by Dani Irons
His face hardens. “You’re not the only one in some kind of pain. It’s hard for me, too. To be away from you, it’s—”
“How hard it is for you?” The boiling anger inside me steams. “Are you serious? Have you even thought for a second about how hard all this is on me? How I don’t even know my own name but I’m supposed to put up with a clingy boyfriend who likes to wear brown wool socks up to his knees and being lectured by strangers claiming to know what’s best for me? This body...it isn’t mine. This mind...isn’t mine. I have nothing in this world right now. Nothing. And yet you’re going to stand there and complain when all I’ve asked for is a little space?”
He clenches his jaw, but doesn’t reply. I push him some more. “Have we had sex?”
He takes a deep breath. “No.”
I laugh. “So you’re telling me in five years nothing has happened between us? That seems impossible.”
He shrugs. “You’re Greek Orthodox. You kind of wanted to wait until you’re married.”
I gasp. I’m a twenty-year-old virgin? I shake my head. His words don’t feel right. They can’t be right.
Wyatt’s eyes drop from mine and he studies the carpet. When he’s looking away from me, I take him all in. He’s good-looking, in a nerdy way, which is supposed to be sexy...isn’t it? His brown hair is cut long and curls all over the place. He’s tall and on the skinny side, dorky, but like, a doable dorky. Is this my type? I wonder. Really?
“Tell me something about me that only you would know,” I say.
“What? Like what?”
I shrug. “You tell me. At the hospital, my parents were required to show a birth certificate and mail with my name on it to prove I’m theirs. The only person not verified is you.”
“Verified?”
I nod. I know I sound cold, but it shouldn’t be too much to ask of a person I don’t remember to prove that they know me. I mean, I know my standby emotion right now is suspicion, but if we’ve been together for five years, he should have no problem coming up with something. “Do you have pictures of us together?”
He hesitates.
“You do, don’t you?”
He pulls his phone from his pocket, taps a few things and hands it to me. “This one’s the most recent.” He actually sounds proud of himself.
It’s a horrible picture. I’m sweating, red, and smiling lopsidedly—obviously super drunk. My eyelids are at half-mast. Wyatt’s cheek is pressed to mine, but he isn’t smiling.
“Why do you look so pissed? Because I was drunk?”
He shrugs. “I guess.”
I hand him back the phone. “That’s not enough. Tell me something only I would know.”
“How am I supposed to do that when you don’t even remember your own name?”
“Figure something out. Until then, we’re broken up.”
The sudden look of shock on his face surprises me. He doesn’t like my declaration at all. He sets his jaw, suddenly looking much older. “You rarely wear pants,” he says. “You think your butt looks better in skirts, especially short skirts. You’ve always kind of wanted a boob job, but don’t have the guts to go under the knife. You get goose bumps when you’re nervous and you shaved the underside of your hair in high school. To this day, your parents don’t know.”
He pauses, a cocky smile playing on his face.
I shake my head. “No. Not good enough. A friend of the family or someone I went to school with could know those things. I mean, prove it.”
He walks over, grabs my face, and leans down as if to kiss me. I rip away from his grasp, surprised as hell. My body pulses in pain. “Not like that,” I hiss.
Wyatt steps back, face flamed and eyes wild. They shine with either irritation or embarrassment. But no way am I going to have some strange Cub Scout stick his tongue in my mouth. “Then how?” he asks.
I shrug, twisting my lips into a half smile. I like seeing him aggravated.
He scrunches up his face as if disgusted with me. He watches me a long time, long enough to make me uncomfortable. I’m about to say something to him, to tell him to stop staring at me, when he says, “You have a mole in between your...b-breasts.” The word sounds foreign on his tongue, like he’s never in his life had to use the word breasts. “You like to call it your third nipple.” He turns to walk out of the room and, without looking at me, says, “Not even your best friend knows about that one. You swore me to secrecy.”
And then he’s gone, leaving me alone to peek inside my shirt.
Chapter Eight
Fifth Grade
Wyatt and I were left to our own devices in the family room, stocked up with scary movies, sleeping bags, and burnt popcorn while my parents went up to bed. There was a woman at St. John’s who needed watching overnight because they thought she might hurt herself and Wyatt’s mom volunteered to do the watching. Which left Tartar Sauce staying over, since his dad was working.
Mom tried to make it fun—she knew I wasn’t a fan of him coming over—and she let us order whatever pizza we wanted and said we could watch movies until dawn, if we wanted. I was sporting my new black-and-pink silk pajamas that I’d spotted in a catalog and just had to have, and Wyatt was in old flannel pajama pants and a white T-shirt.
Wyatt got too scared to watch the movies—he didn’t say that, but I could tell. He jumped a lot and wouldn’t look at the screen. He’d even pretended to go to sleep but his body kept convulsing with each note of loud music or scream.
So I’d muted the TV. “Truth or dare.”
He rolled over with a smile. “Dare.”
“I dare you open that bottle of whiskey,” I pointed to the bar, my father’s drink of choice front and center. “And stick your tongue in for ten seconds.”
His smile went all crooked. “Easy.” He stood, peered up the stairs for any sign of my parents, and grabbed the bottle. With a wink, he stuck his tongue in.
I counted to ten.
When he brought his tongue back into his mouth, he made a face and replaced the bottle. “That was disgusting.”
“But kind of fun, right?”
He nodded, looking a lot less scared than he had a few minutes ago. “Okay,” he said, returning to his sleeping bag. “Your turn. Truth or dare?”
“Truth.” I wasn’t in the mood to do something embarrassing.
He thought for a minute, reclining back onto his pillow. “Tell me something that not even Chloe knows about.”
I rolled my eyes. “Chloe knows everyth...” I stopped, remembering something. “I have a third nipple. Well, sorta.” Then, without any hesitation, I lifted up my shirt. Mom had bought me my first bra the day before. I had been the last to get one out of all my friends and I was super proud of it—proud enough to wear it while I was sleeping. No one knew Wyatt came over to my house because he and I decided not to tell anyone—well, I threatened him within an inch of his life and he obeyed—so whatever happened here, stayed here.
Wyatt’s eyes boggled and he turned red, then purple. His body was so still, like he was made of wax, but he kept his eyes on me.
“See?” I said, pointing to the quarter-sized mole in between my boobs. “But if I hear that you told anyone,” I let my shirt fall back down. “I might have to kill you.”
He said nothing but his redness began to recede. His eyes were still wide.
“Okay? I want to hear you promise.”
He nodded.
“Not good enough. Say, ‘Olivia Christakos, queen of everything, I promise not to tell a soul about thy third nipple thingy.’”
“I promise,” he said, and I allowed it. It wasn’t exactly what I told him to say, but it would do. I might have traumatized him.
He didn’t talk to me after that for like two weeks.
Chapter Nine
&
nbsp; Now
It must be sometime in the middle of the night when the pain wakes me—my ribs are stabbing my insides. The medicine from earlier has worn off and I don’t have the energy to shout for help. The room is thick with darkness, the heavy curtains on the one window choking out any moon or streetlight. I’m facing the wall with my eyes open, listening to someone breathe rhythmically behind me. If I wasn’t already freaked out about sleeping in a stranger’s house, knowing someone is watching me attempt it makes me want to jump in front of a car again.
What I’ve learned about myself so far: I have a Greek goddess with a permanently pinched face for a mom, a dad who’s protective of her, a pushy little sister and a dorky but steady boyfriend. I go to school but don’t know what I want to do after I graduate. I got hit by someone who thought it was a good idea to drink and drive. I have a best friend, but she hasn’t shown up yet. I like clothes, celebrities and television...I guess. I look a lot like my mom and have a third nipple. Well, sort of. Someone looking into my life might think, it could be much worse. But what’s worse than not having any memory of the people you are supposed to love, to blindly trust? What is worse than not knowing yourself?
Plus, there has to be some reason I don’t visit often. I wish there was a light switch to my brain, my memory, that I could flip back on.
The rhythmic breathing of the person behind me changes as they shift in their seat. A hand pets my hair. Without thinking, I shrink away from the motherly touch.
Cora. Mom.
But the voice that whispers “Sorry” isn’t Cora. I roll over, the pain bouncing through my body like a rubber ball, and watch Natalie’s shadow slink back into the overstuffed chair next to my bed. The chair looks out of place in the room—big, brown and worn out. Like a coffee stain on a white blouse. Maybe they took it out of another room for the sole purpose of spying on me while I sleep.
“Don’t you have your own room?” I ask Natalie, the words tumbling out sharper than I mean them. It seems like I’m in a constant state of bitchiness, but I promise myself to rein it in around Natalie. I can tell she cares about me by the way her eyes light up when I look at her, which is the reason I don’t keep my gaze on her for very long. Her excitement isn’t exactly visible in the dark, but it shrouds her.
“I wanted to be here,” she says. “I missed you.”
I can’t even make out Natalie’s outline, much less any sincerity that might be in her eyes, and her words have a creepy effect in the darkness. I sit up and fumble with the lamp by the bed. After a few failed attempts at turning it on, Natalie walks over and taps the top with her fingers. The lamp pops on.
“Oh,” I say. Orangey-yellowness surrounds us in a circle of light.
“It’s a touch lamp.” She’s wearing a black T-shirt with the words Christakos Creatives written in white block letters and pink shorts that look like they’re made from an old towel. She looks both older and younger than she is.
Two white pills sit next to the lamp—my painkillers—and a fresh glass of water. I push myself up, the pain in my ribs making me dizzy, and reach for the pills with my good, but shaky, hand. I’m able to grab one but the other falls onto the carpet silently. Natalie picks it up.
“Thanks,” I murmur as she hands it to me.
“You’re welcome!” Her voice is too loud for the room and I hide my grimace. The concussion has left me with a headache. “Remember anything yet?”
I shake my head and push the pills into my mouth. The act of drinking water feels like I’m swallowing razor blades.
“No dreams?”
“Just one about...some blond guy,” I say, my pain cutting the sentence in two. I wait to see if she’ll tell me who that might be.
But she doesn’t. “So...you don’t know your name or anything?”
“My name is Olivia.”
She nods. “But you don’t actually know that, do you? I mean, your name could be Princess Nutella or something. We should’ve told you that’s what it is. That would’ve been hilarious!” Her smile is huge.
“That would’ve been a lie.” I watch as her face falls with my words. I feel bad so I add, “Nutella?” The word sounds familiar, but I can’t quite place what it is.
“Ohmygod. It’s this chocolate hazelnut spread stuff that you dip carrots in or spread on bread. SO good.”
“I’ll have to try it sometime,” I say dismissively, slipping carefully back under the covers. My ribs are wrapped in this thick gauze stuff that is supposed to help hold them in or something, but it’s starting to smell and it’s tight and twisted. I’ll add it to my list of worries:
Pain management for ribs
Figuring out who I am
Sleep
Memory improvement
Figuring out that dream with the boy
Living with strangers
Having a dorky boyfriend
Broken arm
Headache
Twisty, smelly gauze thing
Actually, my number one To Do would be to figure out who the hell I am, but as of now, the pain takes precedence. My eyelids flutter closed when Natalie says, “You don’t eat stuff like that.”
I try to recall the last few minutes of conversation, but I’m too tired. “Stuff...like...what?” My words are so heavy, I think they’ll pull me through the bed and onto the floor.
“Nutella. You told me you’d never touch the stuff. That it’s junk. One time you told me I should watch my intake of sugars and carbs. Bread, sugar and chocolate should all be eaten in moderation.”
The words she uses sound too big for her; she might be repeating something I’ve said before. “Well...that doesn’t sound like much...fun.” I sigh, hoping the medication will take over soon. Each word is like a knife cutting into my lungs.
“No, I guess not,” she says. “Not really. But we do other fun things.”
“Oh?” Like playing Barbies? That doesn’t sound like much fun either. Especially if we’re not making them talk. I can’t see myself silently dressing dolls for hours on end.
“You love to read me books and do the underdog when I’m on the swings. You bought me a little toy karaoke machine one year for Christmas and we sang every single Mandy Christine and Evan Blaine song.”
I crack an eye. “Mandy Christine and Evan Blaine?” I know these names. They are famous Top 40 singers. Mandy Christine was even one of the celebrities I identified in that magazine Dr. Olafson showed me. But I can’t remember anything by them.
“They’re my favorite singers.”
“And I knew all those songs?”
Natalie opens her mouth, but then she must notice something in my expression. “Well, maybe not every song. I helped you out a lot. Actually, you were more like my background singer.”
If I wasn’t exhausted and in pain, I would laugh at that. But I force a smile and it lights up her face. “You’ll have to play them for me sometime,” I tell her, tucking the blanket underneath my chin. I’m so cold, but sweat drips down the back of my neck.
“Now?” She hops up and down a couple of times.
“No, not now. Some other time. Right now I should be resting. You should too. I don’t know what time it is, but—”
“It’s past midnight,” she whispers. “I’ve never been up this late before.” I realize she’s been standing by my bed since she turned on the lamp. She never did sit back down. Is she waiting for something? For me to spring out of my bed, perhaps, and take her to the park? I feel bad that I’m not the sister she remembers. Old Olivia would probably stage a midnight Barbie-dressing session.
“Listen,” I say. “I’m going to be out in a few more minutes. Don’t take this the wrong way but I don’t want to have dreams of you staring at me.”
She sits on my bed as if she hasn’t heard a word I’ve said. �
��No way,” she says, bouncing. “I want to stay right here in case you need anything else tonight.”
I want to be patient with her. I don’t want to hurt her feelings, but annoyance is unfurling inside of me. “I want you to be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed tomorrow, Bug.” My words, as tired as they are, come out sounding falsely sweet, the nickname popping out of nowhere.
“Bug?”
“Didn’t I used to call you that?” I have no idea what I used to call her, of course.
“No.”
“Nat? Isn’t that like a...bug?” I’m beginning to sound muddled. The medication must be kicking in.
“That has a ‘g’ in it.” Her voice is unhappy.
“Listen,” I try again, this time reaching over and touching her hand. “I want to hang out with you, but I need to heal first. I promise when I’m all better...I’ll stay up all night with you. We’ll play card games and eat ice cream and all kinds of fun stuff.”
Her smile returns and I know I’ve won. “You really promise?”
“Only if you promise to leave this room and not come back until morning.” My eyelids grow heavy.
“But what if you need something?” Her voice is sweet and whiny at the same time.
I purse my lips, trying to force thought out of my pillow-stuffed head. “Your room...is the one on the other side of this wall...right?” I point at the wall behind me.
She nods.
“If I need something...I’ll knock.” I knock three times. “Like that. If you hear that you can come in. But not until then.”
Her eyes sparkle mischievously. “How will you even know I’m here?”
“I told you. I’ll have dreams that someone is staring at me.”
She looks unbelievingly at me a moment, but then, hesitantly and slowly, she stands. Walks to the other side of the door. Before she opens it, I call, “Hey, Bug?”
She sighs. “Don’t call me that.”
“Nat? With or without the ‘g’?”
