Memorized

by Alyne Roberts

  The following day, I take a cab to Georgia University. I arrive early and slowly walk the path to the center of campus. The grounds are practically deserted in the summer, but I easily find the park in the center. Finding an open bench, I take a seat and wait. I'm not sure who I'm expecting, but since I'm the only one around, I figure he can find me easily.

  "Willow?" I hear from behind me. The voice is deep and my skin tingles with awareness.

  I turn to see the speaker take a seat next to me on the stone bench.

  "Landon?" I asked. How is that I keep running into this guy?

  "Thank you for meeting me," he says with his gaze on the monument in front of us. His body is stiff and tense like he’d rather be anywhere else in the world.

  "You?"

  "Me," he confirms.

  They say it only takes a tenth of a second for one to get a first impression of someone. The longer they have, the more confident they feel in that impression. A single glance is all it takes to determine someone's attractiveness and trustworthiness. In four minutes, someone has already made up their mind about you. Many studies show that first impressions are usually accurate and often stable, not likely to change afterward. The saying "never judge a book by its cover" is actually pointless because it is human nature to do exactly that.

  Although the first impressions stick with you and it's difficult to change them, the memories fade into the background and the details eventually dissolve. I, on the other hand, never forget a first meeting or impression. The first moment I laid eyes on Willow can replay in my mind like a film. The glazed look in her green eyes, the weakness in her smile, the paleness of her skin will always be there for me to recall at a moment’s notice. My first impressions are always permanent.

  As I sit silently next to Willow, I wonder what first impression I gave her. Did she judge me when she ran into me in the hospital and I gruffly dismissed her because I was frustrated she may have caught me watching her? I was hard, rude, and unyielding. Was it the day she confronted me in the coffee shop, trying to find someone to connect to? I brushed her off, refusing to offer anything that would make her feel better. Do I have a second chance because the memories of how closed off I was may have faded from her mind?

  I turn my head and gently smile at her confused expression. I need her to feel at ease and trust me. I realize that I need her to agree to this more than she needs me. My degree and career are riding on this project. Not to mention the annoying obsession I have with this mysterious girl that refuses to go away. I want to know what it's like inside her mind.

  Since I'd heard her phone call in the coffee shop, I had wondered what memories had returned and what she's hiding. For the first time in years, I wanted to know more about someone else. I watched her for weeks in the hospital, trying to imagine what it was like for her. I wanted to peek inside her thoughts, see what it is like to look behind you and not see anything.

  "You're a student here?" she finally asks, apparently determining I'm safe enough that she doesn’t need to flee. I still feel her hesitation and unease from where I sit a foot away.

  "I am. Psychology student," I tell her.

  "I go here, too," she says. "Hotel management."

  "Is that why you moved here, to go to school for hotel management?" I ask, sensing bitterness in her voice.

  "I thought I came for Music Education. I found my class schedule at my apartment," she explains with a shrug of her shoulders. "Is that why you are at the clinic so much? Because you are a student?"

  I swallow and nod, because that is partly true. Against my better judgment, I keep talking. "I'm also a patient. Hyperthymesia."

  "Hyper what?" she asks.

  "It's an extremely detailed autobiographical memory. I can remember almost everything that happens in my life," I explain.

  This is where people's eyes go wide and they start to stare. Next, they bombard me with countless questions. After they ask what it means and understand that I have pretty much a perfect memory, next comes the dates. It's like they get a kick out of seeing if I can remember exactly what I was doing on any given date in history. Of course I can, but I could also lie and they wouldn't have a clue. It makes me feel like a side-show.

  Willow surprises me with her reaction, though. She laughs. Full, hearty, bent over laughing. Her laugh is contagious and forces me to smile slightly. It's a sound I never heard from her before and it's beautiful.

  "What's so funny?" I ask, confused. Does she think I'm joking?

  "Here I thought you were like me," she says, stopping to gasp for air. "And you couldn't be any more opposite."

  I thought the same thing a dozen times already. It's impossible for the either one of us to understand what the other is going through. I shake my head in amusement and wait for her laughing to subside. I don't have it in me to make her be serious. Her face lights up when she laughs. Her green eyes are glistening with tears as she tries to calm herself down. I almost want to make a note of extreme emotional states, but decide that would be premature.

  "Okay, sorry," she says when she's controlled. "Everything?"

  "Everything."

  She nods and chews her lips while she examines me. I can't tell if she's trying to determine if I'm messing with her or if she’s gauging my motives.

  "I must be a mystery to you. So what do you need me to do exactly?"

  "If you agree to this, just talk to me. I want to know what you're remembering, what you're feeling, and what you know," I tell her. "Hopefully your experience will give me insight into the condition and help others in the future."

  "What if I don't ever remember anything?" she asks quietly. "Some days, I think I'll never have it all back."

  "Then I'm screwed," I joke. "Mason wouldn't suggest this if he thought you would never recover. I'm here to coax your memories out, if needed."

  "How do you plan to do that?"

  "No idea yet," I admit. "We will have to find your triggers. I have nothing to go on if you don't make some improvement, so you have to trust that I want this as badly as you do. What have you remembered so far?"

  Willow nibbles on her lip again and her knee bounces while she prepares her answer. "Shopping and kissing my boyfriend."

  I raise my eyebrow at her. "That's it?"

  "Yep. Completely useless crap. I liked to shop a lot, but I never did much of it before moving here. I have nothing of importance. I live in an apartment that I don't remember picking out, a boyfriend who's a stranger to me, and I stopped playing my violin at some point. I have no idea who this person is."

  I hear her voice getting shrill with panic and frustration. I want to tell her everything will be okay, but I shouldn't lie to her. She's missing such a large block of time that anyone would feel lost, but Willow doesn't even understand the changes or choices she's made in the past.

  "Let's walk," I suggest as I stand and hold my hand out to her.

  She stares it at for a second before letting me pull her up. Her hand is soft and feels fragile in my own. I let go quickly, like her warmth scorched me. Touching her is against my rules if I want to stay detached and distant. That's my general rule with all people. Never grow attached and never miss them. Keeping her as study material is the only way to get past her haunting my memories in the future.

  "Where are we going?" she asks as she falls into step next to me.

  "Doesn't really matter. Being in motion gives the illusion of moving forward and can promote progress in your own mind," I explain as we follow the sidewalk through the deserted campus.

  "I've been walking everywhere and have gotten nowhere," she mumbles next to me. I choose to ignore the negativity and keep pushing her forward.

  "Who is your support system," I ask. "Friends? Family?"

  "Noah."

  "The boyfriend?" I remember her leaving the hospital with him that day. I'd seen him around when he would visit. His hands were always possessively on her in some way. I brush off the small feeling of annoyance I feel for the guy. I al
ways got the impression he was guarding her more than supporting her.

  "Yeah. I had tiny glimpses of some dates, but nothing else about the relationship. Most of the time, I feel like he's a complete stranger to me, but he's the only person I know anymore."

  I ask her some questions about her life that she does remember. I hear about her growing up in Montana and her parents' deaths. Willow tells me about her job at the coffee house and how she took it to stay busy. She seemed disturbed that she would have let her boyfriend completely support her financially. I listen and let her talk, knowing I'm one of the only few who will listen.

  Willow goes quiet and we walk in silence for a while before we come to the music hall. I stop when I feel her come to halt next to me. She looks at the building, deep in concentration. My feet follow when she starts toward the doors. I wonder if she is remembering where we are. This could be turning into something exciting.

  "Nothing," she whispers with her hands on the steel door handles. She yanks on them, but they don't budge. Her body deflates with disappointment. I want to reach out and comfort her but too many touches are already ingrained in my head. Recalling how her hand felt in mine is distracting enough.

  "I'll do it. I'll be your guinea pig," she tells me and spins on her heel to march away from the doors. "I can't stand this vast emptiness in my head anymore."

  "Well... great," I stutter as I jog to catch up. I hadn't really expected her to agree. I already prepared myself to leave empty-handed and beg Dr. Mason for more options. "Let me get your number and we can arrange for meetings."

  Willow stops and takes my phone when I offer it to her. The breeze picks up and her hair blows around her face. I inhale deeply when her vanilla scent wafts in the air. It's now a smell I will forever associate with her. Unfortunate side effect of remembering everything.

  "Thanks. I'll call you later," I promise as I back away, needing to distance myself from her. Distance is my favorite defense.

  "Okay. See ya." I watch her walk the opposite way. The sun is starting to set, the sky a dull gray. My conscious nags at me. I grumble to myself as I change my direction and follow behind Willow.

  I keep my distance but follow her off campus. I expect her to catch a cab, but she continues down the busy street. I stop to debate my next moves. Willow is going the opposite direction of my place, but I can’t turn around and let her walk home alone in the dark.

  I mentally berate myself for the next twenty minutes. The dusk becomes dark as we enter the heart of downtown Atlanta. I'm cursing myself for not turning around, but instead stalking this girl across town like a creeper. I don't know why I'm this concerned, but I can't seem to look away and just trust that she will make it home safely by herself.

  When she stops at a cross walk, I hang back in the shadows like the true stalker I have become. I only emerge to watch as she crosses and does a jog to the doors of what I assume is her building. Once I'm satisfied that she can make it to her door without me, I turn and wave for a cab. I'm irritated that I just wasted my time following her, but I tell myself that she was in danger once, and it's not unlikely that it could happen again.

  My feet are killing me from working all day. The place is so small that I'm amazed that I walk so much. I've been there a week, and although I'm learning, my body isn't catching up. I worked as a waitress in high school so there is no reason I should be this sore after only a few shifts. I welcome the distraction and tasks to keep me busy, so it's worth it.

  I'm sitting on my couch watching a movie. Noah is at the opposite end with my legs in his lap. We had takeout for dinner here and he is now rubbing my aching feet. His hands are warm and I'm immensely enjoying the relief he is providing me. The evening together is easy and comforting. I can almost pretend we are a normal couple.

  "You know you don't have to work, sweetheart," Noah tells me. "I will always take care of you."

  "I know," I say. I don't want to tell him it feels wrong to have a stranger, or anyone, pay my way through life. "I like to have something to do."

  "Whatever makes you happy¸" he says with a smile. This isn't the first time he's tried to tell me I don't need to work. I hate that he is paying my rent and credit cards when I can't even tell him that I love him. I don't make enough to pay my own rent, but it helps ease my guilt for being dependent by having some sort of income.

  I haven't told Noah about joining the research program for Landon. I don't know why I haven't, but I can never bring myself to say the words when we are together. Maybe it's because I don't want to draw more attention to my issues. I wish I could give him the perfection I think he wants.

  "I need to get going. I fly early to Seattle," Noah says, and he lifts my feet off his lap.

  I stand and follow him into the foyer. I'm resting my hand on an accent table while he puts on his coat. An image of a neon green vase flashes in my mind and my head aches.

  I lift the vase from the table and toss it at the wall. It crashes on the spot next to the door. Tiny shards of glass fall to the floor and I hear my own screams echoing inside my head. Neon green specks fall to the polished floor. Tears run down my cheeks.

  "Willow? You okay?" I hear Noah's voice, but it sounds distant.

  I shake my head, letting my vision clear before I look up at his concerned face. "I'm fine. I'm sorry. Just a headache."

  Noah's fingers slide gently down the side of my face and I close my eyes to soak in the feeling of protection. I hope he can't feel how I'm trembling or the cold sweat that has broken out across my skin with the confusing memories. My heart throbs with lingering feelings of anger and devastation from the flashback. Why did I throw the vase? It was actually kind of cool looking, so why would I carelessly shatter it?

  "Should I stay with you tonight?" Noah asks as he tilts my face up to meet his gaze.

  "No," I insist. "You go home and rest for your trip. I'm fine. Really."

  Noah is staring down at me, trying to determine if I'm really okay. I give him the best smile I can, hoping he will relent. His lips curve into a smile too, and he lowers them down to mine. When he gently kisses me, I try to get into it and feel what I used to. The passion and lust need to wash away everything else. When he slowly pulls away, I still feel anxious with the beginnings of a panic attack coming on.

  "Goodnight, baby. I'll call you when I land," he tells me before kissing my forehead and leaving.

  After I set the alarm and double check all the locks, I walk to kitchen to splash cold water on my face. Once I feel like I'm not going to faint, I head to my office for my journal. The day after I met with Landon, he texted me so I would have his number and asked I keep a journal of any memories that surface.

  I scribble on the page like the mad woman I often fear I am turning into. I try to put as much detail on the paper as I can, not knowing which detail will be another key to another locked door. I write about the anger I can recall feeling. My whole body heated and my hands instantly started to tremble when I was transported back to that time. I was furious, hurt, and yet beyond irrational. I just don't have any clue as to why.

  When I can't write anymore, I hide the notebook back in the bottom of a drawer and crawl into bed. I don't bother to shower or even change. I'm too exhausted and I know only sleep will ease the pain in my head. I'm sick of feeling scared and helpless. I want my old life back, and if I can't have that, I will take any life that is less scary than this one. I pull the comforter over my head and let the darkness swallow me.

  The next morning, I wake up when Noah calls me to let me know he's landed safely in Seattle. We chat only briefly while he is shuffling through the airport. Noah and his dad are going straight to a job site at an office complex they are developing. All I know is that they are close to finishing and are expecting some sort of large delivery today. I embarrassingly zone out when Noah starts to go on about the more boring aspects of his job.

  I throw the covers off me once I hang up the phone. I'm still in the clothes I wore to work the day before
and I feel like I’m caked in coffee. I shower and get dressed for work that afternoon. It takes me fifteen minutes of searching to find a reasonable pair of shoes in my closet. I thought I was a footwear collector but apparently not a good one if I don't even have a pair of walking shoes.

  The security guard gives me a nod as I rush through the elegant lobby. I always feel like I'm trespassing when I pass through, like I might break something or I don't belong here. Once outside, I smile as the heat engulfs me. I will never grow tired of the southern heat. It was part of the reason I chose to go to school in Georgia over the other schools I applied to my senior year of high school.

  I push open the doors of the coffee shop and inhale the scent of chocolate, baked goodies, and espresso. This cafe has become more of home to me than my own apartment I sleep in each night. I pass the counter and head to back to get my apron and clock in. Paige is serving some customers when I join her.

  "We need to name a drink after you," she tells me as she mixes a frozen coffee blended with cinnamon.

  "We do?"

  "Yes," she shrieks, like I am the most clueless person on the planet. "It's tradition. You create a drink, name it, and add it to the board. Think about it.”

  I examine the menu wall behind us. That certainly explains all the creative mixtures and alternating handwriting all over. It's going to be difficult to come up with something new with all the other possibilities already claimed. I grin at her in excitement.

  "Mine is the Raspberry Bitch."

  "Ah, that's my favorite," I tell her. "Suits you."

  I'm not lying when I say that. Paige can be sweet, but also a bit of bitch if you give her a reason to be. Paige has her own personal flavor that I can't help to find addictive and something I want more of, just like my favorite coffee. When she smiles, I want to smile with her. She keeps me busy enough that sometimes I forget what I mess I am.