Memorized

by Alyne Roberts

  In my first week home, I start to get back the first of my memories. I thought when I started to gain the missing pieces that I would feel relieved and have a better understanding of my life. This is not the case. They are pointless and only bring on a headache.

  My first lost memories are of shopping. Shopping.

  As I walk through the walk-in closet that is larger than my childhood bedroom, I touch the various dresses, blouses, and shoes. I have never seen such a large collection of clothes and accessories outside of a store. Each touch gives me a flash into the past. I vividly remember trying a certain dress on or buying a certain purse. I form blurry images of beautiful girls who laughed and chatted with me while I browsed for the perfect pair of heels. It's all cliché and meaningless.

  I want to remember Noah, my schooling, the experiences of my first year in college. I don't care about the hundredth shopping spree I went on. I never cared about or had owned material possessions before, so I'm not sure why I would care about those things now. What I had been doing and feeling are the memories I need to know now. Everything I learned in school and the people I met... those things were all erased.

  Frustrated, I leave my closet and head for the kitchen to get more pain reliever. Noah is still on a phone call and leaning against the counter. I open my mouth to say he works too much, but snap it shut. I don't want to seem ungrateful. He comes over every day to check on me, plus he missed a lot of work to stay with me in the hospital. Most of his phone calls are trying to catch up on the things he missed. I push aside the feeling of irritation that washes over me every time I see him glued to the phone.

  "I don't care what you need to do, just make sure it gets there on time," he barks into the phone. I bristle, never having heard his voice that hard before. Noah ends his call abruptly and slips the phone into his suit pocket. When he turns, his face is at ease and a soft smile plays on his lips, not matching the intensity I’d expected and heard only seconds prior.

  "You sure you don't want to come with me, sweetheart?" he asks as he comes to wrap his arms around my waist. His gaze and touch are gentle, easing my nerves.

  "I'm sure." He is heading to Chicago to see a building site with his father. He will only be gone two nights, but a trip might be too much for me to handle right now. I don't know if I'm ready to stay overnight with him yet, either. I am beginning to feel more comfortable around Noah, but I'm still not the girl I was before my accident.

  He smiles sadly and guilt consumes me, settling in the pit of my stomach. I hate that he has to worry about me. Noah is the vice president of his father's prominent real estate company. On top of trying to make a name for himself and manage his own development projects, he has a girlfriend that needs constant care. I hate feeling like a burden. I used to be independent and stronger than this.

  "I'll be fine," I insist, coming closer and slipping my arms around his neck. Noah moves his hands to my hips before placing a kiss on my forehead. I close my eyes and soak in his strength which I envy. He always looks so confident, at ease, and powerful.

  "When I get home, I'm taking you out," he promises with a grin. "I'll make you fall in love with me all over again."

  A smile stretches across my face. "I'd like that."

  Noah's eyes flick to my lips and my cheeks warm. He's been patient, slow, and maintained a safe distance from me since I've been home. I know it is only a matter of time before we should slip back into the way our relationship was before, but I’d hoped to have feelings and experiences to push me there. Nervous energy courses through my body.

  My breathing slows as he lowers his lips to mine. I still when we lightly make contact, a slight familiarity starts buzzing in my mind as I taste his lips. His fingers start to lightly massage the skin on my lower back, giving me goosebumps. Letting out the breath I was holding, I let my body relax into his. I apply pressure into the kiss and let his clean scent and firm body calm me. I feel like I have kissed him a million times, and yet at the same time, it’s like the first kiss.

  Loud ringing pierces through the room and we break apart. I gasp and touch my fingertips to my lips, my own emotions surprising me. Noah smiles at me with confidence before taking his phone out of his pocket. After a few swipes of his finger, the annoying sound stops and his warm gaze is back on me.

  "I should go," he says, sounding regretful. "I will call you when I land."

  "Sure," I say with a nod. "Good luck."

  He takes my hand and kisses the back of it, giving me a wink. I laugh and pull my hand away. I want so badly to fall in love with him. I wish there was nothing holding me back, no fear, and I was able to remember what we had before. No matter how much I try to let go, I still feel like I'm dating a stranger. I hate waiting for the old me to resurface so I can move on with my life.

  "Oh, hey," I call before he is out the door. "Do you know where I keep my violin?"

  Noah stops, turning to give me a confused look. "You don't have it anymore. I think you tossed it when you moved from the dorms."

  "Oh," I squeak, surprised. I can't imagine I would have just thrown it away. My parents saved up and bought it for me when I was in the fifth grade. We couldn't afford luxury or anything unnecessary. For them to spend the money on a hobby was a big deal to me. I treasured it for most of my life.

  "You haven't played in a long time," he explains, watching me carefully while I try to figure out when I changed. I couldn’t imagine the person I had become.

  "I'll figure it out," I promise him quietly. I need to before he gets sick of waiting. "Have a good trip."

  "Love you," he calls before leaving, not waiting for me to say it back. I haven't yet, and I don't think he expects me to. He likes to make sure I know how he feels about me, or at least that's what I tell myself to avoid the guilt I feel for the lack of reciprocation.

  Once alone, I pace my apartment, checking all the closets and my office for the violin. My mom found it at a second hand store in poor shape. They paid to have it restored after months of me begging to join the school orchestra. From the day I unwrapped it, it became my most prized possession. I practiced endlessly, learned every piece I could, and even decided to earn a degree in music education.

  Searching my office for any school records, I hoped to find that I had a locker on campus. Maybe I would store it there. I was a music major after all. I just couldn't accept the idea that I would get rid of it, especially since it was all I had left of my parents. After their deaths, I sold our home and belongings to pay for my tuition. I loved to play, and even though I planned to save up for a new one, I would have kept my first for sentimental reasons alone.

  A complete investigation of the office only uncovers more questions than answers. It's as if I am digging through a stranger's house, looking at their lives and invading their privacy. I actually start to tip-toe around like I'm afraid of being caught. Class schedules and textbooks lead me to believe this person is enrolled in a hotel management major. I think they couldn't be mine, but the name Willow Thorne is clearly printed on every paper. This person also has credit cards, bills, and housing paid for by her boyfriend. On the computer are Facebook and Twitter accounts that I don't know the passwords to log on to.

  I slam the medicine cabinet shut in the bathroom after digging through the bottles of antidepressants that I don't remember ever needing. A girl in the mirror stares back at me. My thick lashes frame big green eyes. I still think my eyes are too big for my face. That hasn't changed. The creamy blonde highlights in my usually strawberry blonde hair are new. I have the same light freckles across the bridge of my nose, the same lips, and short, slim body. I may look the same, but I feel nothing like the Willow Thorne that lives here.

  My head hurts as I spin around the room in a circle. I grip the sides of my head, pulling on my long hair in frustration. My breathing is coming in heavy pulls and my eyes tear up. I am waiting for the part in the movie where everything suddenly makes sense. I need the secrets to be revealed and the mystery to unravel. I
need to find myself in the darkness that is swallowing me.

  That doesn't happen though. The too-white walls start to close in on me and the tightness in my chest constricts all my air. I gasp for air, but I feel like there's a weight on my chest, crushing me. Tears start flowing down my cheeks as I shake uncontrollably. Short bursts of air pass my lips as the room begins to swirl around me.

  I run from the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind me as though I can keep the panic and fear locked inside. Dread washes over me and my hope is dissolving. I thought by now I would have more memories than of just the shopping trips, but I'm no closer to learning who I am than I was when I was at the hospital. I'm out of place living in a nightmare I can't wake up from.

  I frantically scratch at my arms, feeling like I am about to climb out of my own skin. I'm practically manic as I find a pair of shoes, my phone, and a wallet. Somewhere in the back of my mind I think the wallet is worth more than most people's mortgage, but I clutch it carelessly anyway. Needing to escape the apartment that feels more like a cage, I set my alarm and lock up. Once in the lobby, I feel slightly better. I wipe the tears off my face and hurry for the doors, avoiding the probing stares of security and strangers.

  I exit the building and quickly pass the construction site next door. My feet mindlessly carry me down the sidewalk. I feel like I know where I am going, but I really don't. Taking in the shops, people, and traffic, I beg for a sense of recognition. All I have is a sense of comfort and calm, which is good enough. A guy leaves a coffee shop as I pass, and the aroma wakes up a craving inside of me so I rush inside.

  A young girl smiles at me from behind the counter, which looks more like a bar. "What can I get you, hun?" she asks.

  I glance at the menu behind her. Each drink along with a brief description is written on the chalkboard behind her. "Can I get a Raspberry Bitch?" I ask with a raised eyebrow.

  "Sure," she answers with a wink and backs away to make the raspberry infused mocha latte. Reading the colorful menu keeps me entertained while I wait for my coffee. Every drink has a unique and creative name, scribbled artistically.

  After I pay, I take my cup to a small table in the back corner. From my seat, I can watch the coming and goings of the cafe. It's mildly entertaining to watch customers order with the dirty names. I heard a Crying Orgasm, Herpes Cure, and even a PMS Sunset. I have no idea who thought these up, but they sure had creativity. The fun and different atmosphere grounds me in my spinning world for the moment.

  The corner I claim is warm, cozy, and allows me to try to figure out someone else instead of myself for a change. After a while, I almost begin to forget that I'm lost in my own life. When I spot a familiar face, my heart gallops and trembles course through my body. The feeling of recognition is finally filling me after wishing for it for so long.

  Everything will be better; I can feel it in my bones. I am going to get better.

  A dark-haired guy a few tables away is leaning over some textbooks spread over the small table. When I place his face, I deflate. I've seen him around the hospital. He was the wall I ran into while trying to flee that place. His jaw twitch, focused eyes, and tense body language are recognizable. He's someone from my present, not my past.

  He looks so serious with his head bent, looking over the pages in front of him. His dark brows are pulled together in thought. A white tee-shirt clings to his chest and arms that are tattooed in an intricate black design—each swirl and twist in the lines move perfectly over sculpted muscles. His large form is intimidating enough without adding the strong facial features and black eyes.

  I wonder why he was at the psychiatric hospital as often as he was, usually in the area designated for those with memory disabilities. I would see him in the halls, but I never knew where his room was. We never talked before the day I slammed into him. I don't know his name, but in this random coffee house, he is the only person I have a connection with. A weak and possibly unhealthy connection, but it’s something. He could be certifiably insane for all I know.

  He must have felt my stare because his head snaps up and he makes eye contact with me. My breath catches in my throat and I freeze, thrown off from the intensity of his glare. After a quick glance that I feel covering every inch of my body, he returns to his books. I sigh and lift my now empty cup. The dismissal from him mixes with my loneliness, making me bitter. I don't think I have ever felt so powerless, useless, or lonely in my entire life. I may not know who I was recently, but I do know who I was before. And that girl wasn't this weak and timid.

  Approaching the counter, I order a Skinny Dip since I'm in the mood for something with a tropical twist. The menu promises pineapple and chocolate according to the purple chalk. After paying, I head to his table instead of my safe corner. Without permission or waiting, I sit in the chair across from him. The furrow in his brow is my only indication that he knows I am here. He keeps his eyes on the books, ignoring me.

  "Hi," I say loudly.

  This gets his attention. His head tilts up as he eyes me curiously.

  "Can I help you?" he asks. His voice is deep and laced with a southern accent. I could listen to that voice all day long and never grow tired of it.

  "We met before. Once. Well, not really met. I didn't get your name or anything," I ramble. "But I ran into you at the hospital."

  "I remember," he says simply.

  Oh. Okay. "I'm Willow," I tell him.

  He continues to stare at me, as if trying to figure me out. I fidget in my seat, nervous that I look like a fool for trying to talk to a practical stranger.

  "Landon," he finally offers.

  I can't help the small smile that spreads on my face. Now he wasn't a stranger to me. The small piece of information makes me feel less alone than I did five minutes ago. Before I get too excited, Landon deeply inhales and begins to gather his books. Standing to shove some textbooks in his bag, I stand as well.

  "I have to get going," he announces bluntly.

  "Alright," I say, confused at his rushed movements. "It was nice meeting you."

  He nods and gives a small wave before heading out the door. The bell rings as the door closes behind him and I watch his wide shoulders until he is out of sight. A red sign in the shop window catches my attention. "Help Wanted."

  I leave the coffee house in a hurry. I need away from Willow and her curious stare. Big green eyes searched me, looking for answers to her own questions. I can't help her. I'm too screwed up in my own head to go digging through hers. If she was looking for a common connection, she won't find it. We’re complete opposites.

  I walk the few blocks to the hospital like I do three days every week. As I push through the glass doors, cool air blasts me in the face. The memory of Willow leaving with her boyfriend plays over and over again in my mind. I can clearly envision what she was wearing, the lost look on her face, and the way she rubbed her forehead from a headache. I watched him lead her to the waiting car, wondering what it was like for her not knowing who he was. I blink quickly to stop the scene playing in my mind.

  I wave to the receptionist and let myself back to Dr. Mason's office. On my way past the patient rooms, I avoid eye contact with everyone. The office door is open and the older man waves me in when I approach. After closing the door, I take my seat across the desk from him, like I have been since I was fourteen.

  “How are you, Landon?" he asks me.

  "Fine. Just busy studying," I tell him.

  "Did you find a subject for your thesis yet?" he asks, leaning forward with interest. I often think he is proud of me for pursuing a degree in psychology. In a way, he is a mentor to me.

  "Not yet," I admit. He is constantly suggesting one of his patients, but it's too close to home for me. Nothing ever interests me enough to focus on, either.

  "I have a girl that I think would be perfect for your research," he starts. "She has post-traumatic retrograde amnesia. She has shown almost no progress, missing almost the last three years."

  I was really h
oping he wouldn't suggest her. I had been dreading this exact conversation since I saw her transferred here. She is too lost, too far gone. She will cling to me, wanting someone to unlock the door to her hidden memories. Except I can't do that for her. I have no more of a clue about how to access hers than I do to keep my own memories shut away.

  "I find it difficult to study a subject when no advancement is made," I say. "I was hoping to document someone regaining what they lost or one that is showing improvement."

  Dr. Mason nods but appears disappointed. I hate that look. I am constantly turning down his suggestions, but I want to learn how the brain accesses the memories. The doctor seems to think that I want to learn how the memories shield what they want so I can understand how to hide my own. He could be right.

  "I believe she can fully recuperate, she just needs some extra work to get there," he says in a sad voice. Dr. Mason doesn't follow the number one rule about not becoming attached to his patients. I'm a prime example of that. He must have also taken a liking to Willow.

  "I'll think about it," I tell him.

  We spend the rest of the hour talking about me, like usual. My ability to remember every autobiographical event in my life hasn't changed since I was a young teen. Hyperthymesia is extremely rare, and as a result, I was in endless studies as a teen. Every moment is still permanently on replay in my mind like a terrible movie I just don't want to watch anymore. The only thing that has changed is my reaction to it.

  I hate it. I envy the sad and lost souls who wander the halls in this part of the hospital. I wish I could be like the rest of the human population. Over time, memories fade or disappear altogether. The brain alters or fills in the blanks. Most people can look back on their younger years and think fondly of the time. The lucky ones here remember nothing at all.

  And yet, I am also fascinated with the brain and memory. Since my ability was so different, I devoted my time to figuring it out. How could one mind forget their entire past, while another remembers every moment? How can some brains remember everything by hearing it, and others by sight? Why can Willow forget something tragic that happened to her and I can't forget the helpless look in her eyes?