More Happy Than Not

by Adam Silvera

  Some of the risks include severe memory loss, anterograde amnesia, and other shit like that. But a small part of me thinks I would be better off brain dead than waking up the way I am.

  Genevieve looks around the waiting room with its stark white walls and crazies and patient employees. I bet she would consider painting something Leteo-related if it weren’t for the signed nondisclosure agreement that allows her to be with me today provided she never discusses her presence here with another human being unless she wants to pay a zillion-dollar fine.

  “I wouldn’t worry,” she says. “We read through all those brochures a thousand times and watched a marathon’s worth of post-op videos and everyone seems fine.”

  “Yeah, but they probably wouldn’t show us the patients who have to be spoon-fed for the rest of their lives.” I fake a grin for her. I’m tired of faking, which is ridiculous considering the circumstances about to unfold. But at least I won’t know I’m faking, and that’s honest enough for me.

  Genevieve looks behind me and immediately tears up. I turn. Dr. Castle is standing by the door. Her sunken-in sea-green eyes are always kind of comforting, even now as she stares at me, but her tousled mass of red-orange hair reminds me of living flames. I fight back panic. She probably hasn’t announced herself so I could have a few more minutes with Genevieve—maybe even myself.

  I pick up Genevieve by her waist and spin her around a couple of times. Getting dizzy before someone plays with my brain is stupid, I know. Before I can ask, Genevieve holds my hand and says, “I’ll walk with you.”

  The closer we get to Dr. Castle, the more it feels like I’m marching to my death, and I know I sort of am, at least the part of me everyone is better off without. The panic melts away.

  “I’m ready,” I tell Dr. Castle with zero doubts.

  I turn back to Genevieve and while I’m kissing the girl who has been keeping my secret without knowing it, I wonder again if maybe she’s known all along. We’ve never gone as far as saying we love each other in the year we’ve been together. It’s simple, I know, but she’s smart enough to never admit loving someone who can’t love her back.

  I never thought I would say anything like this to her, that I would rather hold this secret in my tight fist until the day I die, but I go ahead.

  “I know you know about me, Gen. I won’t be like that tomorrow, okay? We’re going to be happy together, for real.”

  She’s speechless, so I kiss her one last time and she weakly waves to me, probably saying bye to the person she found a way to love despite that wall I’m about to knock down.

  I quickly turn around and head through the door, sick that all my lies and chaos have brought me to this breaking point. I know it’s what has to happen. I can’t be like Collin who can pretend like nothing ever happened between us and who can fucking forget everything that did. I no longer have to be ruined by another guy. I no longer have to hurt the girl who thinks I love her.

  At the threshold, Dr. Castle places a comforting hand on my shoulder.

  “Remember that this is for your own good,” she reminds in her light English accent.

  “I think we both know that remembering doesn’t really do anyone good around here,” I half joke, and she smiles.

  I won’t remember that this is for my own good, because I won’t remember why I came here in the first place. Leteo will make me forget my relationship with Collin. My insides can stop burning me alive with how much I miss him. I won’t ever get jumped on the train again for liking another guy. My friends will stop being suspicious of what I’m doing when I’m not hanging with them. We’re going to kill that part of me that’s ruined everything. I’m going to be straight, just like how my father would’ve wanted.

  This procedure isn’t a promise I’ll stop being you-know-what, but using science against nature is my best shot.

  I’m stretched across a narrow bed with wires sealed to my forehead and heart. I’ve lost count of how many needles they’ve stabbed into my veins and how many times someone has asked me if I’m comfortable, and if I’m positive I want to do this. I’ve said yes and yes and yes a lot.

  Some doctors and technicians are running around and setting up monitors; others are typing away on computers and doing analytical stuff with blueprints of my brain. Dr. Castle has stayed by my side the entire time. She fills up a glass of water from a small basin, drops two blue pills in, and hands it to me.

  I stare at the pills, but don’t drink yet. “Do you think I’ll be okay, Doc?”

  “Absolutely painless, kiddo,” she says.

  “And my dreams will be altered too, right?” Some dreams are unwanted flashbacks; others are nightmares, like the one last night where Collin put me on a bike, even though I wasn’t ready, and pushed me down the steepest hill, laughing at me as he walked away.

  “To avoid our work being unwound, yes,” Dr. Castle says. “This wouldn’t be an issue if we could simply erase memories without consequence, but memory manipulation is far less of a risk. When we put you under, you won’t even have to relive the memories—that would be cruel. It’ll feel like a long, long sleep.”

  “Sounds a lot like dying.”

  “Think of us less as reapers and more like genies.”

  “And I won’t suspect anything when you come around?”

  “We’ll manipulate your memories so you believe I’m an old babysitter. The few people who know about your procedure will be clued in to this,” she explains. But I know this already; it’s been drilled into me and repeated a dozen different ways in the forms I’ve read and videos I’ve seen. The Leteo employees disguise themselves with permission all the time so they can check in on post-procedure patients without raising suspicion.

  I won’t have anything to remember Collin by. No memories, no treasures. I threw away his bad drawings, gag gifts, and an X-Men sweater he gave me. I burned funny notes over the stove as if I could forget what they said once they were ashes piling up in the pot.

  Dr. Castle fluffs my pillow. I wonder if she cares for all her patients like this. “May I ask you something, Aaron? Completely off the books?”

  “Sure.”

  She averts her eyes and whatever she’s about to ask, it’s clear she’s reconsidering. “I hope I’m not out of line. From the moment your case was brought to my attention, I understood the struggles you must’ve been going through. But I can’t help but be curious . . . Would you still carry on with this procedure if your sexuality weren’t an issue? Would you want to change being gay?”

  Lucky for me, I’ve thought about this even before my father went and killed himself. “It’s not a matter of what I want. I need to do this.”

  A technician approaches. “Ready when you and the patient are, Dr. Castle.”

  I down the entire glass of water and hand it back to her. “Battle.”

  One doctor fits a mask around me while a technician turns some dials on the monitor. The sleeping gas hits. It is fresh and crisp and tastes like fiery metal in the back of my throat. It’s so hard to stay awake. Evangeline isn’t tugging at her sleeve, but I know she’s nervous too. My eyes are shutting and I remember something. I pull off the mask, take a deep breath, and say, “Before I forget, thank you.”

  The mask falls back on my face.

  The doctors count down from ten and my eyes shut at eight. Next time I wake up, I’ll just be an ordinary straight guy in his bed.

  PART THREE: LESS HAPPY THAN BEFORE

  1

  THIS TIME AROUND

  I’m just as surprised as anyone else to be alive.

  Pain rocks my bones in a way I didn’t think was possible. Looking back to when I cried over falling on my knees on my ninth birthday seems stupid now, completely laughable. That time I was jumped on the train for liking Collin is a pinch in the cheek compared to this last assault, this hate crime. It’s not even the heartache from Thomas that
’s shredding me apart.

  Every mistake I’ve made, every wrong I’ve repeated, every unhealed heartache: I feel it all and more as the weight of my old world crushes me. If you looked inside me, I bet you’d find two different hearts beating for two different people, like the sun and moon up at the same time, a terrible eclipse I’m the only witness to.

  My worlds collided and I can’t get up.

  Undergoing the procedure was like a blackout. Leteo dealt the cards on how I woke up. Some of my memories were altered, little disguises forced onto them to trick me. Others were beaten over the head with shovels, buried alive and out of my reach. But Leteo fucked up. Somewhere in the uncharted territories of my mind, they failed to scrub something clean and I became the person I forgot.

  The goal was for me to forget I’m gay. Easier said than done since there isn’t exactly an off switch like my father thought there was. To beat nature, Leteo fostered the shortly lived straight me by targeting and burying memories connected to my sexuality: my relationship with Collin, my dad’s cruelty, my childhood crush on Brendan, etc. If I could simply believe I was straight, I would be straight. Life would be easy. But Leteo didn’t have the power we both hoped they did.

  My eyes are too heavy to open.

  It’s hard to breathe, like whenever Fat-Dave pins me down.

  This headache feels like someone’s playing a game of jacks inside my skull. Thoughts bounce around like a rubber ball.

  My face feels swollen. Maybe that’s because my friends beat me up because they hate me.

  “Aaron, blink if you can hear me,” I hear Dr. Castle call to me.

  Evangeline.

  I can’t face her or anyone right now, so I keep my eyes shut and hide in the darkness where the awful pain drowns her out.

  I can’t sleep anymore, no matter how hard I try.

  I can open one eye easily, but the other still feels too heavy and hurts, so I leave it alone. I see half of a midnight-blue room I don’t recognize, and it reminds me of a starless night. I turn my neck a little bit to see Evangeline asleep in a chair with a clipboard on her lap. It’s hard to believe she sleeps. Maybe this visitor’s chair is cozier than the one in her office; that one looks like it’s made of concrete to prevent her from getting too comfortable. Next to her is my mother, sitting forward with her face in her hands, praying.

  “Mom—” I can barely breathe her name without my throat aching, but she hears me anyway. Evangeline, too; she snaps awake like her boss caught her sleeping at her desk.

  “Baby, my son.” Mom kisses my forehead and it hurts like hell. She’s apologizing to me and thanking God I’m okay until Evangeline pulls her to the side, giving me some much-needed space.

  “You’re stable, Aaron,” Evangeline tells me. “Try not to move too much.” She invites my mother to give me water through a straw. She presses an ice pack wrapped in a hand towel against my bad eye and forehead. “I imagine your head hurts, but we’re all so impressed with how you’re recovering.”

  “So impressed, my son,” Mom adds.

  I sip more water and it soothes and stings. “Why am I . . . not in . . . a hospital?”

  “You were originally, but your mother contacted me when she heard you screaming things you’d forgotten,” Evangeline says, and it hurts my neck to look up at her. “The ambulance drove you here and we’ve spent the past four days returning your mind to its former state before it could collapse entirely under the weight of the unwound memories. We’ll perform some test work when you’re feeling up to it to make sure all is well.”

  Four days. I’ve been knocked out for four days.

  I feel like I know everything I once knew, but I can’t be sure. I remember believing Evangeline was my old babysitter, as sure as I know Santeria is stupid or how I’m an asshole and a coward. “Did you . . . change anything?”

  “Certainly not, kiddo. Too many complications.”

  My mind is once again busy with terrible things: my father’s body, his hateful words; Collin turning his back on me, Collin’s kisses; Eric giving me shit for dumb things; the judging looks of the other guys on the block; and, the most pressing, my mom and one of our last moments together before my procedure.

  The memory of coming out to her the first time feels both familiar and unfamiliar, like an old bully you haven’t seen in years but still kind of recognize, even all grown up. I know she knows I know she knows, so I just shut up and focus on what needs to happen next.

  “When can you change me back?” I ask, my throat aching less and less. “Make me straight again. For real this time.”

  Evangeline doesn’t answer. Mom cracks the silence with fresh tears.

  My voice hardens. “Your procedure didn’t work . . . and we paid a shitload of money for it to work so you need to make it work.”

  “The procedure cannot be faulted for the heart remembering what the mind forgot,” Evangeline says.

  “Bullshit,” I say.

  “I warned you that this procedure was still very experimental, remember?”

  “Yeah, I remember. That’s the problem.”

  I turn to my mom, who shakes her head. “No, I’m not signing off on this. Not again. I have my son back and I’m not giving you up again.”

  I wish I could’ve just been exorcised or spent the summer at a conversion camp or something.

  “Can you both leave? I want to be alone.”

  “I can maybe give you five minutes to yourself,” Evangeline offers. “But anything longer isn’t allowed with all things considered, I’m afraid.”

  “Fine. Five minutes.”

  Evangeline hooks my mom’s arm in hers, escorting her out.

  I have to piss, and I’m not doing it in one of these bag things, so I rip off the wires from my forehead and chest and try steadying myself on my feet. I’m dizzy. It feels like the awful combination of a head rush and a hangover. I balance myself against the wall and make my way to the bathroom.

  I piss myself when I look in the mirror.

  I have one black eye. My other eye is swollen and purple, like a bruised plum.

  There are stitched-up gashes on my forehead with some dried blood the nurses didn’t wipe clean.

  My lip is cut open.

  There are tears sliding down my face.

  Something primal explodes from my aching throat, and the mirror smashes when my fist connects.

  Glass shards were pinching underneath my skin until the nurses pulled them out and bandaged my hand. Another war wound. Now they all refuse to leave me alone, period, scared I might slice a smile into my throat if I can’t get what I want. Mom is keeping me company, telling me that Eric was here this morning, but he’s not who I care about.

  “Any other visitors?”

  “Genevieve and Thomas have stopped by every day,” Mom says. “Genevieve was here late last night and Thomas hung around for a few hours this morning. You have great friends.”

  I stare at the blue wall.

  “Genevieve says you broke up with her.”

  “I guess this means you’re not disappointed in me this time around.”

  She’s crying again and hides behind her hands. “You weren’t supposed to remember . . .”

  But I do. And I need her to help me forget again.

  2

  TOUGH STUFF

  I wake up from the same nightmare I usually had after my father killed himself. It’s the one where he is getting completely undressed in the bathroom while calling me a faggot and telling me how I’m not worth living for. He turns on the bathwater and relaxes inside the tub before cutting his wrists. And then I’m drowning in red. I never wake up when the drowning starts like you would expect. I’m always suffocating for what seems like an unfair amount of time, considering I never chose to commit the crime he hated me for. I never chose anything. I just was.

 
I just am.

  “Nightmares again?” Mom asks.

  I nod.

  I eat breakfast, chat with doctors about how I’m feeling (“like shit”), and read through all of Brendan’s apologetic text messages. I don’t respond. A couple hours later, Evangeline tells me I have guests. Thomas and Genevieve. Together. More worlds I don’t want colliding.

  My mom invites them in and leaves us alone.

  I should be happy to see them, and they should be happy to see me alive, but no one’s smiling. “You’ve looked better,” Thomas finally says. He has dark circles under his eyes. He isn’t looking his best either. If this were my first time meeting him I’d have guessed he was twenty-two-years old, not seventeen. “No homo,” he adds while completely avoiding my face. “That’s not funny. Sorry.”

  “It’s okay,” I say. Then silence, except for Genevieve rapping her knuckles on my bed frame. “Thanks for visiting.”

  “Thanks for waking up,” Thomas says, still not looking at me. At least he’s here. I don’t know if word got around to Collin, and I’m not sure if he would give a shit if it did. I wish I didn’t give a shit about him either, even if the person I really care about is standing right in front of me. I don’t know if that’s even right. This whole situation is impossible.

  “Me-Crazy was arrested,” Genevieve says. “Baby Freddy’s mother told Elsie he’s being moved to a juvenile detention center upstate.”

  “Good.”

  Thomas palms his fist. “I wanted to snuff Brendan when he was let out of jail, like you taught me, but I haven’t seen him. They must all be grounded.”

  Doubtful. “Don’t worry about it,” I say, hoping to clock Brendan in the chin myself.

  It’s quiet again. I can only assume they’ve been chatting it up with each other, and I both hope they weren’t talking about me, and also that they were. If they weren’t talking about me, it wouldn’t make sense because they only know each other through me and without me they’re nothing to each other. If they were talking about me, I hope Genevieve wasn’t telling Thomas everything about what led me to Leteo, everything that I couldn’t remember to confess to him myself. Those are my stories, not hers. And I hope Thomas wasn’t telling her about that time I kissed him and he didn’t kiss me back.