Keep Me in Mind

by Jaime Reed

  He shot a quick glance around then leaned in and whispered, “All right, look, me and a couple of guys on the team were wondering if you could give us some tips.”

  I stopped in front of my first-period class, then turned to him. “On?”

  “How you did it. Ellia and the other girls she hangs with are all stuck up. Got a whole bunch of attitude, doing that neck thing when they talk.” He rolled his neck in a circle to show his point. “But then you walk by and they’re all ‘Hey, Liam,’ knocking each other down to get your attention. It’s like Black Friday and you’re the last flat screen on sale. So how’d you get her to go out with you? No offense, but you’re too quiet and your game is weak.”

  I would’ve found this insulting if I hadn’t had the same question myself. There were a bunch of interracial couples on campus—that wasn’t an issue. People just had a hard time figuring out how I snagged a girl like Ellia Dawson. The black kids were indignant, the white kids were intrigued, the Asian kids were confused, and the Hispanic kids hailed me as their hero. For Wade to be interested in this old issue meant that his mourning period was finally over.

  “All I did was talk to her. Like a person,” I explained in the simplest terms I could find.

  His crossed arms and club-bouncer stance would’ve been intimidating if he wasn’t four inches shorter than me. “Nah, there has to be something, though. There’s a secret recipe behind all this and I’m gonna find out what it is. Did you promise to do her homework for a year?”

  “She’s smart enough to do her own homework.” Unlike some people I knew. “It’s good to know that you’re no longer grieving over an imaginary girl.”

  “Natalie’s not imaginary! She lives in Vancouver.” He searched around as if afraid his voice could carry across the border to reach his ex’s ears.

  Wade and this girl named Natalie had a summer fling that should’ve ended with the season. Their attempts at a long-distance relationship couldn’t keep her faithful during winter formal. No Dear John letter, no phone call, but a picture of her with another guy on her timeline marked the end of their affair. My girlfriend almost died, yet Wade was the one crying at random, wearing that ugly hoodie, and blasting Coldplay in his room for three weeks straight.

  “Back to you and Ellia,” he said. “She’s been out of the hospital for almost two weeks and you don’t go to see her and you don’t talk about her. Your dad won’t tell me what’s going on, so … what gives, nephew?”

  I shuddered at the title, which he knew I hated. Most people assumed we were cousins, but the truth was far more messed up than that. Just admitting it out loud had all the makings for a trashy talk-show segment. Here’s the thing: Wade is my dad’s baby half brother—the product of my deceased’s Grandpa’s late-in-life second marriage—which, technically, makes Wade my uncle, even though I’m five months, thirteen days, and eleven hours older than he is. That never stopped him from ragging me every chance he got.

  As for this Ellia controversy, I had to choose my words carefully around Wade. He despised secrets, but he couldn’t keep one to save his life. And once my involvement with Ellia’s accident hit the airwaves, my peers would pounce. I stuck to my default answer. “It’s no one’s business.”

  His wary blue eyes narrowed in a way that reminded me so much of Dad, it freaked me out. That was another thing about Wade—he looked old in the face, with lines around his eyes and on his forehead. It might be because his own dad had been prehistoric. “Okay, I’ll just sneak into your room and read your diary instead.”

  “I don’t have a diary.”

  He smirked knowingly. “If you say so.”

  “They’re called writing journals, Wade. You know, for converting thoughts to word format.”

  “Uh-huh,” he replied. “Either way, the truth’s going to come out. You can just tell me, or I could find out on my own. And you really don’t want to leave me to my own devices.”

  The warning bell rang. “Whatever,” I said. “Catch you later.”

  I ducked inside my classroom before he had a chance to respond or say something that could result in both of us getting suspended. I knew he was going to make good on his promise. I just had to be extra careful around him and lock my bedroom door from now on.

  I slid into my usual seat in the back row of English class and replayed the conversation. Why didn’t I just tell Wade that Ellia was hard to reach? It wouldn’t be a lie. She couldn’t remember who I was, she was out of school for the rest of the semester, and I wasn’t allowed anywhere near her house. She was, by definition, unreachable. She had my number and email address, yet my in-box remained empty. This kind of avoidance made you wonder where you stood in a relationship. We never officially broke up, but amnesia had a way of declaring matters null and void.

  Somewhere in the background, Mr. Hardgrave went on about the parallels between The Picture of Dorian Gray and Edgar Allan Poe’s The Tell-Tale Heart. Wearing his standard plaid shirt, tan blazer, and jeans, he zipped across the room on an obvious caffeine kick. His booming voice made it impossible to get any decent sleep first period.

  Was it weird to have class with a bunch of seniors? Not really. They’re pretty cool for the most part. They had too much on their minds for pettiness, like SATs, getting into the right college, and figuring out what to do with the rest of their lives.

  “Come on—look alive, people!” Mr. Hardgrave coaxed us groggy students with a high-octane energy usually saved for pep rallies. “What do these two stories have in common?”

  On its own accord, my hand shot in the air while the rest of the class was still trying to wake up.

  He stopped and pointed to me with hope in his eyes. “Yes! Liam!”

  “Guilt,” I said as heads turned in my direction. “Both stories deal with evil deeds, and no matter how hard you try to cover it up, you can’t really get away with anything. Either with your freedom, your youth, or your own sanity, a penalty has to be paid.”

  “Good answer!” he bellowed, as if I’d just won myself a new car, then scribbled on the dry-erase board with renewed enthusiasm. The words GUILT and PENALTY filled up the white space and bore into me with their own brand of judgment.

  I tore my eyes from the board and pulled out my notebook. English was my best subject, but I’d filled my quota of the Q&A portion for this period. The rest of the class would have to go at it alone.

  Words flew from my pen as if they were being chased while my knee knocked Morse code underneath the desk. My eyes stayed focused on the lined paper, not once glancing up at those accusatory words written in all caps on the board.

  I’d suffered enough guilt to last a lifetime and I didn’t need a beating heart under the floorboards to remind me of my wrongs. I just needed to think of her face. Replay the voice mails I’d saved on my phone. Look down at my textbook at all of the cartoons she doodled on the paper-bag cover. Stand in front of her house every morning and walk the hallways at school that were haunted by her absence. That was penalty enough. But at least it was something to do.

  The technical term for what I had was retrograde amnesia, which was the inability to recall past events because of severe head trauma. It could be physical trauma such as a brain tumor, or, as in my case, a hard blow to the head. It could also be psychological trauma, something that would mess you up for years, if say, you witnessed a grisly murder. It all really depended on the brain and how it coped and repaired itself. And I didn’t feel repaired yet at all.

  Still in my pajamas, I’d worked up the energy to trudge downstairs and join my family at the dinner table, but only in a physical way. My mind was decidedly elsewhere. Not that anyone in the room was altogether present.

  Mom stood by the stove and prepared yet another organic fish-and-veggie dinner that tasted like dirt and ocean floor. The woman had no chill and possessed the talent of taking an idea and running with it. This served her well as an interior designer. But as a cook? Not so much. She read one health article about the healing powers o
f spinach and kale, and now our fridge contained enough plant life to warrant its own ecosystem. Even after my ordeal, my requests for buffalo wings and bacon continued to be ignored.

  Dad sat across the table with a permanent scowl while he read from his tablet, which seemed fused to his arm. I could count on one hand how many times I’d seen him without a device in his hand or within reach. It’s a wonder how the man showered.

  “Still can’t get your phone to work?” Mom asked me as she set down a platter of theoretical food and pulled out a chair next to Dad. Even this was done with the grace of a model—straight posture, rolling wrists, dressed to impress—a product of her Savannah pedigree and years of charm school.

  Dad set down his tablet then dropped a dinner cloth on his lap. In contrast to Mom’s willowy frame, Dad had a stocky, bulldog build suited for tackling offensive lines, but his potbelly spoke of the inactive hours he spent sitting in front of a drafting table.

  I set my phone down and picked up my fork. “Actually, I got it open. I was just checking to see if Stacey’s still coming over later.”

  Dad leaned forward with notable interest. “Really? You figured out the password? That’s a good sign. Do you recall anything else?”

  I figured it was best to not tell them how I recovered my password. Sneaking out of the house to see some random guy wouldn’t go over well with this crowd. “No.” My answer came out more bitter than I’d intended, but I didn’t want to get their hopes up.

  My neurologist, Dr. Whittaker, said that adapting to everyday life would be an adjustment. If he meant constant crying, disorientation, and suspicion, then yeah, it was quite the adjustment. I’d never been one for scary movies, but amnesia brought out the haunted-house paranoia in me.

  It’s like returning to a familiar room and noticing objects had been moved while you were gone—a chair here, a picture frame there. Items that were once brand-new were suddenly broken in and worn from age. It was all very subtle, but enough to suspect paranormal activity or a cruel practical joke. When no one else saw what you saw, the freak factor really kicked in, because you were singled out and left questioning reality.

  A part of myself was missing—a theft, a violation of time and effort. I was starting from scratch. So yeah. Me. Bitter. Just a tad.

  I’d been told that this type of amnesia was usually temporary and memories would resurface once the swelling went down. But there were those rare cases where the memory loss would be permanent. Doctors always had to bring up the worst-case scenarios, which kinda sucked for them as professional caregivers and whatnot. Nobody wants to be the bearer of bad news. Maybe that’s why they made the big money.

  Nevertheless, my folks weren’t trying to hear that noise, hence me being forced into a raw-food diet and placed under a microscope. It also explained why my parents served me a double order of side-eye to go with this flavorless meal.

  “How are your headaches? Are they any better?” Mom asked me.

  “I guess. I get them like once a day now,” I muttered and used my fork to poke at some mushy gray substance on my plate.

  “Is the medicine helping at all? I can call Dr. Whittaker and change your prescription,” Dad offered, his cell phone already resting in his hands.

  I’ll admit that the drugs helped with my anxiety attacks and kept me sane, but so did sarcasm. Unfortunately, my brand was a bit harsh for the public and not FDA approved. “The Relpax has me feeling like a zombie as it is. I’ll be flat on my back if I take any more,” I said.

  To his credit, Dad actually paused for a full minute before proceeding to dial. “I should call him anyway just to double-check.”

  Now this part of my life I could definitely remember. The discussion about me that didn’t really include me. The talking at me, but not to me. That would involve feedback or, heaven forbid, an opinion.

  The Dawsons were doers, fixers, movers, and shakers from a long line of overachievers with the title Dr. or Prof. in front of their names. Words like impossible, fail, and can’t were considered cuss words in our household. Any attempt at angst or a pity party quickly led to a rundown of our family tree, stemming back to the British Crown and the sugarcane fields of Barbados. Wars and adversity we could handle. Mental illness and the like, however, were another story.

  Dad left a message for Dr. Whittaker and then set down his phone to frown at me. “So, Ellia, we need to discuss rehabilitation.”

  I looked up from my plate and dropped my fork. “Why? The physical therapist said my speech and motor skills are fine.”

  “Yes. Thank heavens for that, but Dr. Whittaker believes it’s time for you to begin cognitive therapy,” Mom replied. Her big doe eyes softened with sympathy.

  “Ellia, you knew your recovery would be a long process,” Dad added. “You may be fine physically, but we need to determine if anything aside from your memory is impaired.”

  I shook my head, not really knowing what that entailed, but hating it anyway. From the moment I opened my eyes in the hospital, I’d been poked, prodded, had bright lights shined in my eyes, rolled into a giant tube that looked like a tanning bed and sounded like a clothes dryer. I’d endured a number of exams—X-rays, EEG, CT scans—and I was sick and tired of being a specimen.

  “I don’t think that’s going to do any good,” I said.

  Mom shook her head. “We need to hit this at every angle, and Dr. Whittaker has recommended several psychologists in the area—”

  “Oh here we go.” I rolled my eyes. “Dr. Whittaker this, Dr. Whittaker that. You talk about this guy so much he might as well live here. How about what I think? You know, the person with the actual memory problem? I just got out of the hospital and I’m not ready to see another doctor. I don’t need any more drugs thrown at me.”

  “It has nothing to do with medicine. This is a psychologist, dear.” Mom drew out psychologist in a long drawl designed for no other purpose than to make me feel stupid. She tended to do it a lot. “They specialize in reasoning skills and behavioral methods. They can’t prescribe you drugs. That would be psychiatry.”

  “I don’t care what it’s called—I’m not going. I’m just trying to get a handle on my living situation, master the art of washing my hair with sutures nailed to my scalp—oh, and figure out what grade I’m in, because as far as I know I’m still a freshman. How about we handle these little problems first before we get to the big ones?” A sharp pain in my temple brought my outburst to a halt. I covered my head with my hands to try to push back the pain from traveling to my left eye.

  Mom reached over and touched my shoulder. “Baby, are you all right?”

  I squeezed my eyes shut and pinched the bridge of my nose. “I’m okay. I just need some time and space, that’s all.”

  “Fine,” Mom said, though the clipped tone of her voice suggested the opposite. “We’ll discuss this later. Go upstairs and take your medication before it gets worse.” She collected my half-eaten plate then got to her feet.

  I glanced at Dad, who simply raised an eyebrow at me. You heard your mother, the look said.

  I’d been properly dismissed and, though there would be a round two in the near future, I was thankful for the delay. I wondered how long I could milk my headaches to avoid uncomfortable dinner topics.

  On the way to the stairs, a rhythmic knock came from the front door.

  “I’ll get it!” I called out and made my way to the foyer.

  I opened the door and smiled in relief at the familiar face.

  Stacey Levine was one of the first people I saw when I rejoined the conscious world—and I’d recognized her right away. Stacey had been my best friend since forever. It was only the past two years of our lives together that remained a blank slate.

  Stacey had been visiting me every day, always equipped with progressively stranger tales of our adventures that I could no longer remember.

  I used to call Stacey Jersey Shore Barbie. She was naturally gorgeous, with tan skin underneath generous applications of bronzer
. She was also loud, opinionated, and outrageously comfortable in her own skin.

  So I shouldn’t have been all that surprised at what she was wearing. She stood on my porch in red pumps and a short, white button-down dress that looked too tight to breathe in. I could only guess from the matching Red Cross nurse’s cap that the getup was supposed to be a nurse’s uniform.

  She smiled and shimmied her shoulders to a soundless beat as she delivered the most disturbing singing telegram I’d ever witnessed.

  I heard—that you—were feeling ill,

  Headache, fever, and a chill …

  I lifted my hands to stop her. “What are you doing?”

  “Oh come on. Please tell me you remember that scene. It’s like your favorite movie.” When she got nothing but rapid blinking as a reply, she swept a hand over the length of her outfit. “The naughty nurse telegram? Ferris Bueller’s Day Off? Eighties Day, freshman year? You dressed up as Tina Turner? I was Madonna—‘Lucky Star’? The twenty-four-hour John Hughes Netflix marathon? None of this is ringing a bell?”

  “Sorry.” I winced, hating the disappointed look on her face.

  Her shoulders dropped and her happy bubble burst. “It’s really gone, isn’t it?”

  “Yep. Is this your way of trying to jog my memory?” I took in her outfit again. She clearly put a lot of thought and, um, effort into this little performance. But I also had strict parents and nosy neighbors, so this show needed to happen elsewhere. “Just so you know, real nurses wear hospital scrubs. Where did you get that outfit anyway?”

  Her blood-red lips pulled into a wicked grin as she shook her head. “You don’t wanna know.”

  And I believed her.

  “Well, come inside before someone calls the cops.” After closing the door, I turned in the direction of the kitchen. I could hear Mom washing dishes and Dad talking on the phone, no doubt with the all-powerful Dr. Whittaker.