by Dani Irons
I have a million questions, but I don’t feel like answering them yet. Like, how long have we been together? How many times have we kissed? Had sex? This thought makes me shiver. I hope we never did it while he was wearing those God-awful socks.
He’s the visitor and should be the one to start up the conversation, so he should say something. But the silence stretches on, each of us awkwardly breathing and fidgeting. My eyelids droop. I fight it, wanting Wyatt to be out of the room while I sleep, but the medication wins.
My mind softens and my body grows heavy.
I’m kissing someone. He has these thin little lips and he keeps pecking me like a chicken. He’s cute, even though I can’t make all of him out. He has a head full of unruly blond hair and tanned muscles over every inch of him. We’re making out in a beige room—beige walls, curtains, carpet—but I can’t get over his kissing. His thin lips. The boy pushes me away, suddenly, and I get a look at his face, but it’s all blurred.
My dream shifts, to me standing in a street. Headlights charge towards me, flooding my vision, and I jump out of the way just in time. The movement wakes me with a jerk and I sit up in bed. Pain flies everywhere. My entire body feels sticky and wet with sweat. I couldn’t have been out more than a minute.
Wyatt’s eyes grow wide and concerned. “Are you okay?” He tries to grab my hand, but I pull away, shaking my head.
“Don’t.” My chest heaves up and down. The dream plays over and over in my mind. The boy. The headlights. Does one of them have to do with the other? I try to make a connection. I close my eyes, willing the images to come back. To clear up. But if anything, they soften. After a deep breath, I analyze Wyatt and his lips. They are full and wide. His hair is dark and longer than the boy’s in my dream. Definitely not him. Maybe I was dating a boy before Wyatt. “How long have we been together?” I ask, forcing my breathing to slow.
“Five years,” he says without pause.
I’m both surprised by his quick answer and because of the answer itself. No wonder he’s been so persistent. Five years? That’s some serious history. But that answer doesn’t help me figure out my dream. “Who else have I dated?”
This question takes him off guard and he takes more time to answer. “No one else.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “No one with blond hair?”
His eyes widen an infinitesimal amount, I think, but can’t be sure. He shakes his head.
“Do I have any guy friends?”
“Um...not...really. I mean, not anyone you hang out with on a regular basis.”
“Do I know any guys with blond hair?”
He thinks about his for a while, a light perspiration popping up on his forehead. “I don’t know. Why?”
I shake my head. I can’t explain what I’ve just dreamt to him. It was a dream, obviously, but it feels like a memory. I can still feel the boy’s hands on me. My skin prickles.
“How many guys have I kissed?” I know this probably isn’t the most appropriate question to ask my boyfriend, but I have to know how real this dream or vision—or whatever—is. I mean, if I can dream my memory back, I’ll go to sleep again until I can remember everything.
“Only me. As far as I know.”
I open my mouth but don’t allow my thoughts to vocalize themselves. I’m twenty and I’ve only kissed one guy? I’ve only had one boyfriend? What is it about Wyatt that has kept me with him so long?
Now I’m suspicious. Wyatt’s acting weird. Not that I have anything at all to compare it to, but I just get this feeling. Maybe the blond guy was an old boyfriend that Wyatt doesn’t want to talk about. Five years ago would put me at fifteen. I could have had a boyfriend or a make-out buddy or whatever at fifteen. The more I think about it, though, the more the dream dissipates into tiny memory dots. They dissolve like sugar in water into nothingness.
“I think I need some space,” I begin, reining in some of my earlier bitchiness. “For a few days. Do you think...do you think you could give me space? For a few days?”
I expect his face to fall, but it hardens, and only slightly. “Like, leave you alone? Not be around you?”
“Exactly.”
His face hardens some more. “No. I don’t think I can do that.” He drops his eyes to the ground, his entire body turning to stone. I want to feel sorry for him, but I’m too muddled to feel much outside of what I need and want at the moment.
“Will you try?”
He’s not looking at me. I don’t know if I want him to look at me. “If that’s what you need, I guess I’ll have to deal with it.” He pushes up from his chair angrily and stomps out of the room.
Chapter Six
Fourth Grade
“Please, God, Mom. NO.” I said, actually backing away from her with my hands in the air. “Have mercy.”
Mom stood in the kitchen, forking out tuna into a bowl. She pointed the fork at me. “Don’t you dare take the Lord’s name in vain just because you’re not getting your way.” She crossed herself, starting with the right shoulder first, like a proper Greek Orthodox should.
“It’s not about getting my way, Mom. It’s about...” I shook my head, the right words not coming to me. I knew that explaining he was the weird kid in class wouldn’t fly. “It’s just that this can’t happen. Please, please don’t let this happen.”
She laughed, squirting mustard into the bowl. “You act as if I’m making you marry him.”
“That’s what it feels like!” I wailed, backing into a dining room chair and falling into it. “You don’t even know what this will do to me at school.”
“Tell me about it, then.” She wasn’t looking at me, which usually meant she wasn’t taking me seriously. I knew that whatever I said wouldn’t make a difference.
“You should just understand.” I brought my knees up to my body and folded into a ball. “What about his dad? Why can’t he stay with him?”
“He works evenings.” She took a deep breath, as if summoning up her patience. “Listen,” she said, and the stirring noise stopped. I felt her gaze but I was not going to meet it. “If you want that new pair of skinny jeans—or whatever you girls call them—then you’ll deal with it and be nice to him while he’s here.”
I thought about this. Were skinny jeans worth having Wyatt “Tartar Sauce” Rosen over to my house twice a month?
“His mom is going to be volunteering at a women’s shelter every other Saturday,” she continued. “She didn’t want Wyatt going with her to St. John’s. He usually goes with her when she volunteers, but not there.”
I knew St. John’s was full of battered women, so I’m sure his mom wanted to keep him from seeing that. “He volunteers with his mom?”
“Yep. She told me they do the suppers every night at Wesley’s Food Kitchen. They’re always feeding them the fish that they can’t sell at the market. Day old or something...I can’t remember.”
“Fish?” I asked. And then I felt like the worst person ever. I sighed, hating the word that tumbled from my mouth. “Fine.” My mind’s kneejerk thought added, but he better not get his fish smell on me.
Chapter Seven
Now
The next day, Dion and Cora insist on taking me to their house. I don’t want to, seeing as I still don’t know them, but they explain the dilemma of how I only have health insurance when I’m actually enrolled in school and since it’s summer and I’m not there, the bills have to come out of pocket and they can’t afford for me to stay longer. So it’s either I go home with them or be technically homeless. More questions pop into my mind—where do I go to school? Do I have my own place? A job? Do I have money to pay for the hospital bills myself?—but I’m drugged, groggy, and feeling passive, so I store them away for later.
Plus, I’m curious about the beige room and the blond boy and excited to uncover all the m
ysteries floating around in my head. Maybe being somewhere that’s supposed to be familiar will help.
Dion tells me the drive is long and I want to look out the window during it, but I only last a few minutes. We’re in a big city and I know the doctor told me which one, but I can’t remember. Tall buildings, traffic, lots of people. Some trees that could be palm trees, but not those desert island kind. Am I in California? Florida? The noise is too much, the sunshine too bright, so I ball myself into the backseat next to Natalie, whose head is practically hanging out the window, and close my eyes. The arm that’s in a cast screams and I try to ignore it. I’m out in seconds.
* * *
Someone pushes on my good arm to wake me up. We’re here. Outside the window, I see clear blue skies, fluffy clouds, and a cute residential neighborhood. Square front yards edged in flowers, an elderly woman walking a yellow lab, flower-print curtains, and tactfully colored houses. Most of the houses are two-story, like the one Dion has parked in front of. Our house. My house. A navy-blue-and-beige sitcom house.
Cora leads me into it and the smell is so familiar I can’t keep from breathing it in repeatedly. Everyone walks behind me, watching my reaction. The house is immaculate inside with its brown carpeting, religious paintings and nice wooden furniture. There’s a comfy-looking pink couch and matching recliner. Floral wallpaper. No beige walls or carpets.
I don’t get to see much of the rest of the house because Cora tugs me down a hall. We pass a few doors and I spot a bathroom with an ornate clock and a large framed mirror on the wall.
Then we’re in Olivia’s room. My room.
The walls are bare. The shelves are bare. But tons of clothes choke the closet. I guess I make a face because Dion says, “You live on campus most of the time and that’s only half of your wardrobe. Everything else of yours is probably still up there. Chloe might have picked it up for you.”
“Chloe?” My brain floats, not able to cling to anything. Dion nods. “She’s your closest friend. I’m sure she’ll be popping up soon enough.” He pulls a corner of the covers down for me, patting the mattress, but I don’t feel like lying down anymore. I’ve done that for days now. My muscles scream to be used, even though they’re sore from the accident. This makes me wonder if I was at all athletic or if anyone would be as restless as I am from being in bed for too long. “Couldn’t I take a shower and walk around the house or something?”
Dion opens his mouth to answer, but Cora talks over him. “You should rest for a few more days.”
I look at Cora and then over at Dion. “Do what your mother says, kitten,” he says, patting the bed again.
I’m not five, I want to say, but he’s being nice, so hesitantly, I crawl in. I start off by sitting up in bed, but Cora pushes me down on the pillows and hands me a glass of water filled with ice that clicks around inside. I shake off the worry that they’re apparently going to run a tight ship here, and when I’m settled, I ask, “So what do I usually do in the summer?” “Sometimes you take summer classes,” Cora answers. “Not this summer, but every other.” She smiles. “You’re very studious.”
“What’s my major?”
Dion laughs at this. “Photography, Journalism, English.” He shrugs. “It’s different every semester. You don’t know what you want to do.”
“Really?” I picture this about myself, this indecisiveness. Photography? Journalism? English? And the interest in clothes, celebrities, television? It’s difficult to picture all this in one person.
Dion smiles, but it’s a little sad. “It’s weird talking to you about you. If that makes sense.”
I nod. It does.
Natalie and Wyatt come in the room then, and I wonder where they’d been. Wyatt’s brought in my mom and dad’s bags and my few personal items they found with me in the street after my accident. A purse with a little cash, a fake ID that shows I’m twenty-one—with a picture of a person who looks similar to the one I saw in the mirror yesterday, only with a tremendous amount of makeup. Apparently, I was a bit of a rebel. A partier. It makes me happy to know that I can show myself a good time. Maybe that’s what I like about Wyatt. Maybe he knows how to have a good time too and my situation is preventing him from showing that side.
Despite me asking for space, he hasn’t given it. Maybe he needs to be reminded.
“Where do I go to school?” I ask Cora.
“UCLA,” she answers.
“U-C-L-A.” I try out the letters on my tongue. I know the school vaguely, like something I heard about on a movie. “That’s in California?”
Cora stops straightening my blankets and sits down in a chair next to me. Her eyes are still and serious. “You don’t even know you’re in California?”
I shake my head. I hadn’t yet thought to ask, even though I’m sure the doctor told me. There’s an entire life I need to remember and then keep in my memory. “I go to school here? In town, then?” Maybe the beige room is at my school.
“No,” Dion says. “It’s two hours away, in L.A. Where you were in the hospital.”
“I was hit in L.A. And I go to school there too.”
“Yes,” Cora answers, patting my hand. I allow the touch, but I don’t like it. Something about people touching me grates on my nerves. Not like it’s painful, exactly, but as if they are rubbing a dirty washcloth over my skin.
“Where am I now?”
“Santa Barbara,” Dion supplies.
“I want to go back there,” I say. “To L.A. To where I was hit. Maybe it will spark some memory.”
Cora and Dion exchange glasses. “We’ll see,” Cora says. “Maybe when you’re all better.” She takes a deep breath, as if I’m stressing her out. She changes the subject. “Would you like something to eat? I’m sure you must be starving after five days of nothing but liquids.”
My stomach growls in agreement, but I don’t know what I want. “What kinds of foods do I like?”
Wyatt answers. “Salads, vegetables. Lean protein. You’re conscientious about your health.”
Am I? That seems the least of my worries right now.
“You rarely eat sugar or carbs,” Cora adds and I study her. She has my hair—dark and cut into a bob. Mine is down to my waist and shinier, even after lying around in bed for five days. Her hair looks dry and tired. It matches her eyes. Has she always looked that tired or has the past few days of me being in the hospital aged her? Either way, I feel guilty. Like it’s my fault she looks that way.
“Whatever you have to snack on would be fine,” I tell her, and can’t ignore the awkward, polite way it comes out, like I’m the guest in someone else’s house. She leaves the room.
The silence and Wyatt’s intense stare make me squirm. All I have are questions, so I press on. “Do I come...home...often?” I have to force the word home out of my mouth.
Dion and Wyatt look at each other. “No,” they answer in tandem. Then Dion continues, “Not really. You are very studious.”
I purse my lips. It’s like they’ve all studied from the same Olivia Christakos manual. Everyone has similar answers but it’s as if some of them don’t line up right. I’m studious with the majors I have trouble sticking to? Doesn’t make sense.
I try a hand on Wyatt. “Do you go to UCLA too?”
He opens his mouth, hesitates, and closes it again. He looks like a fish. “I...uh. No...” He swallows. “But I come see you a lot. I have some friends up there too. I’m in L.A. nearly every weekend.”
“Friends?” I ask. “Do I know these friends?”
“Of course you do, you’ve been dating forever,” Natalie jumps in. She’s standing behind Dion and in front of Wyatt, who has his hand on her shoulder. Everyone circles around me like I’m on exhibit. “You went to both junior and senior prom together. You take pictures on the weekends and order cheeseburgers and have slumber parties where yo
u watch scary movies.”
Wyatt’s lips twitch and he elbows her.
“Cheeseburgers?” I ask, suspicious. What about how I feel about my health?
“You order veggie burgers,” Wyatt says, not missing a beat.
I narrow my eyes at Natalie. “And how would you know all this? If I’m never here and Wyatt and I are up there doing all these fun things, how would you know any of it?”
“You call me a lot,” she says, sassily. “Duh.”
“Natalie!” Dion chastises, making her turn red.
I smile at her. She has spunk. I wonder if I share that spunk. “How old are you?” I ask.
“Eight,” she answers with confidence.
Wyatt takes a few steps closer to me. “Natalie is your favorite person in the world.” He says it like a warning. Like I’m being mean to her or something.
My eyes search the contours of her face. She looks nothing like me, Cora, or Dion. She’s pale with lighter hair and eyes. Wyatt continues, “You would never admit this to your friends, but when you come home for Thanksgiving or Christmas, you’ll pull out her Barbies and the two of you spend hours changing their clothes. You don’t make them talk or anything. Just change them.”
“That was...before,” Natalie says, crossing her arms in front of her. “I don’t really play with them now.”
A heavy silence falls and it’s like I’m the entertainment or something. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. What I want is for everyone to leave me alone, but no one seems to understand that. I stare at Wyatt, anger bubbling under the surface of my skin.
Dion must sense something because he says, “All right, kitten number two, let’s go help your mother with lunch.”
Natalie opens her mouth to protest, but Dion tickles her into a serious bout of laughter. He closes the door behind them.
I fling the covers off the best I can with one working arm—grateful for the meds keeping the rib pain at bay—and sit at the edge of the bed. “I thought we had a deal.”
