by Adam Silvera
When he lets go, I do too, which feels insanely stupid. Then he starts walking toward the door.
“Thomas, I fell . . .”
Not once does he stop or even hesitate. He walks straight out and leaves me. And now I’m alone with the bike he once promised to teach me how to ride since no one else ever did, both of us unaware at that time that it was a lie: Collin tried and I sucked.
I eventually find the strength to go upstairs, gripping the handles of my shiny new blue bike tightly. I collapse onto my bed with the bike at my feet. Seeing him was what I wanted, no, needed for this day to even feel somewhat right. But now I’m just staring at the clock as the hours run by, wondering if I’ll hear from Genevieve before it hits midnight.
And then the weirdest shit happens: it’s already 1:16 a.m.
Eric is sleeping. There’s a dinner plate at the foot of my bed where I always leave it, except I don’t remember eating whatever it was or even being hungry. On my phone there’s a message from Genevieve wishing me a happy birthday at 11:59 p.m. I should respond to her and say thank you, but she’s probably asleep, too.
The last thing I remember is throwing myself on my bed. Nothing after that. Total blackout. I’m so scared I’m crying, except I don’t really know if I can pinpoint the moment when I started crying. I turn to the clock that’s jumped from 1:16 to 1:27, and I cry harder because something impossible is happening to me.
I shake Eric awake, and he curses at me before his face registers something is off. I don’t even know what to tell him at first, still not even convinced that this isn’t a nightmare, but finally I say, “What the fuck? What the fuck is going on?”
He asks me what I’m talking about, but the words sound far away.
I’m suddenly disoriented again. I find myself in the middle of my mom’s bed, crying so hard my throat aches. As a kid, I would pray at the edge of the bed for new action figures or my own bedroom. Then I would crawl into the space left open for me between my brother and mom because I couldn’t sleep without holding her hair. But as my mind continues steering itself, going this way and that, I find myself praying only to wake up.
12
NO MORE TOMORROWS
“Anterograde amnesia,” Evangeline tells my mother and me.
We’re in her office. It’s 4:09 a.m. I’ve been keeping my eyes pinned to the clock for my own sanity, though I can’t really tell if there has been any other crazy skip in time like a few hours ago.
“It’s an inability to form new memories,” she adds.
The clock reads 4:13 a.m.
“What’s anterograde amnesia?” I ask. It sounds familiar. I think she mentioned it before my procedure, but I can’t remember what it is.
“It’s an inability to form new memories,” Evangeline replies, exchanging looks with my mother, who’s crying. She’s pretty much been crying since I ran into her bed. When she called Evangeline, she was crying. On the cab ride over, she was crying. I can’t remember her not crying.
“Are you following, Aaron?” Evangeline asks.
“Yeah,” I say. “You think that’s what’s happening to me? That I’m not remembering stuff that’s going on now?”
“Can you recall any other issues with your memories recently?” she presses.
“You’re asking me to remember something I probably forgot?”
“Yes. Something that may have confused you since your attack, but stuck out to you like earlier tonight?”
Thinking is hard. No, remembering is hard. I’m proud of myself when I remember how odd it felt when I couldn’t remember drinking my first cup of coffee at the diner with Collin, and how Genevieve told me I was repeating myself at Leteo. I only told her Thomas didn’t like her once—or I thought I only said it once. And when I blanked out at Good Food’s. Who knows what else?
“Yes,” I answer, my heart pounding. “I can remember forgetting stuff.” I just can’t remember what I’m forgetting. “I feel like I should be crying or having a panic attack.”
My mother buries her face in her hands, racked with silent sobs. Evangeline takes a deep breath before telling me, “You already did.”
“What does this mean? How do you fix me? Another procedure?”
She sounds like a robot when she speaks. There are a bunch of options, though nothing sounds promising. The condition is still a mystery even to top neurologists because no one’s locked down the exact science of storing memories. She says something about neurons and synapses and medial temporal lobes and the hippocampus, and even though it’s all doctor-speak, I do my best committing it to memory because I can already feel the words slipping away. The treatments used for those suffering from anterograde amnesia aren’t all that different from the ones used for Alzheimer’s patients. Medication can enhance the cholinergic brain functions. Psychotherapy is not necessary; this is about brain function. Probably for the best, because I would punch someone if they tried using hypnosis on me; the last thing I need is someone else playing with my mind.
What I want to forget is when she says, “Unfortunately, in some cases it’s irreversible.”
I can’t help but notice she sounds tired, and not because it’s in the middle of the night or because she’s bored, but possibly because she’s exhausted of repeating herself in the event she’s told me this several times already.
“Has this happened to any of your patients before?”
Evangeline nods. “Yes.”
“So? What happened?”
She meets my gaze. “The amnesia takes hold quickly, sometimes within a few days.”
“So I have less than a fucking week?” No one scolds me for my language.
“Maybe more,” Evangeline says in that clinical and robotic tone.
My heart pounds harder and I’m scared I’m forgetting how to breathe, a basic instinct. I feel like I’ll faint, and then I’ll probably forget how to wake up. “What the hell will my life look like?”
“Challenging, but not impossible. This was all in the literature, Aaron. For the most part, you might be limited to the knowledge you had before the procedure. I know of a musician who writes his own songs and forgets them soon after, but he still plays guitar beautifully because it’s a skill he learned before the trauma he wished to erase.”
I understand what she’s saying. Before. Before is all I will have left, and Before destroyed me before.
“Why bother living?”
I’m thinking out loud and my mom cries harder. Shitty of me because the smiling scar on my wrist speaks for itself, but right now, like Before: dying seems easiest.
Evangeline leans toward me. “You have so much to live for,” she whispers.
“Like what?” I ask, and either she told me and I already forgot or she has nothing convincing to say. This is going to be a long night. Well, a long night for them anyway. It’ll fly by for me.
“What’s anterograde amnesia?” I ask Evangeline at 4:21 a.m.
13
ONLY YESTERDAYS
I sort of, kind of, definitely always took yesterdays for granted—and now yesterdays are all I have left. Some of them, at least.
Yesterday.
A lot of people will remember a hug with a friend, but will have forgotten what time they woke up and ate for lunch. Others will share the crazy dreams they had last night, but the clothes they wore or books they read on the subway will slip away. And some will keep their stories to themselves, a secret left in the past only they can revisit.
I will do none of those things.
Tomorrow I might not remember hugging anyone, if there’s anyone even left to hug. I won’t know what I ate for lunch and will only know if I ate at all depending on whether or not my stomach is growling. What time I wake up won’t matter because I’ll always be waking up. And I’ll probably wear the same shirt and pants over and over while endlessly recommending Scorpius
Hawthorne because new words will have zero weight in my head.
The only way I can see myself getting through this is by saying goodbye. Even if I never change, everything and everyone around me will. No one’s going to hang with the guy who doesn’t know what day it is or can’t keep up with their lives. I’ll always be lost and lonely or surrounded by strangers constantly repeating themselves.
Lose-lose.
When I try the door; the chain is on. We never used to use it. We weren’t even using it in case any of my friends tried breaking in to finish the job Me-Crazy started. This can only mean that they’re locking me in so I don’t get lost outside.
I feel sick but they’re right; I could forget where I am in the middle of a street or even in the middle of the air after a car sends me flying. On the other hand, I can’t just wait here while my mind withers away. I quickly unchain the door, but Eric is fast and catches me before I can run out.
“What the hell are you doing?” he demands, holding my arm tight.
“I have shit to do.”
Mom appears from her room, but stays silent.
“What’s that?” Eric asks.
“Something I need to do for myself.”
“That’s not a surprise—” He stops himself and takes a deep breath. “I’m going to shut up and be a good brother and not talk to you until I’m sure you won’t remember.”
Low blow. “Fuck you. Say it now and don’t hide behind my amnesia. You owe me that.”
“Okay. I’m game,” Eric says, his grip on my arm tightening, his eyes ablaze. “You’re selfish, Aaron. You used a cheat code to make life easier without thinking about how it would affect us. We’ve had to watch you walk around like a zombie. You did this to yourself, okay?”
I stare back at him. “Maybe I wouldn’t have raced to forget myself if you made me feel more comfortable with who I am instead of giving me shit for choosing girl characters in video games.”
“I never gave a flying fuck about any of that. They were just jokes. I thought you were tough enough to handle them. I’m sorry!” His words, his apology, take us all back, himself included. The last time I saw him this red was when we told him what happened to our father. So it’s no surprise he adds: “You stopped being your own man to please someone who abandoned us.”
“He committed suicide because of me. Not you.”
“Baby, he didn’t kill himself because of you,” Mom finally jumps in. “Your father had it rough and—”
“Stop it! When he was arrested, I thought we were finally safe from him. And then he came home and . . .” I’m crying, but I’m happy that I can remember when the tears started falling: it was when I admitted his absence was a good thing.
That shuts them up.
Shuts me up too because I now understand why they threw away all his stuff. They always knew better.
“You messed up,” Eric says. But his voice softens, and there’s something different in his eyes. It’s sympathy. He turns to Mom, rapping his knuckles against the wall with his free hand, his other hand still gripping me. Our father rapped his knuckles against the wall like that once when he was pissed we wouldn’t go downstairs to get him a slice of pizza from Yolanda’s. Then he punched a hole in it. I feel something like hope, just because of the fact I remembered. “You should’ve never signed off on that procedure,” he says to Mom.
Mom looks back and forth between us, like she’s just been outed for a crime. “I was trying to save your brother—”
“No,” Eric snaps. “This is about you and losing control of your family. You treated Aaron like he would’ve been helpless without this procedure and look where that’s landed him!”
I wrench myself free of Eric’s grasp. Maybe he has cracked. Maybe he had some things he wanted to forget too. Maybe he wasn’t quite right in the head either after our father committed suicide in the same bathtub where he bathed us.
In this moment, I know Eric is not going to grow up to be like our father. He loves us. He should’ve been paid the same attention from not only our mom, but from me, too. I never asked him how he was doing.
Mom catches herself in the grimy hallway mirror. Maybe she’s really seeing herself now. She’s lost so much weight these past few months, maybe twenty or thirty pounds. Eric leans back against the wall and slides down, “This isn’t about me being jealous of you, Aaron. Maybe I am a little bit. But I agree that we’re better off without him.”
I’m tempted to reach down and take his hand, but I don’t.
He looks up at me.
“Remember when we had trouble beating the last few levels of Zelda? We pooled our allowances and bought the walk-through guide to help us out.” He softly adds, “You should’ve asked for help before cheating.”
Sometimes pain is so unmanageable that the idea of spending another day with it seems impossible. Other times pain acts as a compass to help you get through the messier tunnels of growing up. But the pain can only help you find happiness if you can remember it.
“Do we still have anything that belonged to Dad?” I ask. And then the box is in my hand. It’s not even half full, just a couple of old sweaters and track sneakers. Eric opens the door for me without a fight, and he and Mom both follow me to the garbage chute down the hall. I cling to every detail. This will make for a memory. And despite everything, I can’t help but hesitate when I think back to the days where my father wasn’t a monster. Then I turn the box over and everything thumps down the chute until it’s quiet.
In school I once read about gypsies and how they grieved for loved ones by covering all the mirrors in their caravan for as long as they needed. Sometimes days, sometimes weeks, sometimes months, and in rare cases, years. As of now, we’re done covering the mirrors. Together we’ve searched the apartment for any last scrap of him we don’t want.
Eric puts on his sneakers after we get back inside the apartment. Without looking at me, he says, “If it’s worth anything to you, I’m sorry for everything I ever said.” I want to thank him for swallowing his pride, but he quickly adds, “So where are we going?”
“What?”
“You said you have shit to do, right? Mom’s not going to let you go alone.”
I don’t remember saying that, but I do have shit to do. I have four people to see, four goodbyes to make. I keep my head low and let my brother follow me out so I can strike names off this bucket list of mine.
14
THE SORT OF BEST FRIEND
It’s a dead giveaway where we can find Brendan; we spot his client go into the staircase. I want to see Brendan first, not because he lives closest to me, not because I’ve known him the longest, but because he needs to see the damage he’s done. I’m about to go into the staircase when Eric stops me.
“I shouldn’t have let you have sex with Genevieve,” he whispers.
I’m so confused that I almost laugh. “That had nothing to do with you.”
“I knew the truth. That’s enough to put me at fault if you got her pregnant. I didn’t stop you because I thought your life was going to be easier when you weren’t gay. It didn’t matter to me if you unknowingly led someone on.”
And then Eric is pacing from wall to wall in the lobby.
“That had nothing to do with you,” I say, and immediately after I say it, I can’t get aboard the train of thought that brought me to those words. “I don’t know what’s going on.”
“It’s okay,” Eric says. He recaps the conversation. “It’s crazy how you still turned out to be gay. You must really like that dude you kept hanging out with.”
Now this is so awkward I actually do want to forget it. “I have to go take care of this,” I mumble. “Wait here for me.”
I hand him the comics I want to give Collin and run into the staircase before he can protest. I don’t hear Brendan or that girl Nate running off so I keep jogging down. Brendan looks l
ike he’s seeing a pissed-off ghost when I turn the corner. I swing at him and he ducks, which is fine because I was really hoping to kick him in the balls, which I do.
He crumples to the floor. Nate picks up the weed and runs away. No doubt she lost a dealer after stealing, but she won’t give a shit while she’s high today.
Brendan holds his crotch, his manhood, and groans. “I had that coming.”
I almost have sympathy pains for him because getting hit in the balls sucks hard. Almost. “You fuckers fucked up my fucking brain!” I shout, ready to pounce on him all over again. “Major fucking memory loss and there’s a chance I’m going to fucking forget this fucking conversation but I’ll never fucking forget how my fucking friend almost fucking killed me because he fucking hated me.”
No matter how many times I say it out loud or to myself, I can never wrap my head around the fact that Brendan could’ve gone to jail forever for killing me.
Maybe it’s okay to forget. I’ll never play cards in his hallway again whenever it’s snowing outside or too chaotic to hang out in his house. I’ll never throw popcorn at his grandfather while he’s snoring in front of the TV again. I’ll never sleep over again and kick at the top bunk where he almost got this girl Simone pregnant before he learned the magic of condoms. I’ll never sit at his computer with him and write crude customer reviews on insane products, like a banana slicer and dog-shaped dog whistles. I’ll never leave his sneakers outside the window so his room won’t smell like feet.
“I don’t hate you,” Brendan says. “I just don’t understand why you’re being gay.”
“I can’t change that,” I say. Except for that time I could, and even then, I still kind of couldn’t.
He sits up and rests his elbow on his knee. “You chose that Thomas kid over us. We’re your blood, not him or anyone else.”
