You Will Remember Me

by Hannah Mary McKinnon

  I’d been right.

  I grabbed the photo albums and walked back to the kitchen. “Let’s see if these help,” I said, settling next to him.

  Ash turned the pages, his fingers touching the photographs, lingering as I pointed out who was who. “These are my parents?” he said, touching the picture. Rosalie stood behind Brad, her arms wrapped around his waist, both of them smiling. Her hair was as dark as Ash’s, but he had his father’s eyes, the perfect combination of his parents. “What happened to them?”

  “Are you sure you want to know? It might be easier—”

  “Of course I want to know,” he snapped. “Tell me.”

  I chose my next words as carefully as I could, not knowing how to break the news. He’d gone through so much already. Would it be so bad if he didn’t remember? “Not long after this photo was taken, when you were thirteen, your mom...oh, Ash, she...she committed suicide.” I exhaled, wiped my damp hands on my pants as I waited for his reaction, but he continued to stare at me, and so I went on. “You and Brad came to Maine, where he met my mom, and they got married a year after.”

  “But now they’re both dead?” he said, and while he sounded cold and detached, I knew it was because he didn’t remember, not because he didn’t care. He’d loved Brad and Mom very much, had been devastated after they’d died. We both had.

  “My mom passed a short while later, when I was thirteen. She had a brain tumor.” I touched the side of my head, trying not to remember how Mom had gone from vivacious and bubbly to a gray skin-and-bone skeleton of a human being in a couple of months. I didn’t want Ash to recall it, either. Why would he want to?

  He blinked. “We were the same age when our mothers...?”

  “Yes,” I whispered. The coincidence had never been lost on us. It had been something else to bring us together, our mutual loss and grief, which only the two of us seemed to understand.

  “And my dad?”

  I wanted to stop answering his questions. Didn’t want to relive it, or be the one causing Ash to, but he asked me again and so I complied. “He was a foreman, and one day the load fell off a crane at the building site... It was thirteen years ago, when you were almost twenty.” I didn’t want to elaborate. Unless Ash remembered it himself, I wouldn’t mention he’d been the one who’d gone to formally identify Brad at the morgue, that the only way had been the tattoo on his father’s forearm because his skull and torso had been so badly crushed. Ash had broken down that day and it wasn’t something I wanted him to remember. In fact, I’d do anything to make sure he didn’t.

  Oblivious to the dark memories swirling in the air between us, Ash said, “Thirteen really is an unlucky number for us, isn’t it?” He shut his eyes and whispered, “Brad, Rosalie, Ophelia. Brad, Rosalie, Ophelia...”

  “Do you remember them?” I said, reaching for his hand.

  Startled, he pulled away, back out of reach. “Fragments, maybe. Bits and pieces I might be able to connect if I could grab hold of them long enough. What else can you show me? I need to see everything.”

  We kept on going through the photographs, the ones where we rented a trailer and went camping as a family, and when we got to his high-school graduation pictures, he managed a smile. “Christ, I was such a baby. Now I’m an old man.”

  “You’re thirty-two, you’re not old.”

  “What about you? You’re younger than me, aren’t you?”

  “By three years. You always teased me about it, even though the difference doesn’t count.” He’d pulled his chair over and sat so close to me now I could smell the sea salt, sand and sweat. I wanted to touch his cheek, run my fingers over his skin in an attempt to make sure he really was sitting here in the kitchen, but I wasn’t sure how he’d react. Before I had a chance to lift my hand, his stomach let out a piercing squeal, and I raised an eyebrow.

  “Why didn’t you say you were hungry?” I said.

  “I’m hungry.”

  There it was, his wry, quirky sense of humor. I hadn’t understood it when we’d first met, but when he left town, it was one of the things I missed the most. As always, he was trying hard to pretend everything was fine, and I decided I’d let him because it was what he needed right now. “What can I get you?”

  “What kind of food do I like?” His shoulders dropped, another smile forming on his lips. “Shit, that’s such a dumb question.”

  “No, it isn’t.” I swallowed. “You know, maybe it’s an opportunity.”

  “How so?” Ash crossed his arms, both eyebrows raised as he expected more of an explanation. Right then, he looked exactly how I remembered his father and it made my heart swell. Brad had been a good man, fantastic both to Mom and me. He’d never tried to overtly muscle in and assume the role of my dad, but I’d wanted him to anyway. Growing up knowing my biological one hadn’t loved me enough to stay had hurt a lot more than I’d ever wanted to admit.

  “It could be a kind of blank slate,” I said, and shrugged. “Maybe you’ll develop a taste for things you didn’t like before.”

  “That’s one way of looking at it, I suppose. Are you always this optimistic?”

  Pushing my seat back, I said, “You relax, I’ve got frozen lasagna.”

  Ash reached over and touched my fingers. “Thank you for helping me...Maya.”

  The way he said my name, so guarded and with such caution, broke my heart in two and I turned away, trying to hide. Ash didn’t notice, and as he filled our glasses with water, I dug the pasta out of the freezer, unboxed it and shoved it in the microwave. “We can go shopping tomorrow,” I said over my shoulder. “I need to get more stuff anyway. I’ll show you your favorites.” He didn’t answer, and when I looked up, I caught him gaping at the window, his brow furrowed.

  “Where are the chickens?”

  “What chick—” My eyes widened. “You remember the chickens?”

  “Were they in the garden?” he said, rubbing his temples with his fingers as if he were trying to massage the knowledge back into his head.

  “They weren’t real. We had blinds with a chicken pattern.”

  “Red and orange,” Ash said. “Big, fat, red-and-orange hens.”

  “On a green background.” My voice went up a notch. “Brad thought they were absolutely hideous and swore us to secrecy because Mom bought the fabric and spent ages sewing them. She loved them so much, but he said they drove him clucking crazy.”

  Ash actually laughed, his shoulders dropping. “This is crazy. How can I remember these bloody red-and-orange chickens but not remember you or our parents?”

  “It’s a start,” I said, giving his arm a squeeze. “Baby steps, right? You don’t want to become overwhelmed.”

  A while later the two of us sat at the table, Ash’s belly full while I stuck with my glass of water. My appetite hadn’t been the same since he’d left and most of the time I hadn’t seen the point in cooking for one. Ash pushed the rest of his food around his plate, and I could almost hear his mind whirring, trying, and failing, to get traction as he covered a yawn with one hand.

  “It’s late, Ash. Why don’t you go clean up and try to get some rest? We’ll talk more in the morning. The clothes you left are still upstairs in your room, and your bed’s made.” I wondered if he’d ask why I’d regularly laundered his sheets and made up his bed again when I hadn’t heard from him in two years, but he didn’t.

  “Could you show me?” he said quietly instead.

  “Of course. Come.”

  I led him across the black-and-white diamond-tiled foyer and up the creaky, dark-stained wooden stairs that used to have a dollar-bill-green runner with golden stair rods. The carpet had bunched so badly we’d ripped it out. Replacing it was another renovation project I’d put on hold. Motivation, not time, had been lacking. Not to mention the cash.

  At the top of the landing I pointed to each of the doors as we walked by.
“This is mine, the one on the left is the spare. That’s the bathroom, and this one’s the main bedroom. You took it after...after...Brad died.”

  Ash didn’t reply, and I couldn’t tell what he was thinking as he flicked on the light and stepped inside the room. It was exactly as it had been the day he’d left. A double bed with a blue-and-white-striped duvet cover. A wooden clock he’d made and a cluster of family photos on the wall, my favorite a selfie of the two of us he’d taken when we’d gone snowtubing one winter, our cheeks and noses pink from the cold. Ash had never been one for clutter, and his bedside table was bare, save for a digital alarm clock, a blue lamp and a deck of cards. The only other items were his refurbished wooden desk and the empty chair standing in front of it. I walked to the closet and pulled it open, revealing a few pairs of folded pants, T-shirts and sweaters.

  “You’ll find something in here. They’ll still fit you, I’m sure. I’ll set a towel and a toothbrush out in the bathroom for you. Your old razor is in the cabinet.”

  When Ash didn’t reply I couldn’t stop myself from closing the distance between us and wrapping my arms around him, planting a gentle kiss on his cheek. I’d have hugged him forever if he’d let me. “I’m glad you’re home,” I whispered. “I’ve missed you.”

  “Good night,” he said, taking a step back as he extricated himself from my grip, looking at me as if he might give my hand a neighborly shake. “And, uh, thank you. For everything.”

  I retreated downstairs, listening to the water running as I cleared the table, washed the dishes and wiped the counter. When the shower turned off, I waited awhile before creeping back upstairs, hovering at the top of the landing, out of sight as Ash walked out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist. I watched as he headed down the hallway, droplets of water glistening on his smooth, naked back. He’d always been handsome, and he hadn’t changed much, not physically at least. If anything, he’d gained muscle, particularly on his arms and shoulders, which, I noticed as I craned my neck to get a better glimpse, were even broader now. As he disappeared into his room I wondered again where he’d been the past two years, and with whom. Now he was back, what would happen next?

  9

  MAYA

  Back in the kitchen I opened my laptop and switched on the kettle, planning on making an industrial-size vat of coffee to fuel a research-filled night. I’d investigate all causes for memory loss, hopefully finding enough to convince Ash to see a doctor in the morning. As I waited for the water to boil, my mind wandered, thoughts traveling back to when Ash and I had first met.

  I’d been twelve going on trouble, a sulky, sullen tween my mother couldn’t work out what to do with. “We were such good friends, little Bee,” she said, using the nickname she’d given me because she’d watched a cartoon called Maya the Bee with her German mother when she was a kid. “Don’t you want us to still be friends?”

  I hadn’t bothered answering. On this particular day, the argument had been about my meeting her boyfriend, a word that made me shudder. Mom was supposed to be exactly that, my mom. She shouldn’t be dating, it was gross, but she’d met an English guy named Brad at the eye specialist’s office where she worked as an assistant. For weeks she’d gushed whenever she mentioned him, her face lighting up so bright, we could’ve used it to power the entire state. I’d said I didn’t want to meet him, too stubborn to admit I was afraid of losing her, instead insisting it was because I didn’t care. For once, she’d put her foot down.

  “He’s important to me,” she said, hands on hips, her long brown hair flowing over her narrow shoulders as we stared each other down at the kitchen table, and from her tone I knew she’d already won, but I wasn’t yet ready to concede. She’d never talked that way about a man before. As far as I was aware, she hadn’t had any kind of relationship with a guy since my father walked out seven years prior, after unceremoniously announcing he didn’t want the responsibility of the family he’d helped create. “I want you to meet Brad,” Mom continued, her tone gentle again. “I really, really like him, and I know you will, too.”

  “I don’t need a dad,” I’d said as I scowled at Mom, crossing my arms over my chest in an attempt to amplify the stubbornness effect, except the only thing it did was remind me I still hadn’t developed breasts as the other girls in my class had. “We’re fine on our own.”

  Mom sighed, pulled out a chair and sat down. “Brad won’t try to be your dad, Maya.”

  “He will. It always happens in books and movies, and—”

  “This isn’t one of your fairy tales.”

  “I don’t read those anymore, they’re stupid.”

  “But you used to love—”

  “No, they’re dumb,” I insisted, launching into my reasoning without letting her stop me. “First, Snow White should’ve known the old hag was bad news. Sleeping Beauty could’ve had the prince arrested for sexual assault. Maybe Cinderella’s sisters weren’t ugly but it’s what she wanted us to believe. Oh, and if I’d been Rapunzel, I’d have chopped my hair off when the witch was in midclimb, so she’d have plunged to her death.”

  Mom giggled. “Okay, so they’re a bit outdated—”

  “Outdated?” I was on a roll. With any luck we’d continue this debate and she’d forget all about introducing me to Brad. “What about the ‘Someday My Prince Will Come’ song? Ugh. It’s never going to happen, and why hang around for a boy, anyway?”

  “Honey, I understand what you’re saying and while I agree with most of it, you must see I’m lonely.” This was typical Mom. Always up-front and direct, never one to hide away her feelings. It was at least partially true what they said about apples and trees. I’d acquired my directness—something teachers called me out on daily—from her and my dad, had received a double dose of the bluntness gene while still in the womb.

  “I’m tired of being alone,” Mom continued. “I want to be happy.”

  “You’re not happy with me?”

  “Maya...” She reached for my arm but I shook her off, stood up so quickly I knocked my chair back, and before she could stop me I fled to my room, locked the door and put on my headphones, ignoring her pleas for me to come out and talk. Still, as I turned up my music and grabbed a pair of chopsticks, slapping them on my desk and pretending I was a real drummer, I couldn’t drown out the fact I didn’t want Mom to be unhappy or lonely. I knew how it felt.

  I gave in a day later, and much to Mom’s delighted hand-clapping, agreed to meet Brad and his son, Asher, for breakfast at a diner in Newdale, the town where they lived, which was on the coast about a twenty-minute drive south of us, and fifteen from Portland.

  We arrived early. Mom hadn’t shown me any photos so I wouldn’t start what she already called our relationship with preconceptions, except I had them anyway. I pictured Brad bald and fat, unfair considering Mom could’ve been a model. I imagined Asher as a gangly fifteen-year-old, resembling the boys at school whose growth spurts had been too much, too fast, and left them stretched out like bubble gum. We’d have nothing in common, I decided, and even less to say to each other. I’d be stuck at the stupid diner until I could make some excuse about having a stomachache and get us to leave early.

  I sighed as I wriggled in my seat, the teal pleather already gluing itself to the backs of my bare legs, and promised myself I’d try to be good—civil, at least—for Mom. It wouldn’t be easy, but I was a good actress, so pretending for an hour wouldn’t be too hard. I looked around, saw three teenage girls with perfect, straight white teeth and killer cheekbones. If I was as old as them, if I was as beautiful as them, would Mom make me sit here? Would I feel as threatened by her having a boyfriend—ugh—as I did now?

  Five minutes later the diner door opened, and Mom’s face lit up. I followed her gaze to the two people who’d walked in, realizing I’d got it completely wrong. Brad stood around six feet, had a full head of salt-and-pepper hair, and a sculpted beard. He w
ore a pair of trendy jeans, and his blue T-shirt skimmed his flat stomach. He held up a muscular arm as he waved at us, and when my eyes moved to the boy behind him, my heart almost stopped.

  Asher Bennett was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. He was a little taller than his father. His shock of dark brown hair—longer on top, shorter on the sides—had been swept back, revealing a face belonging on the cover of a magazine. Full, heart-shaped lips, a beauty spot to the right of his nose, which was neither too big, nor too small, but Goldilocks. I couldn’t stop watching the way he walked to us, self-assured and grown-up, his back straight. Mom had mentioned Asher ran track and wrestled in high school, and you could tell. His arms were toned, his chest broad. When he caught me staring at him, mouth agape, I blushed and dropped my gaze, hoping I’d die on the spot.

  I forced myself to look at Brad, who gave Mom a chaste kiss on the cheek before shaking my hand and introducing himself, his words a garbled sound swirling around my ears. Asher’s presence made me will the floor to open beneath me. I wished I’d worn something other than my denim shorts, blue Mary Janes and the mint-green shirt Mom had bought me for my birthday that said √144 YEARS OLD in big white letters. Until then, I’d thought it was the coolest thing, except now it screamed nerd alert louder than anyone did at school.

  “Nice to see you again, Ms. Scott.” Asher took Mom’s hand before reaching for mine, and I was convinced I’d burn up when our fingers touched. When it didn’t happen, my face continued to glow as a trickle of sweat rolled down my spine and seeped into the waistband of my shorts.

  “Hi, Maya,” he said when I finally let go of his hand. “I’m Ash.”

  Ash, not Asher, Mom, I’d have said, if only I retained the ability to speak.