” I said.
“Thanks, Jim,” she said, taking the new pen. “You’re a pal.”
Amnesia or not, Thea was inherently friendly and cheerful to everyone she met. Buoyant. I’d bet good money she was effortlessly popular in school. The kind of beautiful, talented girl you wanted to hate but never could.
“Jim?”
“Y-Yes?”
“You’re staring.” She fluttered her eyelashes at me. “What are you thinking about?”
“You.” Something about her directness demanded the truth in return. “I was wondering if you were as good of an artist in high school.”
“I was an Egyptologist,” she said with a nod at her drawing.
“An Egyptologist?” I said. “Not an etymologist?”
Her face scrunched up. “A what?”
“Oh. N-N-Nothing. Rita said…”
“Who’s Rita?”
Shit. Fuck. Redirect.
“You studied Egypt?” I said and gestured at her drawing.
“I think that’s what this must be. My old work.” Thea’s smile widened as she craned back to look up at me. “Sit down, will ya? You’re hovering.”
Now I’m on her loop.
“I love all things Egyptian,” Thea said. “Their history is so rich with the rituals and gods, the monuments and the romance. All good stories have a romance. Love. Without love, what’s the point?”
“Not my area of expertise,” I said slowly.
“No?” Her grin widened. “Not a romantic? Are you sure? You look like Marc Antony to me. Lots of armor on the outside, but on the inside…” She made a face. “Yikes. There I go again. I have zero filter, if you haven’t noticed. My sister is always telling me to tone it down, but I call it like I see it. Life is short, no?”
So short, Thea. Five minutes.
“You don’t say much do you, Jim?”
“Not much.”
“Am I talking your ear off?”
“No, it’s fine.”
/> It’s fine. Jesus.
“Jim, Jim, Jim.” Thea cocked her head. “Short for James, right? But you look more like a Jimmy to me. Jimmy with the kind eyes. Do you mind if I call you Jimmy?”
Why the hell that simple request sent my heart crashing, I didn’t know, but it felt as if she drew us together across years instead of minutes.
Be professional. Tell her to use Jim.
“N-N-No,” I said. “I d-don’t mind.”
Thea leaned over the table, compassion softening her features. “Do you have a stutter, Jimmy?”
I almost told her it only showed up when I was nervous or pissed off. Then she could ask if she made me nervous. She’d give that flirtatious laugh of hers, then tell me she didn’t mind that I stuttered, but to keep talking to her, and that my stutter wasn’t the most interesting thing about me…
God, this is fucked up.
It occurred to me that I could change the script. I could tell her anything. I could fuck with her, and in a few minutes, she’d have forgotten all about it.
The notion made my stomach roil.
A cruel person, a bully—a Toby—would fuck with her. He’d laugh at her confusion and fear and justify it for the same reason—she wouldn’t remember.
But I’d remember.
Someone needs to watch out for her.
“I stutter only sometimes now,” I said. “It was worse when I was a kid.”
“Did you get bullied for it?”
“Yeah, I did.”
Her lips curled in a scowl. “Fucking bullies,” she said. “I’m sorry, Jimmy. All bullies are cowards trying to hide their own weakness by directing attention to someone else.” She glanced at me. “That doesn’t make what you endured easier, does it?”
“It happened. Nothing can change it now.”
“Tough guy, are you? Like Marc Antony. A stoic soldier, but your eyes give you away.”
I coughed. Redirect.
“Marc Antony,” I said and nodded at her drawing. “Part of your Egyptian studies?”
Thea leaned her cheek on her folded hands like she was warming herself before a fire. “Marc Antony is part of the romance. A love story with Cleopatra. He went to war for her. Died for her. When they told her he was dead, she put her hand in a basket with an asp. Can you imagine? Loving someone so much that the thought of life without them is too unbearable?”