by Jaime Reed
Stacey returned to my house to pick up the rest of her makeup. The tackle box that housed all her supplies was a giant Craftsman carrier that looked a lot like Dad’s tool kit, so she’d taken his by mistake. It was best that she made the switch ASAP; I was sure Dad didn’t know how to lay tile with concealer and mascara.
I followed Stacey into the kitchen and checked my email on my phone, frowning at the zero messages waiting in my inbox. “Have you noticed anything off about Ellia?” I asked.
“Yeah, now that you mention it. Just between us, I think she might have amnesia,” Stacey said as she retrieved her crate of war paint from under the kitchen table.
“Stop. I mean, has she been standoffish or distant to you?”
“Yeah, but she’s busy with the costumes and everything.”
Her response sounded reasonable, but my mind kept picking at doubt like a piece of food caught in my teeth. “But you’d tell me if something was wrong, wouldn’t you? Is she really okay?” I asked.
Stacey aimed a weary stare at me. “I honestly don’t know, Liam. Maybe it’s that new medication she’s on. I’m not an expert in how to deal with an amnesia patient, but she’s making progress. She’s going outside and meeting people. Let her go at her own pace, is all I’m saying. If you push her, she might break.”
“If she does, then I’ll pick up the pieces,” I assured her. “I promised that I would that day. And I intend to keep that promise.”
“What promise?” she asked.
I debated over saying more. It couldn’t hurt, and her homework assignments proved that she enjoyed reading dark romances.
So, in an embarrassed rush, I told her about my book.
Her reaction was a moon-eyed, lip-quivering swoon that normally occurred while watching a cute cat video online.
“Awwww.” The sound seemed to drag out for weeks. “That’s the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard. Is it finished?”
“Not yet, and at this rate, I’m not sure when it will be,” I explained.
“Why not?” she asked.
“The story is taking on a life of its own,” I said. “And then there’s the big scene. I’ve been writing around that morning on the beach. I wrote everything leading up to it, but I’m avoiding the major event itself. Every time I try, I clam up and work on something else.”
“In other words, you’re stalling,” she summarized. “Just write it. Do it all in one sitting and don’t stop until the last word is down. Holding everything in can’t be good for you. So you can, I don’t know, use this book to vomit it all out.”
That earned her a sideways glance. “What are you? A shrink now?”
“Maybe Ellia’s psychobabble is rubbing off on me.” She shrugged. “Or maybe you’re starting to rub off on me.”
I scratched the back of my head and studied my feet. “Aw, shucks. And all this time I thought you hated me.”
“I did at first,” she admitted without one blink of hesitation. “You got that broody stargazer thing going on and it was annoying.”
I wasn’t good at keeping up with slang, but that sounded made up. “The what?”
“The broody stargazer,” she repeated slowly. “A star is just a floating ball of gas, but you get all caught up in the pretty sparkles. You romanticize what’s out of your reach and shape reality as you see fit. You turn your nose up at everything here on earth, even though you’re stuck down here, too. Maybe this is the wake-up call you need and you’re fighting it by not writing the ugly truth.”
I had no response, no counterargument, and for a split second, she reminded me of my mother.
“Whatever you decide, I wanna read it,” Stacey said as she opened the door. “You’re a decent writer, Hemingway.”
I smiled at that. “Yeah, okay, but Ellia gets first read. It’s for her, after all.”
Stacey’s eyebrow lifted in the most obvious challenge if I ever saw one. “Is it?” Then she stepped onto the porch and closed the door behind her, leaving me amazed for the second time today. That had to be a record.
I went up to my room and changed out of my costume and into some baggy shorts. Fueled by new inspiration, I took a seat at my desk and flipped open my laptop.
I opened a fresh document and with a few strokes of the keyboard, settled into that peaceful trance of productivity. Words filled the white page—nonsense at first, then slowly morphing into coherent streams of thought. Soon I was no longer in my room, but back on the beach with Ellia, running through the sand in the early morning where everything fell apart.
My sore fingers lifted from the keyboard sometime after midnight. If someone had broken into the house and robbed us blind, I wouldn’t have noticed. I wonder if this was how painters, musicians, any other artist felt when they were in the zone—that high that came when their best work was no longer in their heads, but on paper.
I snatched my glasses off my face and allowed my tears to flow freely. Happy tears. Relieved tears. Tired tears. I shut down my work then passed out fully dressed on the bed. It was a deep, dreamless sleep where the changeover from night to day occurred in a blink. It was, by far, the best rest I’d had in months.
And to think I had Stacey Levine to thank for it. Go figure.
So, how was your week?” Dr. Kavanagh leaned back and crossed her legs in her chair. An expensive-looking pen hovered over the yellow notepad on her lap.
“Pretty good.” I sat across from her on the edge of the leather chaise, refusing to lie on my back. Doing that made these sessions way too clinical for my peace of mind.
The office resembled a hotel suite with soft lighting, beige walls, tropical plants, and framed photos of Eastern temples. A glass desk and a rolling chair went unused by the window since she preferred the cozy armchair for that one-on-one approach.
We were just two people engaged in conversation with me doing most of the talking and running down the week’s events. For the past month, a raised brow and a sardonic smile were her replies to my rambles. That look remained the same today as I discussed my friends, my hobbies, my growing playlist, and what I binge-watched online.
Unlike Vivian, Dr. Kavanagh gave useful feedback and knew how to dress herself. Her shoe game was on point and the cut of her tan power suit let everybody know that she didn’t shop off-the-rack. Her light-brown hair was pulled back into a severe bun.
“That sounds pretty eventful. I’m glad you’re keeping yourself busy.” Her dark eyes strayed from my face toward my hand. “What happened there?”
My right hand immediately covered the bandage on my left thumb. My rush to get back into my sewing taught me the importance of hand-eye coordination. “I’m fine. I got into a fight with a sewing machine and I lost. Just so you know: Human skin and metallic-pink nylon do not stitch the same way.”
“I’ll make note of that,” she said dryly before assessing her notes. “Your instructor said that your test scores are improving. I’m pleased to hear that. Have you noticed any changes in your learning capabilities? Do you think the new medication is helping you concentrate?”
I weighed the question for a minute. Mental health wasn’t the one-size-fits-all type deal that I originally thought. There was no all-in-one magic pill, but a trail mix of capsules that handled each symptom individually. It took months of trial and error to blend the right dosage to the right compound that played nice with the other drugs in my system, all while not making me want to vomit, or fall into a deep depression. It would appear that my neurologist found the secret recipe this time around, but I still had my gripes.
“My anxiety’s gone and I can focus more, picking up little details here and there that I never noticed before,” I told her. “But I gotta say I’m not feeling this new prescription Dr. Whittaker cooked up for me. It gives me dry mouth and makes me moody.”
She stopped scribbling to look at me. “Moody?”
I paused. Should I tell her about the morning crying jags or that I’d sometimes hear a dog collar jingling in my sleep? Nah, I�
�d stick to something simple. “I just get sad at random,” I told her.
“I’m sure things will level out once your body gets used to it. Everyone reacts differently to new treatment. But at least you’re more active now. We need to schedule an appointment with Dr. Whittaker for your three-month evaluation. Let him know if the effects become unbearable.” She wrote something down then asked, “What about socially? How are you holding up?”
I bit my lip. I’d been keeping Liam at arm’s length since that conversation with Dad in the car. At the same time, I missed Liam—I thought about him all the time.
“There’s this boy, Liam,” I began.
“Yes, you mentioned him. A lot.” She flipped to a new page of her notepad. “He’s your boyfriend, right?”
“Honestly, I don’t really know what we are. I told him I just wanted to be friends, but he wants more.”
She stopped writing and put on a stern face. “Don’t let him pressure you into something you’re not ready for.”
“Oh, he’s not. He’s been really sweet and patient and I can see how I fell for him in the first place, and … ”
“But you don’t feel the same way?” she guided.
“That’s the thing. I want to. All he has to do is smile and I’m weak—got the butterflies and everything. But something’s not right. I don’t think it’s the accident, though. I’d ask him stuff about us and he’d tell me these stories about how I used to be and I can’t say I like that girl very much.”
She nodded. “Well, that’s common with amnesia patients. It’s like you can’t recognize parts of yourself.”
I nodded. “Also, I’m not sure our relationship was … healthy.”
“What do you mean?”
“My parents said Liam was too intense and becoming a bad influence on me. Not abusive or anything, but like he couldn’t breathe without me. That’s not normal, is it?”
“Sounds like a codependent relationship. It usually occurs to compensate for something missing in one’s personal life. What is his home situation like?”
I told her about his parents’ divorce and how he hadn’t spoken to his mother in person in nearly two years. I also mentioned the deal with Uncle Wade.
She stopped me. “Two years? And you said that you have been dating each other for two years as well?”
“Yeah. I think we got together right before Halloween of my freshman year.”
She scooted closer in her seat. “Okay, let’s dog-ear that page for a minute. You said that your parents thought he was a bad influence. In what way?”
“I don’t know. I’m just going by what they told me. I was staying out late, running wild, and defying their authority.”
“Do you remember being that way before your memory loss? Were you lashing out and rebelling then? Do you recall any hurt or resentment?”
“Not really. I remember being angry and sad about my dog dying, but that’s it.”
“Was that your first experience with death?” When I nodded, she leaned in even more. “Why were you angry?”
I picked at the gauzy bandage on my hand. “I guess because I was sad.”
“And you’re not allowed to be sad?”
I sucked my teeth. “Not in my house.” I knew my response sounded messed up, so it wasn’t a shock when she asked me to explain. “I mean, it’s okay to cry. It’s even healthy to cry, but to go on about it for months and months is overkill, am I right? It’s counterproductive.”
She remained quiet.
“My dad took me to get a new puppy to help things along, but I didn’t want one.” I paused as the memories rushed at me. Images, sounds, and long-forgotten details fused together to fill in the blanks. The deep tenor of my father’s voice colored in this outlined drawing, giving it dimension.
“He said this was how people moved on,” I began. “You can’t let bad stuff get to you. That’s a sign of weakness, and will slow you down. He told me to pick a puppy so we could go home. He seemed so impatient, like he had somewhere else to be and I was holding him up.” I cleared my throat several times before speaking again. Something had stuck in the back of my throat, making it hard to swallow.
“I remember seeing the puppies in the family’s living room, boxed up in the corner by one of those childproof gates. The puppies were so cute and wiggly, wanting to get picked up. But in the back of my mind the whole thing felt like a setup. Like a bribe, a way to placate me so I could get back to the program.”
“What program?” she asked.
My stare wandered to the plaques and awards on the wall just over her right shoulder, but not really seeing them. “My parents are very performance driven. Dress with decorum. Stand up straight; never slouch. Behave like a lady at all times and never bring shame on your family. On sight, people will judge you, and your life must contradict their stereotypes and preconceived notions. Work harder than everyone else and get good grades. Go to an elite college. Get a well-paying job and marry a successful … ”
“Go on, Ellia,” she coaxed.
I shook my head. “I’d rather not. Let’s just say there’s a long list of expectations.”
“That’s a lot of pressure on someone so young,” she said with a furrowed brow.
I nodded. So much pressure that one might rebel against it. Do the exact opposite of what they wanted. Take a different career path. Engage in sketchy behavior. Date someone who went against their standards.
“Do you think if your father wasn’t there, if he hadn’t organized the whole thing, you might’ve chosen a puppy that day?” she asked.
After some serious thought, I said, “I think I would have.”
“But because he was there, you didn’t. Was it because he took charge of the situation?”
“He always takes charge of the situation. Nothing new there,” I grumbled.
“Even to the point of deciding when your grieving should be over?” she asked.
That clog in my throat was getting bigger. It was starting to choke me, and my eyes began to water. “Yes.”
“Interesting.”
I hated when doctors said that. It always meant something was wrong. “Are you saying the gap in my memory is because my dog died?”
“No. Temporal lobe damage is the culprit, but there may be an emotional component to explain the time frame. The dog is simply an agent to a bigger problem. We’ve already established that your amnesia is both post-traumatic and dissociative. So your physical and your psychological trauma has to be addressed. What you’ve explained may be a mental ‘trigger event,’ a catalyst to where things reach a boiling point. The last straw. I believe how your father reacted toward your grief was that last straw and you began to rebel and do things on your own terms.
“The mind is a very tricky thing. Issues we push back into our subconscious will manifest in different ways. Children lash out to cope with jumbled and unexpressed feelings all the time. That is perfectly normal. I think you should talk about this when you go home. Explain how making decisions for you and pressuring you is affecting you mentally.”
I shut the idea down real quick. “They won’t listen to me. I’m just a kid. That’s all they’ll see.”
“Then I’ll explain it. I’ll set up an appointment and we’ll discuss this in person.”
I nodded. This was one of those times where adults came in handy. They knew how to talk to other adults. And she was a professional and came highly recommended by the almighty Dr. Whittaker. My folks had to at least hear her out.
“As for your friend Liam,” she prompted as she checked her watch. “We’ll have to discuss him next week. In the meantime, go at your own pace. Don’t let him pressure you. Just focus on getting better and let the rest work itself out, okay?”
“Okay.” I stood up from the couch and felt ten pounds lighter than when I sat down. I was really starting to like therapy.
I dropped Wade off at home after school, and then set out on an errand that had been in the works for some time now. Of course,
Wade wanted to know what I was up to, but I stuck to my default answer of “None of your business.”
Wade didn’t put up too much of a fuss. He had to get ready for the dance tonight, which I had no plans to attend. I knew Ellia would be there. One week prior, that would’ve been enough to suffer the agony of school activities, but not now.
After my mission, I returned home around five. It was dark outside and I was sure Dad had been informed that I’d recently gone rogue, but I successfully avoided him on the way to my room. I tossed my backpack in the corner and checked my phone one last time. No messages. The same as an hour ago, a day ago, and nearly a week ago. In the vain hope that she might be online, I went to my computer and logged in to my instant messenger. She wasn’t there.
Stacey insisted that Ellia was just tired and stressed out from costume designing, but I knew a brush-off when I felt one. What I didn’t understand was why. I crashed facedown on the bed, surrendering to the fatigue of the day and my bittersweet victory.
It was done. The Ellia Dawson Project was finally complete. I’d even come up with the perfect title, and yet typing up those last few paragraphs this morning held a distinct finality to it that left a sickening feeling in my stomach. No matter what we were now, the relationship I once had with her was truly over. The very idea of a finale just wouldn’t process. So instead of the usual THE END tag at the bottom of the page, I allowed ellipses to speak for themselves.
The document was close to three hundred pages. Something this important was better left to the professionals, which sent me to the Office Copy Center uptown. The weight of the bound printout had felt strange in my hands. I’d expected it to be heavier; it seemed so much bigger inside my head. But I believed writing the story was the wisest move I ever made. It gave my misery a voice that would otherwise go silent.
Now, with my face burrowed into the jersey fiber of my bedding, I debated deleting the file from my hard drive. It would be the ultimate send-off, but pride wouldn’t allow me to let all that work go to waste.
